sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: BOOK
sentences.text: I.
sentences.text: CONTAINING
sentences.text: AS
sentences.text: MUCH
sentences.text: OF
sentences.text: THE
sentences.text: BIRTH
sentences.text: OF
sentences.text: THE
sentences.text: FOUNDLING
sentences.text: AS
sentences.text: IS
sentences.text: NECESSARY
sentences.text: OR
sentences.text: PROPER
sentences.text: TO
sentences.text: ACQUAINT
sentences.text: THE
sentences.text: READER
sentences.text: WITH
sentences.text: IN
sentences.text: THE
sentences.text: BEGINNING
sentences.text: OF
sentences.text: THIS
sentences.text: HISTORY
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Chapter i.
sentences.text: Chapter
sentences.text: i
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: introduction
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: work
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: bill
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fare
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: feast
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: An
sentences.text: author
sentences.text: ought
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: consider
sentences.text: himself
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: gentleman
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: gives
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: private
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: eleemosynary
sentences.text: treat
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: rather
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: keeps
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: public
sentences.text: ordinary
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: persons
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: welcome
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: money
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: In the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend whatever is set before them.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: former
sentences.text: case
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: known
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: entertainer
sentences.text: provides
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: fare
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: pleases
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: indifferent
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: utterly
sentences.text: disagreeable
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: taste
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: company
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: must
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: find
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: fault
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: nay
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: contrary
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: breeding
sentences.text: forces
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: outwardly
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: approve
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: commend
sentences.text: whatever
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: set
sentences.text: before
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary.
sentences.text: Now
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: contrary
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: happens
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: master
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: ordinary
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Men who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d--n their dinner without controul.
sentences.text: Men
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: pay
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: eat
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: insist
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: gratifying
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: palates
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: however
sentences.text: nice
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: whimsical
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: prove
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: if
sentences.text: everything
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: agreeable
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: taste
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: challenge
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: right
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: censure
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: abuse
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: d
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: n
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: dinner
sentences.text: without
sentences.text: controul
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: To
sentences.text: prevent
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: therefore
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: giving
sentences.text: offence
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: customers
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: such
sentences.text: disappointment
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: hath
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: usual
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: honest
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: well-meaning
sentences.text: host
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: provide
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: bill
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fare
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: persons
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: peruse
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: entrance
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: house
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: having
sentences.text: thence
sentences.text: acquainted
sentences.text: themselves
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: entertainment
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: expect
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: either
sentences.text: stay
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: regale
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: provided
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: depart
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: ordinary
sentences.text: better
sentences.text: accommodated
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: taste
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: As
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: do
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: disdain
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: borrow
sentences.text: wit
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: wisdom
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: man
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: capable
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: lending
sentences.text: us
sentences.text: either
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: condescended
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: take
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: hint
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: honest
sentences.text: victuallers
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: prefix
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: only
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: general
sentences.text: bill
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fare
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: our
sentences.text: whole
sentences.text: entertainment
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: likewise
sentences.text: give
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: particular
sentences.text: bills
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: course
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: served
sentences.text: up
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: ensuing
sentences.text: volumes
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than _ Human Nature _.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: provision
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: then
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: here
sentences.text: made
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: Human
sentences.text: Nature
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: Nor
sentences.text: do
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: fear
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: my
sentences.text: sensible
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: luxurious
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: taste
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: start
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: cavil
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: offended
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: because
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: named
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: article
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The tortoise--as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much experience--besides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so extensive a subject.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: tortoise
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: alderman
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: Bristol
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: learned
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: eating
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: knows
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: much
sentences.text: experience
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: besides
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: delicious
sentences.text: calipash
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: calipee
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: contains
sentences.text: many
sentences.text: different
sentences.text: kinds
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: food
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: nor
sentences.text: can
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: learned
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: ignorant
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: human
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: here
sentences.text: collected
sentences.text: under
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: general
sentences.text: name
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: such
sentences.text: prodigious
sentences.text: variety
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: cook
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: sooner
sentences.text: gone
sentences.text: through
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: several
sentences.text: species
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: animal
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: vegetable
sentences.text: food
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: author
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: able
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: exhaust
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: extensive
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: subject
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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?
sentences.text: An
sentences.text: objection
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: apprehended
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: delicate
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: dish
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: too
sentences.text: common
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: vulgar
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: else
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: subject
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: romances
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: novels
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: plays
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: poems
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: stalls
sentences.text: abound
sentences.text: ?
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: Many
sentences.text: exquisite
sentences.text: viands
sentences.text: might
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: rejected
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: epicure
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: if
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: sufficient
sentences.text: cause
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: contemning
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: common
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: vulgar
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: something
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: found
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: paltry
sentences.text: alleys
sentences.text: under
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: same
sentences.text: name
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: reality
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: true
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: difficult
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: met
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: authors
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: Bayonne
sentences.text: ham
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: Bologna
sentences.text: sausage
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: found
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: shops
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us--“ True wit is nature to advantage drest; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest . ”
sentences.text: But
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: whole
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: continue
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: same
sentences.text: metaphor
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: consists
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: cookery
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: author
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: Mr
sentences.text: Pope
sentences.text: tells
sentences.text: us
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: “
sentences.text: True
sentences.text: wit
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: advantage
sentences.text: drest
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: What
sentences.text: oft
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: thought
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: ne'er
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: exprest
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: ”
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: same
sentences.text: animal
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: hath
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: honour
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: flesh
sentences.text: eaten
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: table
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: duke
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: degraded
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: another
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: limbs
sentences.text: gibbeted
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: vilest
sentences.text: stall
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: town
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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?
sentences.text: Where
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: then
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: lies
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: difference
sentences.text: between
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: food
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: nobleman
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: porter
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: if
sentences.text: both
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: dinner
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: same
sentences.text: ox
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: calf
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: seasoning
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: dressing
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: garnishing
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: setting
sentences.text: forth
sentences.text: ?
sentences.text: Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
sentences.text: Hence
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: provokes
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: incites
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: languid
sentences.text: appetite
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: turns
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: palls
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sharpest
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: keenest
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: manner
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: excellence
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: mental
sentences.text: entertainment
sentences.text: consists
sentences.text: less
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: subject
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: author
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: skill
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: dressing
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: up
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: How
sentences.text: pleased
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: therefore
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: find
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: following
sentences.text: work
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: adhered
sentences.text: closely
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: highest
sentences.text: principles
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: best
sentences.text: cook
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: present
sentences.text: age
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: Heliogabalus
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: hath
sentences.text: produced
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: This
sentences.text: great
sentences.text: man
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: known
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: lovers
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: polite
sentences.text: eating
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: begins
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: setting
sentences.text: plain
sentences.text: things
sentences.text: before
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: hungry
sentences.text: guests
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: rising
sentences.text: afterwards
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: degrees
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: stomachs
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: supposed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: decrease
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: quintessence
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: sauce
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: spices
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: manner
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: represent
sentences.text: human
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: keen
sentences.text: appetite
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: our
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: plain
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: simple
sentences.text: manner
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: found
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: country
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: hereafter
sentences.text: hash
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ragoo
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: high
sentences.text: French
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: Italian
sentences.text: seasoning
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: affectation
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: vice
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: courts
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: cities
sentences.text: afford
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: By
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: means
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: doubt
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: our
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: rendered
sentences.text: desirous
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: ever
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: great
sentences.text: person
sentences.text: just
sentences.text: above-mentioned
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: supposed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: made
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: persons
sentences.text: eat
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: Having
sentences.text: premised
sentences.text: thus
sentences.text: much
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: now
sentences.text: detain
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: our
sentences.text: bill
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fare
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: longer
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: diet
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: proceed
sentences.text: directly
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: serve
sentences.text: up
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: course
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: our
sentences.text: history
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: entertainment
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Chapter ii.
sentences.text: Chapter
sentences.text: ii
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
sentences.text: A
sentences.text: short
sentences.text: description
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: squire
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: fuller
sentences.text: account
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: Miss
sentences.text: Bridget
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: sister
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: western
sentences.text: division
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: kingdom
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: commonly
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: Somersetshire
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: there
sentences.text: lately
sentences.text: lived
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: lives
sentences.text: still
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: gentleman
sentences.text: whose
sentences.text: name
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: might
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: favourite
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: both
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: fortune
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: both
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: seem
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: contended
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: bless
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: enrich
sentences.text: him
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: contention
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: seem
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: come
sentences.text: off
sentences.text: victorious
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: bestowed
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: him
sentences.text: many
sentences.text: gifts
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: while
sentences.text: fortune
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: only
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: gift
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: power
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: pouring
sentences.text: forth
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: profuse
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: others
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: think
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: single
sentences.text: endowment
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: equivalent
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: various
sentences.text: blessings
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: enjoyed
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: From
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: former
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: derived
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: agreeable
sentences.text: person
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: sound
sentences.text: constitution
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: solid
sentences.text: understanding
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: benevolent
sentences.text: heart
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: latter
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: decreed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: inheritance
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: largest
sentences.text: estates
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: county
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: This
sentences.text: gentleman
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: youth
sentences.text: married
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: worthy
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: beautiful
sentences.text: woman
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: extremely
sentences.text: fond
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: three
sentences.text: children
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: died
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: infancy
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: He had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years before the time in which this history chuses to set out.
sentences.text: He
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: likewise
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: misfortune
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: burying
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: beloved
sentences.text: wife
sentences.text: herself
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: about
sentences.text: five
sentences.text: years
sentences.text: before
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: time
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: history
sentences.text: chuses
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: set
sentences.text: out
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: This loss, however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this head; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he should never part with her more--sentiments for which his sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and his sincerity by a third.
sentences.text: This
sentences.text: loss
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: however
sentences.text: great
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: bore
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: man
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: sense
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: constancy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: must
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: confest
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: talk
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: little
sentences.text: whimsically
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: head
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: sometimes
sentences.text: said
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: looked
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: himself
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: still
sentences.text: married
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: considered
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: wife
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: only
sentences.text: gone
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: little
sentences.text: before
sentences.text: him
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: journey
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: certainly
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: sooner
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: later
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: take
sentences.text: after
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: least
sentences.text: doubt
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: meeting
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: again
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: place
sentences.text: where
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: never
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: sentiments
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: sense
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: arraigned
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: neighbours
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: religion
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: second
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: sincerity
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: third
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection.
sentences.text: He
sentences.text: now
sentences.text: lived
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: retired
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: country
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: sister
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: tender
sentences.text: affection
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: This lady was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be assumed.
sentences.text: This
sentences.text: lady
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: now
sentences.text: somewhat
sentences.text: past
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: age
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: thirty
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: aera
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: opinion
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: malicious
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: title
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: old
sentences.text: maid
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: impropriety
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: assumed
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: species
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: women
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: you
sentences.text: commend
sentences.text: rather
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: qualities
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: beauty
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: generally
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: sex
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: sort
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: women
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: sort
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: woman
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: madam
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: you
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: wish
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: know
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided.
sentences.text: Indeed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: far
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: regretting
sentences.text: want
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: beauty
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: never
sentences.text: mentioned
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: perfection
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: if
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: can
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: without
sentences.text: contempt
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: thank
sentences.text: God
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: handsome
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: Miss
sentences.text: Such-a-one
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: beauty
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: led
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: errors
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: might
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: otherwise
sentences.text: avoided
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: Miss
sentences.text: Bridget
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: (
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: name
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: lady
sentences.text: )
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: rightly
sentences.text: conceived
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: charms
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: person
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: woman
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: better
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: snares
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: herself
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: well
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: others
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: yet
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: discreet
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: conduct
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: prudence
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: much
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: guard
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: if
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: snares
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: apprehend
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: ever
sentences.text: laid
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: whole
sentences.text: sex
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Indeed, I have observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger.
sentences.text: Indeed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: observed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: may
sentences.text: seem
sentences.text: unaccountable
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: guard
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: prudence
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: trained
sentences.text: bands
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: always
sentences.text: readiest
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: go
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: duty
sentences.text: where
sentences.text: there
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: least
sentences.text: danger
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: It
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: basely
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: cowardly
sentences.text: deserts
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: paragons
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: men
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: wishing
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: sighing
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: dying
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: spreading
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: net
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: power
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: constantly
sentences.text: attends
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: heels
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: higher
sentences.text: order
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: women
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: sex
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: distant
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: awful
sentences.text: respect
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: (
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: despair
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: suppose
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: success
sentences.text: )
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: never
sentences.text: venture
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: attack
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction.
sentences.text: Reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: think
sentences.text: proper
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: before
sentences.text: we
sentences.text: proceed
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: farther
sentences.text: together
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: acquaint
sentences.text: thee
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: intend
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: digress
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: through
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: whole
sentences.text: history
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: see
sentences.text: occasion
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: am
sentences.text: myself
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: better
sentences.text: judge
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: pitiful
sentences.text: critic
sentences.text: whatever
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: here
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: must
sentences.text: desire
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: critics
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: mind
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: business
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: intermeddle
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: affairs
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: works
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: ways
sentences.text: concern
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: till
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: produce
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: authority
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: constituted
sentences.text: judges
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: shall
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: plead
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: jurisdiction
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Chapter iii.
sentences.text: Chapter
sentences.text: iii
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home.
sentences.text: An
sentences.text: odd
sentences.text: accident
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: befel
sentences.text: Mr
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: return
sentences.text: home
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper animadversions on bastards.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: decent
sentences.text: behaviour
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: Mrs
sentences.text: Deborah
sentences.text: Wilkins
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: proper
sentences.text: animadversions
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: bastards
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: 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.
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: told
sentences.text: my
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: preceding
sentences.text: chapter
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: Mr
sentences.text: Allworthy
sentences.text: inherited
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: large
sentences.text: fortune
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: heart
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: family
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died immensely rich and built an hospital.
sentences.text: Hence
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: doubtless
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: concluded
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: many
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: lived
sentences.text: like
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: honest
sentences.text: man
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: owed
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: shilling
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: took
sentences.text: nothing
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: kept
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: house
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: entertained
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: neighbours
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: hearty
sentences.text: welcome
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: table
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: charitable
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: poor
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: i.e.
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: rather
sentences.text: beg
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: work
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: giving
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: offals
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: died
sentences.text: immensely
sentences.text: rich
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: built
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: hospital
sentences.text: .
text: BOOK I.
  
  CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR
  PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
  
  
  An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a
  private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public
  ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the
  former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare
  he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly
  disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any
  fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to
  approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary
  of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what
  they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and
  whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their
  taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d--n their
  dinner without controul.
  
  To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
  disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning
  host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their
  first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves
  with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and
  regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other
  ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
  
  As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is
  capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from
  these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of
  fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader
  particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and
  the ensuing volumes.
  
  The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than _Human
  Nature_. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious
  in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named
  but one article. The tortoise--as the alderman of Bristol, well
  learned in eating, knows by much experience--besides the delicious
  calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can
  the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here
  collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a
  cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal
  and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to
  exhaust so extensive a subject.
  
  An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that
  this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of
  all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls
  abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it
  was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and
  vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under
  the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with
  in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in
  the shops.
  
  But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery
  of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us--
  
      “True wit is nature to advantage drest;
      What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.”
  
  The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh
  eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part,
  and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in
  town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the
  nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf,
  but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting
  forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite,
  and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
  
  In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists
  less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.
  How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in
  the following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles
  of the best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of
  Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is well known to all
  lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things
  before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their
  stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the very quintessence of
  sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent human nature at
  first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and
  simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter
  hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of
  affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means,
  we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
  ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have
  made some persons eat.
  
  Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill
  of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve
  up the first course of our history for their entertainment.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss
  Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
  
  
  In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly
  called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a
  gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the
  favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have
  contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention,
  nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed
  on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but
  in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps
  may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to
  all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the
  former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution,
  a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was
  decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the
  county.
  
  This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful
  woman, of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had three
  children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the
  misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years
  before the time in which this history chuses to set out. This loss,
  however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it
  must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this head;
  for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and
  considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which
  he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he
  had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he
  should never part with her more--sentiments for which his sense was
  arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and
  his sincerity by a third.
  
  He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one
  sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now
  somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of
  the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be
  assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather for
  good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their own
  sex, very good sort of women--as good a sort of woman, madam, as you
  would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of
  beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called
  one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as
  handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors
  which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for
  that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of
  person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as
  for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
  prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to
  apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have
  observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this
  guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on
  duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly
  deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing,
  dying, and spreading every net in their power; and constantly attends
  at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have
  a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose,
  of success) they never venture to attack.
  
  Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to
  acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as
  often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any
  pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to
  mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works
  which no ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by
  which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their
  jurisdiction.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The
  decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
  animadversions on bastards.
  
  
  I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy
  inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family.
  Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an
  honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own,
  kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at
  his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had
  rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died
  immensely rich and built an hospital.
  
  And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done
  nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit on
  some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a much
  more extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or I
  should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work; and
  you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure travel
  through some pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously
  pleased to call _The History of England_.
  
  Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on
  some very particular business, though I know not what it was; but
  judge of its importance by its having detained him so long from home,
  whence he had not been absent a month at a time during the space of
  many years. He came to his house very late in the evening, and after a
  short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber.
  Here, having spent some minutes on his knees--a custom which he never
  broke through on any account--he was preparing to step into bed, when,
  upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant,
  wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between
  his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonishment at this sight;
  but, as good nature had always the ascendant in his mind, he soon
  began to be touched with sentiments of compassion for the little
  wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly
  woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him; and in the
  meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence,
  appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep always
  display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he
  was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed given her
  master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of respect to him,
  and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting her
  hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in which she
  had been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for aught she
  knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.
  
  It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard
  to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least deviation
  from it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw
  her master standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his
  hand, than she started back in a most terrible fright, and might
  perhaps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his being
  undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay without
  the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and was
  become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins,
  who, though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never
  beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps
  laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he considers the
  time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation in which
  she found her master, will highly justify and applaud her conduct,
  unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend maidens at that
  period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a little
  lessen his admiration.
  
  When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her
  master with the finding the little infant, her consternation was
  rather greater than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying
  out, with great horror of accent as well as look, “My good sir! what's
  to be done?” Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child
  that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to provide it a
  nurse. “Yes, sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send out
  your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of
  the neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to
  Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts
  cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her first, by
  her impudence in laying it to your worship.” “In laying it to me,
  Deborah!” answered Allworthy: “I can't think she hath any such design.
  I suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child;
  and truly I am glad she hath not done worse.” “I don't know what is
  worse,” cries Deborah, “than for such wicked strumpets to lay their
  sins at honest men's doors; and though your worship knows your own
  innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an
  honest man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot;
  and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make the
  people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship provide
  for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part, if it was
  an honest man's child, indeed--but for my own part, it goes against me
  to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don't look upon as my
  fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a
  Christian. If I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it
  put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door. It
  is a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was well
  wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till
  it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged
  our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better for
  such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and
  imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them.”
  
  There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have
  offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now
  got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, by its gentle
  pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had certainly out-pleaded
  the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it
  was. He now gave Mrs Deborah positive orders to take the child to her
  own bed, and to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other
  things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes
  should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be
  brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.
  
  Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore
  her master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her
  scruples gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the child
  under her arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality of its
  birth; and declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it
  to her own chamber.
  
  Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart
  that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied.
  As these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other
  hearty meal, I should take more pains to display them to the reader,
  if I knew any air to recommend him to for the procuring such an
  appetite.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his escape;
  and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
  
  
  The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr
  Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck you
  with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian architecture;
  and it was as commodious within as venerable without.
  
  It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than
  the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of
  old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile,
  and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the valley
  beneath.
  
  In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the
  house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out
  of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of about
  thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, but tumbling
  in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones till it came to the
  bottom of the rock, then running off in a pebly channel, that with
  many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot
  of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south
  side, and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this
  lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with
  groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, that
  for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing variety of
  meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, with a large
  arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was closed.
  
  On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned
  with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old
  ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which
  remained still entire.
  
  The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed
  of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity
  that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but
  owing less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country
  gradually rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were
  above the clouds.
  
  It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene,
  when Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened
  every minute that lovely prospect we have before described to his eye;
  and now having sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue
  firmament before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full
  blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this
  lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself
  presented--a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what
  manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by
  doing most good to his creatures.
  
  Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a
  hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking thy
  neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down
  together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is
  summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please, shall
  be glad of your company.
  
  The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss
  Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and
  told his sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked
  him--imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for
  her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and she, in
  complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in
  complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt
  for dress, and for those ladies who made it their study.
  
  But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs
  Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master,
  produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed,
  are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began,
  and told her the whole story, which, as the reader knows it already,
  we shall not repeat.
  
  Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies
  are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity
  of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she
  would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would have
  voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately
  out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather took the
  good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for the
  helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity in what
  he had done.
  
  Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her
  condescension to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him that the good
  man had ended his narrative with owning a resolution to take care of
  the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to acknowledge the
  truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very seldom, if
  ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make a
  few observations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their own
  way, and would wish she had been blest with an independent fortune;
  but these were always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted
  only to what is called muttering.
  
  However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the
  utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an
  impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a
  vile strumpet, with every other appellation with which the tongue of
  virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex.
  
  A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to
  discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters of
  the female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs
  Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she had collected them herself,
  and perhaps it would be difficult to find such another set of
  scarecrows.
  
  The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and
  this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all
  imaginable diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.
  
  Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was
  his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had
  undertaken the care of it.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon
  them.
  
  
  When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her
  cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the
  prudent housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had often known
  the sentiments of the lady in her brother's absence to differ greatly
  from those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did
  not, however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation;
  for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep
  in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a
  hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased
  with its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this
  than she fell to squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as
  sometimes inspire the sage dame of forty and five towards a youthful
  and vigorous bridegroom, crying out, in a shrill voice, “O, the dear
  little creature!--The dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is
  as fine a boy as ever was seen!”
  
  These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady,
  who now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother,
  and gave orders for providing all necessaries for the child,
  appointing a very good room in the house for his nursery. Her orders
  were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a child of her own, she
  could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous reader may
  condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to
  which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think proper
  to observe that she concluded the whole with saying, “Since it was her
  brother's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master
  must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she could not
  help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but that she knew too
  much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridiculous
  humours.”
  
  With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted,
  accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclinations;
  and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this
  compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the
  folly and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she
  submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will, and
  consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but when
  a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire,
  with grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and
  dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which they undergo must
  greatly enhance the obligation.
  
  As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can
  be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to
  lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in
  the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him,
  unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration
  with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make
  the discovery.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short
  account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements
  which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.
  
  
  Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her
  master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to
  conceal its mother.
  
  Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the
  feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the
  amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm,
  and fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air,
  conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.
  
  So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street,
  all the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron
  dreading lest the visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps
  proudly advances over the field: aloft she bears her towering head,
  filled with conceit of her own pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her
  intended discovery.
  
  The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor
  people had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was
  now coming towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may
  possibly sleep these hundred years, till some future commentator shall
  take this work in hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little
  assistance in this place.
  
  It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature
  of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such persons
  as Mrs Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people. This being
  indeed the means which they use to recompense to themselves their
  extreme servility and condescension to their superiors; for nothing
  can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers should exact
  the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to all
  above them.
  
  Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary
  condescension to Mrs Bridget, and by that means had a little soured
  her natural disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among
  these people, in order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it
  were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she was by no
  means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally
  dreaded and hated by them all.
  
  On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation
  of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to
  resemble herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her
  age, she had generally been more favourable than to any of the rest.
  To this woman she imparted what had happened, and the design upon
  which she was come thither that morning. These two began presently to
  scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived in any
  of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on one
  Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have
  committed this fact.
  
  This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or
  person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with
  what is generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is
  arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very
  uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal
  improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a
  schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl,
  and an extraordinary desire of learning--for every leisure hour she
  was always found reading in the books of the scholars--had the
  good-nature, or folly--just as the reader pleases to call it--to
  instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin
  language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young men
  of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of an
  extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for
  as it is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well
  accomplished should have little relish for the society of those whom
  fortune had made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much
  her inferiors; so is it matter of no greater astonishment, that this
  superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which is its
  certain consequence, should produce among the rest some little envy
  and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in
  the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
  
  Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny,
  to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young
  women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new
  silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.
  
  The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny
  had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her
  neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to
  demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, she gained nothing
  but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole parish declared she
  could not come honestly by such things; and parents, instead of
  wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their
  children had them not.
  
  Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name
  of this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance
  that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been
  often at Mr Allworthy's house. She had officiated as nurse to Miss
  Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat up many nights with
  that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the very day before
  Mr Allworthy's return, by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious
  person had not at first conceived any suspicion of her on that
  account: for, as she herself said, “She had always esteemed Jenny as a
  very sober girl (though indeed she knew very little of her), and had
  rather suspected some of those wanton trollops, who gave themselves
  airs, because, forsooth, they thought themselves handsome.”
  
  Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which
  she immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a
  judge, with somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration with
  the words, “You audacious strumpet!” in which she proceeded rather to
  pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
  
  Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the
  reasons above shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required
  some stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she saved her
  accusers any such trouble, by freely confessing the whole fact with
  which she was charged.
  
  This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it
  appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a
  second judgment against her, in more opprobrious language than before;
  nor had it any better success with the bystanders, who were now grown
  very numerous. Many of them cried out, “They thought what madam's silk
  gown would end in;” others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a
  single female was present but found some means of expressing her
  abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except the
  malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her
  nose, said, “The man must have a good stomach who would give silk
  gowns for such sort of trumpery!” Jenny replied to this with a
  bitterness which might have surprized a judicious person, who had
  observed the tranquillity with which she bore all the affronts to her
  chastity; but her patience was perhaps tired out, for this is a virtue
  which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise.
  
  Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned
  with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report
  to Mr Allworthy, who was much surprized at the relation; for he had
  heard of the extraordinary parts and improvements of this girl, whom
  he intended to have given in marriage, together with a small living,
  to a neighbouring curate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion,
  was at least equal to the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs Deborah,
  and to many readers may seem much more reasonable.
  
  Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, “For her part, she should
  never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman.” For Jenny
  before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.
  
  The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy
  culprit before Mr Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some,
  and expected by all, to be sent to the house of correction, but to
  receive wholesome admonition and reproof; which those who relish that
  kind of instructive writing may peruse in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once
  through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the
  author.
  
  
  When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke
  to her as follows: “You know, child, it is in my power as a
  magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for what you have done; and
  you will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that
  power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door.
  
  “But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in a
  milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever
  influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having
  deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your offence,
  that I will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded from a
  natural affection to your child, since you might have some hopes to
  see it thus better provided for than was in the power of yourself, or
  its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly
  offended with you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of
  some inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their
  humanity, than to have parted with their chastity. It is the other
  part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you,
  I mean the violation of your chastity;--a crime, however lightly it
  may be treated by debauched persons, very heinous in itself, and very
  dreadful in its consequences.
  
  “The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to
  every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws
  of our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that
  religion.
  
  “And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what
  can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach of
  the divine commands; and that in an instance against which the highest
  vengeance is specifically denounced?
  
  “But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so
  plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can never
  need information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense
  of this matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with
  repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
  
  “There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete with
  horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered, must, one
  would think, deter all of your sex at least from the commission of
  this crime.
  
  “For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old,
  out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked and
  reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.
  
  “If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying
  them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay
  almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will
  receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity
  itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the
  destruction of both body and soul.
  
  “Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have
  sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a
  bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so
  totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and
  terror from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?
  
  “How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of
  mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of
  human creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal,
  and to sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her heavenly
  part, to an appetite which she hath in common with the vilest branch
  of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love
  for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble
  of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its
  meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be
  violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our
  enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear
  towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice to them our
  lives, and what ought to be dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what
  light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man who
  solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have described to
  you, and who would purchase to himself a short, trivial, contemptible
  pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the
  whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely upon
  her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to
  betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser?
  If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a
  real affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as
  an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing,
  treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her
  body, but her understanding at the same time?”
  
  Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and
  then proceeded: “I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you
  for what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you
  for the future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from some
  opinion of your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have
  made; and from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded
  on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do not
  deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of your
  shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the punishment which,
  as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and I hope,
  by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence denounced
  against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your days, and
  want shall be no motive to your going astray; and, believe me, there
  is more pleasure, even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous
  life, than in one debauched and vicious.
  
  “As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will
  provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now
  nothing remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that
  seduced you; for my anger against him will be much greater than you
  have experienced on this occasion.”
  
  Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and
  decent voice thus began:--
  
  “To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument of
  total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to
  the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the
  great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on this
  occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I know you will spare my
  blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much better declare my
  sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave to assure
  you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your generous offer
  with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it
  is an instance of your opinion of my understanding.”--Here her tears
  flowing apace, she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded
  thus:--“Indeed, sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will endeavour
  to deserve this good opinion: for if I have the understanding you are
  so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away upon
  me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor
  helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful
  for all the favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my
  knees entreat you not to persist in asking me to declare the father of
  my infant. I promise you faithfully you shall one day know; but I am
  under the most solemn ties and engagements of honour, as well as the
  most religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this
  time. And I know you too well, to think you would desire I should
  sacrifice either my honour or my religion.”
  
  Mr Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was
  sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then
  told her, she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a
  villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking them.
  He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had inquired,
  but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he might not
  ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
  
  As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances,
  that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to
  his power, nor in any probability of becoming an object of his
  goodness.
  
  The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with
  this worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she
  had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further
  displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit
  her honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little
  apprehensions that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.
  
  He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon
  remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred;
  concluding with some additional documents, in which he recommended
  repentance, saying, “Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile
  yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance to you than
  mine.”
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more
  amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
  
  
  When Mr Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as hath
  been seen, Mrs Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken
  themselves to a post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through
  the conveyance of a keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the
  instructive lecture delivered by Mr Allworthy, together with the
  answers of Jenny, and indeed every other particular which passed in
  the last chapter.
  
  This hole in her brother's study-door was indeed as well known to Mrs
  Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the famous
  hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good
  purposes. For by such means Mrs Bridget became often acquainted with
  her brother's inclinations, without giving him the trouble of
  repeating them to her. It is true, some inconveniences attended this
  intercourse, and she had sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in
  Shakspeare, “O, wicked, wicked wall!” For as Mr Allworthy was a
  justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations concerning
  bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great offence to the
  chaste ears of virgins, especially when they approach the age of
  forty, as was the case of Mrs Bridget. However, she had, on such
  occasions, the advantage of concealing her blushes from the eyes of
  men; and _De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est
  ratio_--in English, “When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not
  blush at all.”
  
  Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene between
  Mr Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and that
  gentleman was out of hearing, Mrs Deborah could not help exclaiming
  against the clemency of her master, and especially against his
  suffering her to conceal the father of the child, which she swore she
  would have out of her before the sun set.
  
  At these words Mrs Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a
  thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine,
  that this was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you
  conceive came from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving
  goddess; nor was it one of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots
  from the stage-box, and which Venus would quit her immortality to be
  able to equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might be
  supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the august Tisiphone,
  or from one of the misses, her sisters.
  
  With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze
  of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs Bridget gently
  reproved the curiosity of Mrs Deborah; a vice with which it seems the
  latter was too much tainted, and which the former inveighed against
  with great bitterness, adding, “That, among all her faults, she
  thanked Heaven her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the
  affairs of other people.”
  
  She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny
  had acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother,
  that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in
  her integrity to her lover: that she had always thought her a very
  good girl, and doubted not but she had been seduced by some rascal,
  who had been infinitely more to blame than herself, and very probably
  had prevailed with her by a promise of marriage, or some other
  treacherous proceeding.
  
  This behaviour of Mrs Bridget greatly surprised Mrs Deborah; for this
  well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or his
  sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with which her
  sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought she might
  have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader will not
  perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so doing, but
  will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she tacked about, when
  she found herself steering a wrong course.
  
  “Nay, madam,” said this able woman, and truly great politician, “I
  must own I cannot help admiring the girl's spirit, as well as your
  ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by some
  wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your
  ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest,
  plain girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys
  in the neighbourhood are.”
  
  “You say true, Deborah,” said Miss Bridget. “If the girl had been one
  of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the parish, I
  should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I saw two
  farmers' daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I
  protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows,
  it is no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it
  would be much better for them that their faces had been seamed with
  the smallpox; but I must confess, I never saw any of this wanton
  behaviour in poor Jenny: some artful villain, I am convinced, hath
  betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and I pity the poor wretch with all
  my heart.”
  
  Mrs Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue concluded
  with a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with many
  compassionate considerations for all honest plain girls who are
  deluded by the wicked arts of deceitful men.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
  
  
  Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with
  from Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made
  public; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly
  from the more prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and
  silencing their clamours.
  
  But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear
  reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for
  when she was convened before the justice, and it was universally
  apprehended that the house of correction would have been her fate,
  though some of the young women cryed out “It was good enough for her,”
   and diverted themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a
  silk gown; yet there were many others who began to pity her condition:
  but when it was known in what manner Mr Allworthy had behaved, the
  tide turned against her. One said, “I'll assure you, madam hath had
  good luck.” A second cryed, “See what it is to be a favourite!” A
  third, “Ay, this comes of her learning.” Every person made some
  malicious comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the
  partiality of the justice.
  
  The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to
  the reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr Allworthy.
  But as to his power, he never used it; and as to his benevolence, he
  exerted so much, that he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours;
  for it is a secret well known to great men, that, by conferring an
  obligation, they do not always procure a friend, but are certain of
  creating many enemies.
  
  Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr Allworthy, soon
  removed out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer able
  to vent its rage on her, began to seek another object of its
  bitterness, and this was no less than Mr Allworthy, himself; for a
  whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was the father of the
  foundling child.
  
  This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general
  opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his
  lenity soon began to take another turn, and was changed into an
  invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good
  women exclaimed against men who begot children, and then disowned
  them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the departure of Jenny,
  insinuated that she was spirited away with a design too black to be
  mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to
  be made into the whole matter, and that some people should be forced
  to produce the girl.
  
  These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at the
  least might have occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more
  doubtful and suspicious character than Mr Allworthy was blessed with;
  but in his case they had no such effect; and, being heartily despised
  by him, they served only to afford an innocent amusement to the good
  gossips of the neighbourhood.
  
  But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may be
  of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of Jenny,
  we think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr Allworthy
  was, and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of any
  criminal intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than an
  error in politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to
  gratify the good-natured disposition of the mob,[*] with an object for
  their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom, in
  order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and
  infamy, by a shameful correction in Bridewell.
  
    [*]Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons
    without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest
    rank are often meant by it.
  
  So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all hopes
  of reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut
  against her if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her to
  chuse the road of virtue, Mr Allworthy rather chose to encourage the
  girl to return thither by the only possible means; for too true I am
  afraid it is, that many women have become abandoned, and have sunk to
  the last degree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip.
  This will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain among
  their former acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr
  Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy the
  pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill consequences of
  losing it.
  
  To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good
  journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the little
  foundling her child, having matters of much higher importance to
  communicate to the reader.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of
  two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were entertained by that
  gentleman.
  
  
  Neither Mr Allworthy's house, nor his heart, were shut against any
  part of mankind, but they were both more particularly open to men of
  merit. To say the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom where
  you was sure to gain a dinner by deserving it.
  
  Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal
  place in his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for though
  he had missed the advantage of a learned education, yet, being blest
  with vast natural abilities, he had so well profited by a vigorous
  though late application to letters, and by much conversation with men
  of eminence in this way, that he was himself a very competent judge in
  most kinds of literature.
  
  It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so little in
  fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of it should
  very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of being received
  with great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy almost the
  same advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were entitled to it in
  their own right; for Mr Allworthy was not one of those generous
  persons who are ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and
  lodging on men of wit and learning, for which they expect no other
  return but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and subserviency; in
  a word, that such persons should be enrolled in the number of
  domestics, without wearing their master's cloathes, or receiving
  wages.
  
  On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of his
  own time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his appetites
  within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion; so he
  might, if his health required, or his inclination prompted him to
  temperance, or even to abstinence, absent himself from any meals, or
  retire from them, whenever he was so disposed, without even a
  sollicitation to the contrary: for, indeed, such sollicitations from
  superiors always savour very strongly of commands. But all here were
  free from such impertinence, not only those whose company is in all
  other places esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but
  even those whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary
  abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a
  great man's table because they stand in need of it.
  
  Among others of this kind was Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the
  misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy
  of a father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In
  obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged
  to study physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books
  of this kind were almost the only ones with which he was unacquainted;
  and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master of almost every other
  science but that by which he was to get his bread; the consequence of
  which was, that the doctor at the age of forty had no bread to eat.
  
  Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr Allworthy's
  table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation, when they were
  derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of the
  unfortunate person himself. Besides this negative merit, the doctor
  had one positive recommendation;--this was a great appearance of
  religion. Whether his religion was real, or consisted only in
  appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any
  touchstone which can distinguish the true from the false.
  
  If this part of his character pleased Mr Allworthy, it delighted Miss
  Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on which
  occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the doctor's
  knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he frequently
  bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much English
  divinity, and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates.
  Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and her whole
  deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to deserve the name of
  saint equally with her namesake, or with any other female in the Roman
  kalendar.
  
  As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience
  teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than those
  of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor
  found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to
  lament an unfortunate accident which had happened to him about ten
  years before; namely, his marriage with another woman, who was not
  only still alive, but, what was worse, known to be so by Mr Allworthy.
  This was a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise saw
  sufficient probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as to
  criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. This was
  owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or to the purity of
  his passion, which was fixed on those things which matrimony only, and
  not criminal correspondence, could put him in possession of, or could
  give him any title to.
  
  He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to his
  memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy incapacity.
  This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he discerned, as he
  thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady; and the reader
  perhaps, when he hears the brother's qualifications, will not blame
  the confidence which he entertained of his success.
  
  This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a middle
  size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his forehead,
  which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for
  he was a half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and something affable,
  when he pleased, in his smile; though naturally his countenance, as
  well as his air and voice, had much of roughness in it: yet he could
  at any time deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour.
  He was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth had
  abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately put on a more
  serious character, he could, when he pleased, resume.
  
  He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father
  had, with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before,
  decreed him for holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he
  was ordained, he chose the church military, and preferred the king's
  commission to the bishop's.
  
  He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and afterwards
  came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his colonel, was by
  his interest obliged to sell; from which time he had entirely
  rusticated himself, had betaken himself to studying the Scriptures,
  and was not a little suspected of an inclination to methodism.
  
  It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed
  with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations
  were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but
  why the doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother,
  should for his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality
  of Allworthy, is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.
  
  Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to
  delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a
  theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which experience
  seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in aggrandizing our
  families, even though we have not the least love or respect for them?
  
  Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not
  determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily
  found means to introduce him at Allworthy's as a person who intended
  only a short visit to himself.
  
  The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had
  reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was
  indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He
  had besides received proper hints from his brother, which he failed
  not to improve to the best advantage.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning falling in love:
  descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to
  matrimony.
  
  
  It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that all
  persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No particular
  season is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at which Miss
  Bridget was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as any to be fixed
  on for this purpose: it often, indeed, happens much earlier; but when
  it doth not, I have observed it seldom or never fails about this time.
  Moreover, we may remark that at this season love is of a more serious
  and steady nature than what sometimes shows itself in the younger
  parts of life. The love of girls is uncertain, capricious, and so
  foolish that we cannot always discover what the young lady would be
  at; nay, it may almost be doubted whether she always knows this
  herself.
  
  Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for
  as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own
  meaning, so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity to
  discover it with the utmost certainty.
  
  Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not been
  many times in the captain's company before she was seized with this
  passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a
  puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and
  she enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it
  was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor
  ashamed.
  
  And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference
  between the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive
  towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy,
  which is often fixed on the outside only, and on things of little
  value and no duration; as on cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands,
  sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dapper shapes; nay,
  sometimes on charms more worthless than these, and less the party's
  own; such are the outward ornaments of the person, for which men are
  beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter,
  and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well be
  ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to themselves or others.
  
  The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed nothing
  to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person much more
  beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such as, had they
  appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have been the
  contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The former of
  these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of
  fashion. As for the latter, we have expressly described it above. So
  far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherry-coloured, that you
  could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks was, they
  being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended to his eyes.
  His shape and limbs were indeed exactly proportioned, but so large
  that they denoted the strength rather of a ploughman than any other.
  His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and the calves of his legs
  larger than those of a common chairman. In short, his whole person
  wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very reverse of
  clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine
  gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors,
  viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an
  early town education.
  
  Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste, yet
  such were the charms of the captain's conversation, that she totally
  overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and perhaps very
  wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with the captain
  than with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the consideration of
  pleasing her eyes, in order to procure herself much more solid
  satisfaction.
  
  The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in which
  discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned it.
  The lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I would
  attempt to draw her picture, but that is done already by a more able
  master, Mr Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago, and hath
  been lately exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a winter's
  morning, of which she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking
  (for walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a
  starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book.
  
  The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments
  he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was
  one of those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very
  worthless and superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly, who
  rather chuse to possess every convenience of life with an ugly woman,
  than a handsome one without any of those conveniences. And having a
  very good appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play
  his part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce of
  beauty.
  
  To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his arrival,
  at least from the moment his brother had proposed the match to him,
  long before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in Miss Bridget,
  had been greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr Allworthy's house
  and gardens, and of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all
  which the captain was so passionately fond, that he would most
  probably have contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to
  have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.
  
  As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he never
  intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest
  relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to
  make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his
  interposition, would have done for him; the doctor and his brother
  thought it an act of benevolence to give being to a human creature,
  who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential means of
  happiness. The whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were
  how to engage the affections of this amiable lady.
  
  But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her
  favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so
  industrious for the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to
  execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same desires with himself,
  and was on her side contriving how to give the captain proper
  encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she was a strict
  observer of all rules of decorum. In this, however, she easily
  succeeded; for as the captain was always on the look-out, no glance,
  gesture, or word escaped him.
  
  The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind behaviour of
  Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his apprehensions of Mr
  Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested professions, the
  captain imagined he would, when he came to act, follow the example of
  the rest of the world, and refuse his consent to a match so
  disadvantageous, in point of interest, to his sister. From what oracle
  he received this opinion, I shall leave the reader to determine: but
  however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his
  conduct so as at once to convey his affection to the lady, and to
  conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to take all private
  opportunities of making his addresses; but in the presence of Mr
  Allworthy to be as reserved and as much upon his guard as was
  possible; and this conduct was highly approved by the brother.
  
  He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to his
  mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form, viz.:
  the answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and which
  hath been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter ever since.
  If I was to translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two
  words, _Nolo Episcopari_: a phrase likewise of immemorial use on
  another occasion.
  
  The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well
  understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with
  more warmth and earnestness than before, and was again, according to
  due form, rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his
  desires, so the lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the
  violence of her refusal.
  
  Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this
  courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author, it
  is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull
  and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his
  advances in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length, in
  proper form, surrendered at discretion.
  
  During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month, the
  captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the
  presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in
  private, the more reserved was he in public. And as for the lady, she
  had no sooner secured her lover than she behaved to him before company
  with the highest degree of indifference; so that Mr Allworthy must
  have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse
  qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was going
  forward.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it.
  
  
  In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any other
  such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the
  matter to an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was
  the case at present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady
  were man and wife.
  
  The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr Allworthy; and
  this was undertaken by the doctor.
  
  One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor came
  to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern which
  he could possibly affect in his countenance, said, “I am come, sir, to
  impart an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how shall I
  mention to you what it almost distracts me to think of!” He then
  launched forth into the most bitter invectives both against men and
  women; accusing the former of having no attachment but to their
  interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious inclinations
  that they could never be safely trusted with one of the other sex.
  “Could I,” said he, “sir, have suspected that a lady of such prudence,
  such judgment, such learning, should indulge so indiscreet a passion!
  or could I have imagined that my brother--why do I call him so? he is
  no longer a brother of mine----”
  
  “Indeed but he is,” said Allworthy, “and a brother of mine too.”
  
  “Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the shocking affair?”
  
  “Look'ee, Mr Blifil,” answered the good man, “it hath been my constant
  maxim in life to make the best of all matters which happen. My sister,
  though many years younger than I, is at least old enough to be at the
  age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should have been more
  averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of thirty must
  certainly be supposed to know what will make her most happy. She hath
  married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her equal in fortune;
  and if he hath any perfections in her eye which can make up that
  deficiency, I see no reason why I should object to her choice of her
  own happiness; which I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only
  in immense wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have
  made of complying with almost any proposal, have expected to have been
  consulted on this occasion; but these matters are of a very delicate
  nature, and the scruples of modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome.
  As to your brother, I have really no anger against him at all. He hath
  no obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any necessity of
  asking my consent, since the woman is, as I have said, _sui juris_,
  and of a proper age to be entirely answerable only, to herself for her
  conduct.”
  
  The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his
  accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never
  more be brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then
  launched forth into a panegyric on Allworthy's goodness; into the
  highest encomiums on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he
  should never forgive his brother for having put the place which he
  bore in that friendship to a hazard.
  
  Allworthy thus answered: “Had I conceived any displeasure against your
  brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the innocent:
  but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother appears to
  me to be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of
  my sister; nor will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his
  inclinations. I have always thought love the only foundation of
  happiness in a married state, as it can only produce that high and
  tender friendship which should always be the cement of this union;
  and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are contracted from
  other motives are greatly criminal; they are a profanation of a most
  holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and misery: for surely we
  may call it a profanation to convert this most sacred institution into
  a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice: and what better can be said of
  those matches to which men are induced merely by the consideration of
  a beautiful person, or a great fortune?
  
  “To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even
  worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an
  epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour. It
  was my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought handsome,
  and I can truly say I liked her the better on that account. But to
  make this the sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so
  violently as to overlook all imperfections for its sake, or to require
  it so absolutely as to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense,
  which are qualities in their nature of much higher perfection, only
  because an elegance of person is wanting: this is surely inconsistent,
  either with a wise man or a good Christian. And it is, perhaps, being
  too charitable to conclude that such persons mean anything more by
  their marriage than to please their carnal appetites; for the
  satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was not ordained.
  
  “In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence,
  perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely
  and altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of
  a married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard
  to what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly
  increased, beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which
  create abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and
  large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of
  necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet,
  and virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.
  
  “And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems scarce
  distinguishable from madness;--I mean where persons of immense
  fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be,
  disagreeable to them--to fools and knaves--in order to increase an
  estate already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely
  such persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that
  they are incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship,
  or that they sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are
  capable to the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion,
  which owe as well their force as their foundation to folly.”
  
  Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened with
  the profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to prevent
  now and then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now praised every
  period of what he had heard with the warmth of a young divine, who
  hath the honour to dine with a bishop the same day in which his
  lordship hath mounted the pulpit.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude,
  which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
  
  
  The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the
  reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of
  form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must surely
  be thought matter of substance.
  
  The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr
  Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I promise you I paid you
  off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive you:
  for you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I might
  with safety venture on such a request with a person of his temper; and
  I was willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the
  least possibility of a suspicion.”
  
  Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; but he
  afterwards made a very notable use of it.
  
  One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth, left to
  his disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool from
  under you. In plain English, when you have made your fortune by the
  good offices of a friend, you are advised to discard him as soon as
  you can.
  
  Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively
  determine: so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be
  fairly derived from this diabolical principle; and indeed it is
  difficult to assign any other motive to them: for no sooner was he
  possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he began
  to show a coldness to his brother which increased daily; till at
  length it grew into rudeness, and became very visible to every one.
  
  The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour,
  but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain
  declaration: “If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir, you
  know you are at liberty to quit it.” This strange, cruel, and almost
  unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke the poor
  doctor's heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human
  breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been
  guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good actions,
  however they are received or returned by those in whose favour they
  are performed, always administer some comfort to us; but what
  consolation shall we receive under so biting a calamity as the
  ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our wounded conscience at the
  same time flies in our face, and upbraids us with having spotted it in
  the service of one so worthless!
  
  Mr Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's behalf, and
  desired to know what offence the doctor had committed; when the
  hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should never
  forgive him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in his
  favour; which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a
  cruelty that it ought not to be forgiven.
  
  Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which, he
  said, became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much
  resentment against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last
  pretended to be convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to
  be reconciled.
  
  As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so passionately
  fond of her new husband that he never appeared to her to be in the
  wrong; and his displeasure against any person was a sufficient reason
  for her dislike to the same.
  
  The captain, at Mr Allworthy's instance, was outwardly, as we have
  said, reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in his
  heart; and he found so many opportunities of giving him private hints
  of this, that the house at last grew insupportable to the poor doctor;
  and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences which he might
  encounter in the world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful
  insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
  
  He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he could
  not bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he must take
  to his share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how much the
  worse man he represented his brother to be, so much the greater would
  his own offence appear to Allworthy, and so much the greater, he had
  reason to imagine, would be his resentment.
  
  He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and
  promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother with so
  well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his part to the
  same perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with the truth of
  the reconciliation.
  
  The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a
  broken heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally
  imagined, and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of
  mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all other
  diseases--viz., that no physician can cure it.
  
  Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these two
  brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy above
  mentioned, another reason for the captain's conduct: the captain,
  besides what we have before said of him, was a man of great pride and
  fierceness, and had always treated his brother, who was of a different
  complexion, and greatly deficient in both these qualities, with the
  utmost air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger
  share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the better
  understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear; for though
  envy is at best a very malignant passion, yet is its bitterness
  greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards the same object;
  and very much afraid I am, that whenever an obligation is joined to
  these two, indignation and not gratitude will be the product of all
  three.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK II.
  
  CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF
  LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER
  THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it
  is not like.
  
  
  Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history, and
  not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we
  intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers, who profess
  to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful
  and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his
  series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much paper with the
  detail of months and years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he
  employs upon those notable aeras when the greatest scenes have been
  transacted on the human stage.
  
  Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a
  newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether
  there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a
  stage coach, which performs constantly the same course, empty as well
  as full. The writer, indeed, seems to think himself obliged to keep
  even pace with time, whose amanuensis he is; and, like his master,
  travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when the world
  seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy age so
  nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet--
  
       _Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
       Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
       Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
       In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
       Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique._
  
  Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
  than that by Mr Creech--
  
       When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
       And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
       Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
       Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
  
  Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary
  method. When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will
  often be the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at
  large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without producing
  anything worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our
  history; but shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such
  periods of time totally unobserved.
  
  These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of
  time. We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall
  imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at
  Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks they
  dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers
  are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be informed at
  whose office it was sold: indeed, commonly two or three different
  offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by which, I
  suppose, the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers
  are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet council.
  
  My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this work,
  he shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as long;
  some that contain only the time of a single day, and others that
  comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand
  still, and sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on myself
  as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever: for as
  I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at
  liberty to make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my
  readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and
  to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do
  hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and
  advantage in all such institutions: for I do not, like a _jure divino_
  tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves, or my commodity. I am,
  indeed, set over them for their own good only, and was created for
  their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make their
  interest the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur
  in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I shall
  deserve or desire.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a
  great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
  
  
  Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain
  Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty,
  merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered
  of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but
  the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.
  
  Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance
  of great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections
  from the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given
  his own name of Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom failed of
  visiting, at least once a day, in his nursery.
  
  He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should be bred
  up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though with
  some little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for her
  brother; and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling with
  rather more kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring
  themselves to show to these children, who, however innocent, may be
  truly called the living monuments of incontinence.
  
  The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he
  condemned as a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints, that
  to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He quoted
  several texts (for he was well read in Scripture), such as, _He visits
  the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten
  sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge_,&c. Whence he
  argued the legality of punishing the crime of the parent on the
  bastard. He said, “Though the law did not positively allow the
  destroying such base-born children, yet it held them to be the
  children of nobody; that the Church considered them as the children of
  nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the
  lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth.”
  
  Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain
  had urged on this subject, “That, however guilty the parents might be,
  the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had
  quoted, the former of them was a particular denunciation against the
  Jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their
  heavenly King; and the latter was parabolically spoken, and rather
  intended to denote the certain and necessary consequences of sin, than
  any express judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as
  avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not
  blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first
  principles of natural justice, and against the original notions of
  right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which
  we were to judge not only in all matters which were not revealed, but
  even of the truth of revelation itself. He said he knew many held the
  same principles with the captain on this head; but he was himself
  firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner
  for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had fortune to have
  been found in the same place.”
  
  While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and such
  like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr Allworthy's, of
  whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs Deborah had made a
  discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least to prove more
  fatal to poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the captain.
  
  Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried her on
  to that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good
  graces of Mrs Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward behaviour to
  the foundling, frequently abused the infant in private, and her
  brother too, for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but she had
  now, as she conceived, fully detected the father of the foundling.
  
  Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be necessary
  to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely
  lay open those previous matters by which it was produced; and for that
  purpose we shall be obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little
  family with which my reader is at present entirely unacquainted; and
  of which the oeconomy was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it
  will shock the utmost credulity of many married persons.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly
  contrary to those of Aristotle.
  
  
  My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny
  Jones had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at
  her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice
  to her genius, she had so improved herself, that she was become a
  better scholar than her master.
  
  Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which
  learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his
  commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows in the world,
  and was, at the same time, master of so much pleasantry and humour,
  that he was reputed the wit of the country; and all the neighbouring
  gentlemen were so desirous of his company, that as denying was not his
  talent, he spent much time at their houses, which he might, with more
  emolument, have spent in his school.
  
  It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed, was
  in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of Eton
  or Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided into two
  classes: in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son of a
  neighbouring squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just entered
  into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was a second son of the same
  gentleman, who, together with seven parish-boys, was learning to read
  and write.
  
  The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the schoolmaster
  in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this office those of
  clerk and barber, and had not Mr Allworthy added to the whole an
  annuity of ten pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas,
  and with which he was enabled to cheer his heart during that sacred
  festival.
  
  Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had
  married out of Mr Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty
  pounds, which she had there amassed.
  
  This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my
  friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled
  the young woman who is pouring out her mistress's tea in the third
  picture of the Harlot's Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower
  of that noble sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she
  became more formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess
  the truth, he was never master there, or anywhere else, in her
  presence.
  
  Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of
  temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which
  generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly
  called the pledges of love; and her husband, though they had been
  married nine years, had given her no such pledges; a default for which
  he had no excuse, either from age or health, being not yet thirty
  years old, and what they call a jolly brisk young man.
  
  Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the
  poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he
  durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of
  civility, or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring
  his wife upon her back, and his own.
  
  In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own
  house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her
  out of that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of
  security for their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the reader
  hath been before informed, was one.
  
  As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security
  of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always
  extremely modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in
  women; she had passed above four years at Mr Partridge's (for that was
  the schoolmaster's name) without creating the least suspicion in her
  mistress. Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her
  mistress had permitted Mr Partridge to give her those instructions
  which have been before commemorated.
  
  But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in
  the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and
  that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.
  
  Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her
  husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to
  neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one
  day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the
  girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair:
  and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head
  of her mistress. This did not, however, at that time discover itself,
  but lay lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a
  reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares himself
  and proceeds upon hostile operations: and such additional strength
  soon arrived to corroborate her suspicion; for not long after, the
  husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to his maid, _Da
  mihi aliquid potum:_ upon which the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the
  badness of the Latin, and, when her mistress cast her eyes on her,
  blushed, possibly with a consciousness of having laughed at her
  master. Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and
  discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of poor
  Jenny, crying out, “You impudent whore, do you play tricks with my
  husband before my face?” and at the same instant rose from her chair
  with a knife in her hand, with which, most probably, she would have
  executed very tragical vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage
  of being nearer the door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by
  running away: for, as to the poor husband, whether surprize had
  rendered him motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had
  restrained him from venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and
  trembling in his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till
  his wife, returning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive
  measures necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was
  obliged to retreat, after the example of the maid.
  
  This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition
  
              To make a life of jealousy
       And follow still the changes of the moon
       With fresh suspicions--
  
  With her, as well as him,
  
            --To be once in doubt,
       Was once to be resolvd--
  
  she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and
  begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep that night
  within her walls.
  
  Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in a
  matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual receipt
  of patience, for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he
  remembered, and well understood, the advice contained in these words
  
       --_Leve fit quod bene fertur onus_
  
  in English:
  
       A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne--
  
  which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he
  had often occasion to experience the truth.
  
  Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the tempest
  was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to the
  business of packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper
  sufficed, and, having received her small pittance of wages, she
  returned home.
  
  The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly enough
  that evening, but something or other happened before the next morning,
  which a little abated the fury of Mrs Partridge; and she at length
  admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she gave the
  readier belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny,
  professed a satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown
  of little use as a servant, spending all her time in reading, and was
  become, moreover, very pert and obstinate; for, indeed, she and her
  master had lately had frequent disputes in literature; in which, as
  hath been said, she was become greatly his superior. This, however, he
  would by no means allow; and as he called her persisting in the right,
  obstinacy, he began to hate her with no small inveteracy.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were
  ever recorded in domestic history.
  
  
  For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some
  other matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which,
  like the secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are
  not members of that honourable fraternity, Mrs Partridge was pretty
  well satisfied that she had condemned her husband without cause, and
  endeavoured by acts of kindness to make him amends for her false
  suspicion. Her passions were indeed equally violent, whichever way
  they inclined; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be
  altogether as fond.
  
  But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce
  twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not, in some
  degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions, when the
  passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was usually
  longer: and so was the case at present; for she continued longer in a
  state of affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her
  husband had ever known before: and, had it not been for some little
  exercises, which all the followers of Xantippe are obliged to perform
  daily, Mr Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several
  months.
  
  Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner
  to be the forerunners of a storm, and I know some persons, who,
  without being generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to
  apprehend that great and unusual peace or tranquillity will be
  attended with its opposite. For which reason the antients used, on
  such occasions, to sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity who was
  thought by them to look with an invidious eye on human felicity, and
  to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.
  
  As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or from
  encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr John Fr----, or some other
  such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find out
  the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad fortune,
  which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall proceed to
  give an instance; for it is our province to relate facts, and we shall
  leave causes to persons of much higher genius.
  
  Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on
  the actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations,
  certain places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious
  might meet and satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the
  barbers' shops have justly borne the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks,
  barbers' news was a proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his
  epistles, makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same
  light.
  
  Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or
  Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a
  manner little inferior to that with which they are handled in the
  coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are much more largely and
  freely treated in the former than in the latter. But this serves only
  for the men. Now, whereas the females of this country, especially
  those of the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those
  of other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had
  not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their
  curiosity, seeing they are in this no way inferior to the other half
  of the species.
  
  In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair
  ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign
  sisters; as I do not remember either to have read in history, or to
  have seen in my travels, anything of the like kind.
  
  This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat
  of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every
  parish in England.
  
  Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by
  one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones?
  To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied,
  with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having
  turned Jenny away as she did.
  
  Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long
  since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered
  boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on that
  account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.
  
  “No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I fancy we have
  sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath been
  brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my
  husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep
  them.”
  
  “Two bastards!” answered Mrs Partridge hastily: “you surprize me! I
  don't know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have
  been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone
  away.”
  
  Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind,
  especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others
  are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that
  Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with
  her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin,
  the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The
  satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared
  now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but
  yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred
  other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's guilt,
  and immediately left the assembly in confusion.
  
  As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family,
  degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and
  though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger
  himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport,
  escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears;
  but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again
  removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed
  wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.
  
  Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her
  tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an
  instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face
  descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with
  which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.
  
  Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he
  attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that
  his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at
  least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in
  doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too
  short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays
  likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom,
  burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her
  hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with
  the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, such
  as sparkles from a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So that,
  altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror
  to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.
  
  He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her
  arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her
  fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of
  her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears,
  which soon after concluded in a fit.
  
  That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto preserved
  through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto
  ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street,
  hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and
  beseeching the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her
  assistance. Several good women obeyed his summons, who entering his
  house, and applying the usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs
  Partridge was at length, to the great joy of her husband, brought to
  herself.
  
  As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat
  composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of
  the manifold injuries she had received from her husband; who, she
  said, was not contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her
  upbraiding him with it, had treated her in the cruelest manner
  imaginable; had tore her cap and hair from her head, and her stays
  from her body, giving her, at the same time, several blows, the marks
  of which she should carry to the grave.
  
  The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the
  indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this
  accusation; which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him,
  had greatly exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once;
  and this silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by
  the whole court, they all began at once, _una voce_, to rebuke and
  revile him, repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a
  woman.
  
  Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to
  the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not
  help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he
  thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are taught
  that of a murdered person often doth) in vengeance against him.
  
  To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it had
  not come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that, if
  their husbands should lift their hands against them, they would have
  their hearts' bloods out of their bodies.
  
  After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr
  Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed,
  and left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in
  which Mr Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of the
  reader.
  
  
  I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to
  one person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a
  fact of this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire
  any farther.
  
  And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use a
  common phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who was
  said to have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in some
  places it was reported he had murdered her; in others, that he had
  broke her arms; in others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an
  injury which can be done to a human creature, but what Mrs Partridge
  was somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her husband.
  
  The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as some
  people said that Mrs Partridge had caught her husband in bed with his
  maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went abroad.
  Nay, some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the jealousy to the
  husband.
  
  Mrs Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different
  cause from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to
  conceal it; and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid
  on Mr Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr Allworthy,
  had in something offended Mrs Wilkins, who was not of a very forgiving
  temper.
  
  But Mrs Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and who
  could very well look forward a few years into futurity, had perceived
  a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being hereafter her master;
  and as she plainly discerned that the captain bore no great goodwill
  to the little foundling, she fancied it would be rendering him an
  agreeable service, if she could make any discoveries that might lessen
  the affection which Mr Allworthy seemed to have contracted for this
  child, and which gave visible uneasiness to the captain, who could not
  entirely conceal it even before Allworthy himself; though his wife,
  who acted her part much better in public, frequently recommended to
  him her own example, of conniving at the folly of her brother, which,
  she said, she at least as well perceived, and as much resented, as any
  other possibly could.
  
  Mrs Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of the
  above story,--though long after it had happened, failed not to satisfy
  herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted the
  captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the little
  bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master lose his
  reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.
  
  The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an improper
  assurance in judging of her master's actions: for if his honour, or
  his understanding, would have suffered the captain to make an alliance
  with Mrs Wilkins, his pride would by no means have admitted it. And to
  say the truth, there is no conduct less politic, than to enter into
  any confederacy with your friend's servants against their master: for
  by these means you afterwards become the slave of these very servants;
  by whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this
  consideration, perhaps it was, which prevented Captain Blifil from
  being more explicit with Mrs Wilkins, or from encouraging the abuse
  which she had bestowed on Allworthy.
  
  But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs Wilkins at this
  discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and
  resolved to make the best use of it he was able.
  
  He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast, in
  hopes that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some other person; but Mrs
  Wilkins, whether she resented the captain's behaviour, or whether his
  cunning was beyond her, and she feared the discovery might displease
  him, never afterwards opened her lips about the matter.
  
  I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the
  housekeeper never acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are
  more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their own
  sex, than to ours. The only way, as it appears to me, of solving this
  difficulty, is, by imputing it to that distance which was now grown
  between the lady and the housekeeper: whether this arose from a
  jealousy in Mrs Blifil, that Wilkins showed too great a respect to the
  foundling; for while she was endeavouring to ruin the little infant,
  in order to ingratiate herself with the captain, she was every day
  more and more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness for it
  every day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she took at
  other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs Blifil, perhaps
  offended that delicate lady, who certainly now hated Mrs Wilkins; and
  though she did not, or possibly could not, absolutely remove her from
  her place, she found, however, the means of making her life very
  uneasy. This Mrs Wilkins, at length, so resented, that she very openly
  showed all manner of respect and fondness to little Tommy, in
  opposition to Mrs Blifil.
  
  The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at
  last took an opportunity to reveal it himself.
  
  He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse on charity: in
  which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr Allworthy, that
  the word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or generosity.
  
  “The Christian religion,” he said, “was instituted for much nobler
  purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen philosophers had
  taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps be called a
  moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime, Christian-like
  disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity approaching to
  angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt only by grace.
  Those,” he said, “came nearer to the Scripture meaning, who understood
  by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of our brethren,
  and passing a favourable judgment on their actions; a virtue much
  higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a pitiful distribution
  of alms, which, though we would never so much prejudice, or even ruin
  our families, could never reach many; whereas charity, in the other
  and truer sense, might be extended to all mankind.”
  
  He said, “Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd to
  conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been
  preached to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine
  should be preached by its Divine Author to men who could not practise
  it, much less should we think it understood so by those who can
  practise it, and do not.
  
  “But though,” continued he, “there is, I am afraid, little merit in
  these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much pleasure in
  them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one consideration. I
  mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to confer our
  choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was your
  case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or
  three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction which
  a good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even make him
  timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice,
  and encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for which
  it will by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not actually
  intended such an encouragement; unless we have used the utmost caution
  in chusing the objects of our beneficence. A consideration which, I
  make no doubt, hath greatly checked the liberality of many a worthy
  and pious man.”
  
  Mr Allworthy answered, “He could not dispute with the captain in the
  Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true sense
  of the word which is translated charity; but that he had always
  thought it was interpreted to consist in action, and that giving alms
  constituted at least one branch of that virtue.
  
  “As to the meritorious part,” he said, “he readily agreed with the
  captain; for where could be the merit of barely discharging a duty?
  which,” he said, “let the word charity have what construction it
  would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the whole tenor of the New
  Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined both
  by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was it
  withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own
  reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
  
  “To confess the truth,” said he, “there is one degree of generosity
  (of charity I would have called it), which seems to have some show of
  merit, and that is, where, from a principle of benevolence and
  Christian love, we bestow on another what we really want ourselves;
  where, in order to lessen the distresses of another, we condescend to
  share some part of them, by giving what even our own necessities
  cannot well spare. This is, I think, meritorious; but to relieve our
  brethren only with our superfluities; to be charitable (I must use the
  word) rather at the expense of our coffers than ourselves; to save
  several families from misery rather than hang up an extraordinary
  picture in our houses or gratify any other idle ridiculous
  vanity--this seems to be only being human creatures. Nay, I will
  venture to go farther, it is being in some degree epicures: for what
  could the greatest epicure wish rather than to eat with many mouths
  instead of one? which I think may be predicated of any one who knows
  that the bread of many is owing to his own largesses.
  
  “As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter
  prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can
  never deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many
  examples of ingratitude can justify a man's hardening his heart
  against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it
  can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less
  than a persuasion of universal depravity can lock up the charity of a
  good man; and this persuasion must lead him, I think, either into
  atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is unfair to argue such
  universal depravity from a few vicious individuals; nor was this, I
  believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own mind, found
  one certain exception to the general rule.” He then concluded by
  asking, “who that Partridge was, whom he had called a worthless
  fellow?”
  
  “I mean,” said the captain, “Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster,
  what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child which
  you found in your bed.”
  
  Mr Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the captain
  as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it above a
  month: and at length recollected with much difficulty that he was told
  it by Mrs Wilkins.
  
  Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed what
  the captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, by and with the captain's
  advice, dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself of the
  truth of the fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all hasty
  proceedings in criminal matters, and said he would by no means have Mr
  Allworthy take any resolution either to the prejudice of the child or
  its father, before he was satisfied that the latter was guilty; for
  though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one of
  Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such
  evidence to Mr Allworthy.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for incontinency; the
  evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom of our law;
  with other grave matters, which those will like best who understand
  them most.
  
  
  It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had furnished
  so much matter of conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr
  Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in that country who
  had never heard of it.
  
  To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to
  inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in
  opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity,
  which hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man.
  Indeed, he was equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as
  no man was ever more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve
  the distresses of others, so none could be more tender of their
  characters, or slower to believe anything to their disadvantage.
  
  Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it
  hath been long since observed that you may know a man by his
  companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending to the
  conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy yourself of his
  religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of his entire
  disposition: for though a few odd fellows will utter their own
  sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part of mankind have
  enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation to the taste
  and inclination of their superiors.
  
  But to return to Mrs Wilkins, who, having executed her commission with
  great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back such a
  confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined
  to send for the criminal, and examine him _viva voce_. Mr Partridge,
  therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his defence (if he
  could make any) against this accusation.
  
  At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at Paradise-hall,
  came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife, as Mrs Wilkins
  his accuser.
  
  And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr
  Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the
  mouth of Mrs Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement
  protestations of his innocence.
  
  Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for being
  obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all the
  circumstances with which the reader hath already been acquainted; and
  at last concluded with her husband's confession of his guilt.
  
  Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine;
  but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it
  is probable from certain other reasons, would never have been brought
  to depose as she did, had not Mrs Wilkins, with great art, fished all
  out of her at her own house, and had she not indeed made promises, in
  Mr Allworthy's name, that the punishment of her husband should not be
  such as might anywise affect his family.
  
  Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he
  admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he however
  endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he was forced into it
  by the continued importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she was
  sure of his guilt, she would never leave tormenting him till he had
  owned it; and faithfully promised, that, in such case, she would never
  mention it to him more. Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to
  confess himself guilty, though he was innocent; and that he believed
  he should have confest a murder from the same motive.
  
  Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and having
  no other remedy in the present place but tears, she called forth a
  plentiful assistance from them, and then addressing herself to Mr
  Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), “May it please your worship,
  there never was any poor woman so injured as I am by that base man;
  for this is not the only instance of his falsehood to me. No, may it
  please your worship, he hath injured my bed many's the good time and
  often. I could have put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his
  business, if he had not broke one of the sacred commandments. Besides,
  if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much; but with my
  own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to defile my own
  chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his beastly stinking
  whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and
  then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the truth. It
  is very likely, an't please your worship, that I should bullock him? I
  have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had
  been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in
  that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. Nor have you been
  half a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I'm
  sure--And since he provokes me, I am ready, an't please your worship,
  to take my bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you
  have forgot, I suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and made the
  blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with
  adultery! but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have almost
  broke my heart, you have, you have.”
  
  Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified,
  promising her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge,
  who stood aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by surprize
  and the other half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there was so
  wicked a man in the world. He assured him that his prevaricating and
  lying backward and forward was a great aggravation of his guilt; for
  which the only atonement he could make was by confession and
  repentance. He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately
  confessing the fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly
  proved against him even by his own wife.
  
  Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just
  compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which refuses
  to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her husband. This, says
  a certain learned author, who, I believe, was never quoted before in
  any but a law-book, would be the means of creating an eternal
  dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of much
  perjury, and of much whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and
  hanging.
  
  Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he
  had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his
  innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship
  immediately to send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to
  be so, that she had left that part of the country.
  
  Mr Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness of
  temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all the
  witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence, agreed
  to defer his final determination of this matter till the arrival of
  Jenny, for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger; and then having
  recommended peace between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed
  himself chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend
  again the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day's journey from
  his own house.
  
  At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the messenger
  returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found; for that she
  had left her habitation a few days before, in company with a
  recruiting officer.
  
  Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as she
  appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could not
  help thinking that, had she been present, and would have declared the
  truth, she must have confirmed what so many circumstances, together
  with his own confession, and the declaration of his wife that she had
  caught her husband in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore
  once more exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his
  innocence, Mr Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and
  that he was too bad a man to receive any encouragement from him. He
  therefore deprived him of his annuity, and recommended repentance to
  him on account of another world, and industry to maintain himself and
  his wife in this.
  
  There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor
  Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by the evidence of
  his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her for having, among other
  things, been the occasion of depriving her of that benefit; but such
  was his fortune, and he was obliged to submit to it.
  
  Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would have
  the reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my temper
  than conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence. Whether he
  was innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if the historic
  muse hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty
  of discovering them till she shall give me leave.
  
  Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it is
  that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more than
  sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less would
  have satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy; and yet,
  notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs Partridge, who would have
  taken the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility that the
  schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared clear on
  comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington with
  that of her delivery that she had there conceived this infant, yet it
  by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must have been its
  father; for, to omit other particulars, there was in the same house a
  lad near eighteen, between whom and Jenny there had subsisted
  sufficient intimacy to found a reasonable suspicion; and yet, so blind
  is jealousy, this circumstance never once entered into the head of the
  enraged wife.
  
  Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr Allworthy's advice,
  is not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented heartily of
  the evidence she had given against him: especially when she found Mrs
  Deborah had deceived her, and refused to make any application to Mr
  Allworthy on her behalf. She had, however, somewhat better success
  with Mrs Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much
  better-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her
  brother to restore the annuity; in which, though good-nature might
  have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive will appear in
  the next chapter.
  
  These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr
  Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists
  only in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it
  is proper to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals
  wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact,
  or any circumstance of mitigation, was never disregarded: but the
  petitions of an offender, or the intercessions of others, did not in
  the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned because the
  offender himself, or his friends, were unwilling that he should be
  punished.
  
  Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their
  fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from doubling
  his industry on the account of his lessened income, that he did in a
  manner abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature indolent,
  that vice now increased upon him, by which means he lost the little
  school he had; so that neither his wife nor himself would have had any
  bread to eat, had not the charity of some good Christian interposed,
  and provided them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance.
  
  As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they
  imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr Allworthy
  himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly
  encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the distresses of the
  vicious themselves, when these became too exquisite and
  disproportionate to their demerit. In which light their wretchedness
  appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on this
  miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched state of
  Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon after
  caught the small-pox, and died.
  
  The justice which Mr Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met
  with universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its
  consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to
  compassionate his case; and presently after, to blame that as rigour
  and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed
  against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy
  and forgiveness.
  
  These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs Partridge,
  which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which is no
  consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to impute to
  Mr Allworthy's severity, or, as they now termed it, cruelty.
  
  Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and
  the unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity,
  resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in
  danger of starving, with the universal compassion of all his
  neighbours.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from
  hatred: with a short apology for those people who overlook
  imperfections in their friends.
  
  
  Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had
  he not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the
  foundling out of Mr Allworthy's house.
  
  On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little Tommy,
  as if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the father with
  extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.
  
  This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as did all the other
  daily instances of Mr Allworthy's generosity; for he looked on all
  such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.
  
  In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, indeed, in
  anything else: for though an affection placed on the understanding is,
  by many wise persons, thought more durable than that which is founded
  on beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present case. Nay, the
  understandings of this couple were their principal bone of contention,
  and one great cause of many quarrels, which from time to time arose
  between them; and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a
  sovereign contempt for her husband; and on the husband's, in an utter
  abhorrence of his wife.
  
  As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of
  divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common
  topic of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man,
  had, before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady;
  and this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead,
  who, while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous
  of being still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on
  the contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so
  absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who had
  not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the dispute
  with an admiration of her own understanding and a love for his.
  
  But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly
  despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes
  of preferment made it necessary to show the same submission to a
  Hoadley, or to some other of great reputation in the science, yet even
  this cost him too much to be endured without some motive. Matrimony,
  therefore, having removed all such motives, he grew weary of this
  condescension, and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that
  haughtiness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some
  contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve no contempt
  can bear.
  
  When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm
  and long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of
  the lady, and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who
  at length answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was
  far from enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at
  first so highly provoked her, that it might have produced some
  tragical event, had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her
  with the utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which
  somewhat qualified her hatred towards him; though of this likewise she
  had a pretty moderate share.
  
  The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any
  imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised
  her for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion of
  the female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he
  looked on a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher
  consideration than a cat, since her offices were of rather more
  importance; but the difference between these two was, in his
  estimation, so small, that, in his marriage contracted with Mr
  Allworthy's lands and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which
  of them he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was his
  pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to express
  towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before taken of her
  love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence, perhaps
  hardly to be exceeded.
  
  One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure: and
  that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I hope,
  know what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to a
  beloved object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the
  satisfaction of tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at
  this latter pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease
  in marriage which they might otherwise possess, though their mate was
  never so disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of
  love and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to disturb
  and prevent those of her husband; and he again, in return, puts
  frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in company which he
  dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she equally detests.
  Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow sometimes so
  plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she led a life
  of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never hope
  to torment any more.
  
  But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present
  experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient
  reason to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the
  other had previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any
  amusement, the other constantly objected to it: they never loved or
  hated, commended or abused, the same person. And for this reason, as
  the captain looked with an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife
  began now to caress it almost equally with her own child.
  
  The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between the
  husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr Allworthy's repose,
  as it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had designed
  for all three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he might be
  a little disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he was far
  from being acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the captain was,
  from certain obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady
  was obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to pursue the same
  conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to be very
  intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a married
  couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not even guess at the
  sour sentiments which they bear to each other: for though the whole
  day may be sometimes too short for hatred, as well as for love; yet
  the many hours which they naturally spend together, apart from all
  observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation with such ample
  opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if they love,
  they can support being a few hours in company without toying, or if
  they hate, without spitting in each other's faces.
  
  It is possible, however, that Mr Allworthy saw enough to render him a
  little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is
  not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those
  of a childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might
  see some faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for men
  of true wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and things
  as they are, without complaining of their imperfections, or attempting
  to amend them. They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an
  acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or
  to any others; and this often without lessening their affection.
  Indeed, unless great discernment be tempered with this overlooking
  disposition, we ought never to contract friendship but with a degree
  of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my friends will pardon me
  when I declare, I know none of them without a fault; and I should be
  sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could not see mine.
  Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn. It is an exercise
  of friendship, and perhaps none of the least pleasant. And this
  forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of amendment. There is,
  perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the
  natural infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human
  nature, as well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it; and this,
  I am afraid, in either case, is equally incurable; though,
  nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest value.
  
  Upon the whole, then, Mr Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections in
  the captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally upon his
  guard before him, these appeared to him no more than blemishes in a
  good character, which his goodness made him overlook, and his wisdom
  prevented him from discovering to the captain himself. Very different
  would have been his sentiments had he discovered the whole; which
  perhaps would in time have been the case, had the husband and wife
  long continued this kind of behaviour to each other; but this kind
  Fortune took effectual means to prevent, by forcing the captain to do
  that which rendered him again dear to his wife, and restored all her
  tenderness and affection towards him.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife, which hath never
  been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
  
  
  The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he
  passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he
  could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed
  when alone.
  
  These meditations were entirely employed on Mr Allworthy's fortune;
  for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he
  could, the exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw
  occasion to alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he
  pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens,
  and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of
  the estate as of the grandeur of the place: for this purpose he
  applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read
  over many books on both these subjects; for these sciences, indeed,
  employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last
  completed a most excellent plan: and very sorry we are, that it is not
  in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the
  present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a
  superlative degree, the two principal ingredients which serve to
  recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it required
  an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring
  it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth
  of which the captain supposed Mr Allworthy possessed, and which he
  thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effectually to
  supply; and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his
  time of life, which was only what is called middle-age, removed all
  apprehension of his not living to accomplish.
  
  Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate
  execution of this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy; in calculating
  which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing
  every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c.
  From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance
  of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening
  within a few years.
  
  But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of
  this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents
  happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have
  contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive
  to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense,
  just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on
  the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr Allworthy's death, he
  himself--died of an apoplexy.
  
  This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening walk
  by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if
  indeed, any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore,
  measure of that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to
  all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great
  (though not a living) example of the truth of that observation of
  Horace:
  
          _Tu secanda marmora
          Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
          Immemor, struis domos._
  
  Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: “You provide
  the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are
  only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet,
  forgetting that of six by two.”
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt, in the
  lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of death,
  such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
  
  
  Mr Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the
  accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a
  considerable time longer than usual, Mr Allworthy first declared he
  began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most
  punctual at his meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung
  without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the
  captain was wont to use.
  
  All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by
  perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs
  Blifil declared she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other
  lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew
  the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify
  her, telling her--To be sure she could not help being uneasy; but that
  she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening
  had inticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk: or he might
  be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs Blifil answered, No; she was sure
  some accident had befallen him; for that he would never stay out
  without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would make
  her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook herself
  to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her not to
  frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to her own
  health; and, filling out a very large glass of wine, advised, and at
  last prevailed with her to drink it.
  
  Mr Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in
  search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the
  consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived
  him of speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so
  the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs
  Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and
  floods of tears accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her
  companion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time
  dissuaded her from indulging; attempting to moderate the grief of her
  friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to
  which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a sufficient
  consideration to fortify our minds against any accidents, how sudden
  or terrible soever. She said her brother's example ought to teach her
  patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as much
  concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his
  resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief within due
  bounds.
  
  “Mention not my brother,” said Mrs Blifil; “I alone am the object of
  your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife feels on
  these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him--I shall
  never see him more!”--Here a torrent of tears had the same consequence
  with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr Allworthy, and she
  remained silent.
  
  At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried
  out, The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he
  was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.
  
  Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the
  operations of grief: for as Mr Allworthy had been before silent, from
  the same cause which had made his sister vociferous; so did the
  present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop
  to those of the lady; who first gave a violent scream, and presently
  after fell into a fit.
  
  The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady
  visitant, were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr
  Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where
  every method was tried, in order to restore him to life.
  
  And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these
  bodies had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook
  the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had
  continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great
  satisfaction: but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding,
  chafing, dropping, &c., proved ineffectual. Death, that inexorable
  judge, had passed sentence on him, and refused to grant him a
  reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and
  the same instant, were his counsel.
  
  These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall
  distinguish by the names of Dr Y. and Dr Z., having felt his pulse; to
  wit, Dr Y. his right arm, and Dr Z. his left; both agreed that he was
  absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they
  differed; Dr Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr Z. of an
  epilepsy.
  
  Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered
  the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force,
  that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments,
  and made not the least impression on his adversary.
  
  To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease,
  to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The
  gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have
  all their several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the
  nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account
  for those disagreements in opinion, concerning the cause of a
  patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of
  the college; and which have greatly surprized that part of the world
  who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted.
  
  The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring to
  revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately into
  a dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such
  experiments had been made before their arrival: for the captain was
  put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and
  all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils.
  
  The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in
  everything they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of
  time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were
  therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse;
  and what could more naturally present itself than that before
  mentioned?
  
  Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr Allworthy, having
  given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will, began to
  enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their
  departure.
  
  This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase,
  as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors,
  therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as this was a
  new patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of
  her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.
  
  The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her
  husband: for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in
  reality she required none.
  
  There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which
  physicians are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I
  believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed
  to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the
  latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a
  possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of
  curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I
  have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim,
  “That Nature should be left to do her own work, while the physician
  stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and encourage her when
  she doth well.”
  
  So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged
  the corpse after a single fee; but they were not so disgusted with
  their living patient; concerning whose case they immediately agreed,
  and fell to prescribing with great diligence.
  
  Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to believe
  her ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so,
  I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the
  decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by
  physicians, attended by nurses, and received constant messages from
  her acquaintance to enquire after her health.
  
  At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being
  expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see
  company; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour
  of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance.
  
  The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a
  large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr
  Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph,
  which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one
  who perfectly well knew the captain.
  
                                HERE LIES,
                    IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
                               THE BODY OF
  
                           CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
  
                                  LONDON
                       HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
                                  OXFORD
                            OF HIS EDUCATION.
  
                                HIS PARTS
                     WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
                           AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
                        HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
                            AND HUMAN NATURE.
                          HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
                            A TENDER HUSBAND,
                         AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
                           A MOST KIND BROTHER,
                            A SINCERE FRIEND,
                           A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
                             AND A GOOD MAN.
  
                          HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
                         HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
                             THE MONUMENT OF
                               HIS VIRTUES
                          AND OF HER AFFECTION.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK III.
  
  CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE FAMILY
  OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF
  FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK THE
  READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Containing little or nothing.
  
  
  The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of the
  second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention to
  pass over several large periods of time, in which nothing happened
  worthy of being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.
  
  In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but the
  good and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these means we
  prevent him from throwing away his time, in reading without either
  pleasure or emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an
  opportunity of employing that wonderful sagacity, of which he is
  master, by filling up these vacant spaces of time with his own
  conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in
  the preceding pages.
  
  For instance, what reader but knows that Mr Allworthy felt, at first,
  for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on such
  occasions enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of flint,
  or their heads of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth not know
  that philosophy and religion in time moderated, and at last
  extinguished, this grief? The former of these teaching the folly and
  vanity of it, and the latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the
  same time assuaging it, by raising future hopes and assurances, which
  enable a strong and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on his
  deathbed, with little less indifference than if he was preparing for a
  long journey; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him again.
  
  Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs
  Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the
  whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the outside
  of the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of custom and
  decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to the several
  alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds to black,
  from black to grey, from grey to white, so did her countenance change
  from dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, and from sad to
  serious, till the day came in which she was allowed to return to her
  former serenity.
  
  We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which may be
  imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and harder
  exercises of judgment and penetration may reasonably be expected from
  the upper graduates in criticism. Many notable discoveries will, I
  doubt not, be made by such, of the transactions which happened in the
  family of our worthy man, during all the years which we have thought
  proper to pass over: for though nothing worthy of a place in this
  history occurred within that period, yet did several incidents happen
  of equal importance with those reported by the daily and weekly
  historians of the age; in reading which great numbers of persons
  consume a considerable part of their time, very little, I am afraid,
  to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures here proposed, some of the
  most excellent faculties of the mind may be employed to much
  advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be able to foretel
  the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their characters, than
  to judge of their characters from their actions. The former, I own,
  requires the greater penetration; but may be accomplished by true
  sagacity with no less certainty than the latter.
  
  As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are very
  eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of
  twelve years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at
  about fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been long
  impatient to be introduced to his acquaintance.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  
  The heroe of this great history appears with very bad omens. A little
  tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth their notice. A
  word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to a gamekeeper and
  a schoolmaster.
  
  As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to
  flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of
  truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more
  disadvantageous manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly,
  even at his first appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all
  Mr Allworthy's family that he was certainly born to be hanged.
  
  Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this
  conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a
  propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a
  tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now observed to
  have been prophetically denounced against him: he had been already
  convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing
  a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master Blifil's pocket
  of a ball.
  
  The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
  disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the
  virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a
  cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all the
  neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a
  remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age;
  qualities which gained him the love of every one who knew him: while
  Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many expressed their wonder
  that Mr Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be educated with his
  nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his
  example.
  
  An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of
  these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is in the
  power of the longest dissertation.
  
  Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this
  history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for
  as to Mrs Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly
  reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow
  of a loose kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain
  much stricter notions concerning the difference of _meum_ and _tuum_
  than the young gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave
  occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of
  which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and,
  indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in that short Latin
  proverb, “_Noscitur a socio;_” which, I think, is thus expressed in
  English, “You may know him by the company he keeps.”
  
  To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of which
  we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be derived from
  the encouragement he had received from this fellow, who, in two or
  three instances, had been what the law calls an accessary after the
  fact: for the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were converted
  to the use of the gamekeeper and his family; though, as Jones alone
  was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the
  whole blame; both which fell again to his lot on the following
  occasion.
  
  Contiguous to Mr Allworthy's estate was the manor of one of those
  gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of men,
  from the great severity with which they revenge the death of a hare or
  partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition with
  the Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole
  lives to the preservation and protection of certain animals; was it
  not that our English Bannians, while they preserve them from other
  enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads
  themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such
  heathenish superstition.
  
  I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is
  entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and
  the good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner
  than many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of
  human beings
  
             _Fruges consumere nati,_
  
  “Born to consume the fruits of the earth;” so I make no manner of
  doubt but that there are others
  
            _Feras consumere nati,_
  
  “Born to consume the beasts of the field;” or, as it is commonly
  called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
  squires fulfil this end of their creation.
  
  Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when
  happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that
  manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of Nature, had
  planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew into it, and were
  marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, in some furze bushes,
  about two or three hundred paces beyond Mr Allworthy's dominions.
  
  Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of forfeiting
  his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; no more on
  those who were less rigid in this matter than on the lord of this
  manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders had not been always
  very scrupulously kept; but as the disposition of the gentleman with
  whom the partridges had taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper
  had never yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it
  now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to
  pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being very
  importunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after the sport,
  yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one of the
  partridges.
  
  The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a little
  distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he immediately made
  towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; for the gamekeeper had
  leapt into the thickest part of the furze-brake, where he had happily
  concealed himself.
  
  The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the partridge upon
  him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would acquaint Mr
  Allworthy. He was as good as his word: for he rode immediately to his
  house, and complained of the trespass on his manor in as high terms
  and as bitter language as if his house had been broken open, and the
  most valuable furniture stole out of it. He added, that some other
  person was in his company, though he could not discover him; for that
  two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. And, says he,
  “We have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what mischief
  they have done.”
  
  At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr Allworthy. He
  owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse but what was really true,
  viz., that the covey was originally sprung in Mr Allworthy's own
  manor.
  
  Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr Allworthy
  declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the culprit with the
  circumstance of the two guns, which had been deposed by the squire and
  both his servants; but Tom stoutly persisted in asserting that he was
  alone; yet, to say the truth, he hesitated a little at first, which
  would have confirmed Mr Allworthy's belief, had what the squire and
  his servants said wanted any further confirmation.
  
  The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, and the
  question put to him; but he, relying on the promise which Tom had made
  him, to take all upon himself, very resolutely denied being in company
  with the young gentleman, or indeed having seen him the whole
  afternoon.
  
  Mr Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual anger in
  his countenance, and advised him to confess who was with him;
  repeating, that he was resolved to know. The lad, however, still
  maintained his resolution, and was dismissed with much wrath by Mr
  Allworthy, who told him he should have to the next morning to consider
  of it, when he should be questioned by another person, and in another
  manner.
  
  Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night; and the more so, as he was
  without his usual companion; for Master Blifil was gone abroad on a
  visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment he was to suffer was on
  this occasion his least evil; his chief anxiety being, lest his
  constancy should fail him, and he should be brought to betray the
  gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must now be the consequence.
  
  Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same
  apprehensions with the youth; for whose honour he had likewise a much
  tenderer regard than for his skin.
  
  In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr Thwackum, the person
  to whom Mr Allworthy had committed the instruction of the two boys, he
  had the same questions put to him by that gentleman which he had been
  asked the evening before, to which he returned the same answers. The
  consequence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell
  little short of the torture with which confessions are in some
  countries extorted from criminals.
  
  Tom bore his punishment with great resolution; and though his master
  asked him, between every stroke, whether he would not confess, he was
  contented to be flead rather than betray his friend, or break the
  promise he had made.
  
  The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr Allworthy
  himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for besides that Mr
  Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was not able to make the boy
  say what he himself pleased, had carried his severity much beyond the
  good man's intention, this latter began now to suspect that the squire
  had been mistaken; which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to
  make probable; and as for what the servants had said in confirmation
  of their master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as
  cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr Allworthy could by no
  means support the consciousness a single moment, he sent for Tom, and
  after many kind and friendly exhortations, said, “I am convinced, my
  dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you; I am sorry that you
  have been so severely punished on this account.” And at last gave him
  a little horse to make him amends; again repeating his sorrow for what
  had past.
  
  Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could make it.
  He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than the generosity
  of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell upon his
  knees, crying, “Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you are.
  Indeed I don't deserve it.” And at that very instant, from the fulness
  of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret; but the good genius of
  the gamekeeper suggested to him what might be the consequence to the
  poor fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips.
  
  Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from showing any
  compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, “He had persisted in an
  untruth;” and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably
  bring the matter to light.
  
  But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment. He
  said, the boy had suffered enough already for concealing the truth,
  even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a
  mistaken point of honour for so doing.
  
  “Honour!” cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, “mere stubbornness and
  obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can any honour
  exist independent of religion?”
  
  This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and there
  were present Mr Allworthy, Mr Thwackum, and a third gentleman, who now
  entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any further, we
  shall briefly introduce to our reader's acquaintance.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr Thwackum the
  divine; with a dispute concerning----
  
  
  The name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr
  Allworthy's house, was Mr Square. His natural parts were not of the
  first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education.
  He was deeply read in the antients, and a profest master of all the
  works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had
  principally formed himself; sometimes according with the opinion of
  the one, and sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a
  profest Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
  
  But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on the Platonic
  model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in
  considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a
  speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great
  way; indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only.
  This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one; and
  yet upon the least attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it
  was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some
  contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character.
  
  This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation;
  for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to each other.
  Square held human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that
  vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity
  of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary, maintained that the human mind,
  since the fall, was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and
  redeemed by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all
  their discourses on morality never to mention the word goodness. The
  favourite phrase of the former, was the natural beauty of virtue; that
  of the latter, was the divine power of grace. The former measured all
  actions by the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of
  things; the latter decided all matters by authority; but in doing
  this, he always used the scriptures and their commentators, as the
  lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the comment is of equal
  authority with the text.
  
  After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to remember,
  that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant question,
  to which he had apprehended no answer; viz., Can any honour exist
  independent on religion?
  
  To this Square answered; that it was impossible to discourse
  philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first
  established: that there were scarce any two words of a more vague and
  uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned; for that there
  were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as
  concerning religion. “But,” says he, “if by honour you mean the true
  natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of
  any religion whatever. Nay,” added he, “you yourself will allow it may
  exist independent of all but one: so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all
  the maintainers of all the different sects in the world.”
  
  Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all the
  enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not but that all the
  infidels and hereticks in the world would, if they could, confine
  honour to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions; “but
  honour,” says he, “is not therefore manifold, because there are many
  absurd opinions about it; nor is religion manifold, because there are
  various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I
  mean the Christian religion; and not only the Christian religion, but
  the Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant religion, but the
  Church of England. And when I mention honour, I mean that mode of
  Divine grace which is not only consistent with, but dependent upon,
  this religion; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now
  to say that the honour I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the
  honour I could be supposed to mean, will uphold, much less dictate an
  untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be conceived.”
  
  “I purposely avoided,” says Square, “drawing a conclusion which I
  thought evident from what I have said; but if you perceived it, I am
  sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to drop the article
  of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have said, that we
  have different ideas of honour; or why do we not agree in the same
  terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and true
  virtue are almost synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the
  unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which
  an untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that
  true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think we
  are agreed; but that this honour can be said to be founded on
  religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any
  positive law--”
  
  “I agree,” answered Thwackum, with great warmth, “with a man who
  asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr Allworthy, did I
  agree--?”
  
  He was proceeding when Mr Allworthy interposed, telling them very
  coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said
  nothing of true honour.--It is possible, however, he would not have
  easily quieted the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had not
  another matter now fallen out, which put a final end to the
  conversation at present.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish
  incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise.
  
  
  Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some
  misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead
  them; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men
  who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion.
  
  I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding or
  perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to cast any
  ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and which do,
  indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise him above
  the brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and by how
  much the better man you are yourself, by so much the more will you be
  inclined to believe me), that I would rather have buried the
  sentiments of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have done
  any injury to either of these glorious causes.
  
  On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have taken
  upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false and
  pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous enemy;
  and I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have received
  more real discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest profligates or
  infidels could ever cast upon them: nay, farther, as these two, in
  their purity, are rightly called the bands of civil society, and are
  indeed the greatest of blessings; so when poisoned and corrupted with
  fraud, pretence, and affectation, they have become the worst of civil
  curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate the most cruel mischiefs to
  their own species.
  
  Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed: my
  chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came
  from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken
  together, and I should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the
  reader will be pleased to consider, that, as neither of these men were
  fools, they could not be supposed to have holden none but wrong
  principles, and to have uttered nothing but absurdities; what
  injustice, therefore, must I have done to their characters, had I
  selected only what was bad! And how horribly wretched and maimed must
  their arguments have appeared!
  
  Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of them,
  which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected virtue, and
  Square, religion, in the composition of their several systems, and had
  not both utterly discarded all natural goodness of heart, they had
  never been represented as the objects of derision in this history; in
  which we will now proceed.
  
  This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the last
  chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom
  Jones, the consequence of which had been a bloody nose to the former;
  for though Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in
  size above the other's match, yet Tom was much his superior at the
  noble art of boxing.
  
  Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth; for
  besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his
  roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum being always the second
  of the latter, would have been sufficient to deter him.
  
  But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is
  therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play
  between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard.
  Upon which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition,
  immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we
  have above remembered.
  
  Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the tears
  galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle and the
  tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery,
  and wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom; who in his excuse
  only pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that
  Master Blifil had omitted.
  
  It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped his
  memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had made
  use of no such appellation; adding, “Heaven forbid such naughty words
  should ever come out of his mouth!”
  
  Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the
  words. Upon which Master Blifil said, “It is no wonder. Those who will
  tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master
  such a wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my
  face.”
  
  “What fib, child?” cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.
  
  “Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed
  the partridge; but he knows” (here he burst into a flood of tears),
  “yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the
  gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said--yes you did--deny it if you can,
  that you would not have confest the truth, though master had cut you
  to pieces.”
  
  At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out in
  triumph--“Oh! ho! this is your mistaken notion of honour! This is the
  boy who was not to be whipped again!” But Mr Allworthy, with a more
  gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, and said, “Is this true, child?
  How came you to persist so obstinately in a falsehood?”
  
  Tom said, “He scorned a lie as much as any one: but he thought his
  honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had promised the poor
  fellow to conceal him: which,” he said, “he thought himself farther
  obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the
  gentleman's manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with
  his persuasions.” He said, “This was the whole truth of the matter,
  and he would take his oath of it;” and concluded with very
  passionately begging Mr Allworthy “to have compassion on the poor
  fellow's family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and
  the other had been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did.
  Indeed, sir,” said he, “it could hardly be called a lie that I told;
  for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I
  should have gone alone after the birds; nay, I did go at first, and he
  only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be
  punished; take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor
  George.”
  
  Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the boys,
  advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  The opinions of the divine and the philosopher concerning the two
  boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and other matters.
  
  
  It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been
  communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil preserved
  his companion from a good lashing; for the offence of the bloody nose
  would have been of itself sufficient cause for Thwackum to have
  proceeded to correction; but now this was totally absorbed in the
  consideration of the other matter; and with regard to this, Mr
  Allworthy declared privately, he thought the boy deserved reward
  rather than punishment, so that Thwackum's hand was withheld by a
  general pardon.
  
  Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed against this
  weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked lenity. To
  remit the punishment of such crimes was, he said, to encourage them.
  He enlarged much on the correction of children, and quoted many texts
  from Solomon, and others; which being to be found in so many other
  books, shall not be found here. He then applied himself to the vice of
  lying, on which head he was altogether as learned as he had been on
  the other.
  
  Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the behaviour of
  Tom with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. He owned there was
  something which at first sight appeared like fortitude in the action;
  but as fortitude was a virtue, and falsehood a vice, they could by no
  means agree or unite together. He added, that as this was in some
  measure to confound virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr Thwackum's
  consideration, whether a larger castigation might not be laid on upon
  the account.
  
  As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so were they
  no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To bring truth to
  light, was by the parson asserted to be the duty of every religious
  man; and by the philosopher this was declared to be highly conformable
  with the rule of right, and the eternal and unalterable fitness of
  things.
  
  All this, however, weighed very little with Mr Allworthy. He could not
  be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of Jones. There
  was something within his own breast with which the invincible fidelity
  which that youth had preserved, corresponded much better than it had
  done with the religion of Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. He
  therefore strictly ordered the former of these gentlemen to abstain
  from laying violent hands on Tom for what had past. The pedagogue was
  obliged to obey those orders; but not without great reluctance, and
  frequent mutterings that the boy would be certainly spoiled.
  
  Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more severity. He
  presently summoned that poor fellow before him, and after many bitter
  remonstrances, paid him his wages, and dismist him from his service;
  for Mr Allworthy rightly observed, that there was a great difference
  between being guilty of a falsehood to excuse yourself, and to excuse
  another. He likewise urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible
  severity against this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to
  undergo so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have
  prevented it by making the discovery himself.
  
  When this story became public, many people differed from Square and
  Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads on the occasion.
  Master Blifil was generally called a sneaking rascal, a poor-spirited
  wretch, with other epithets of the like kind; whilst Tom was honoured
  with the appellations of a brave lad, a jolly dog, and an honest
  fellow. Indeed, his behaviour to Black George much ingratiated him
  with all the servants; for though that fellow was before universally
  disliked, yet he was no sooner turned away than he was as universally
  pitied; and the friendship and gallantry of Tom Jones was celebrated
  by them all with the highest applause; and they condemned Master
  Blifil as openly as they durst, without incurring the danger of
  offending his mother. For all this, however, poor Tom smarted in the
  flesh; for though Thwackum had been inhibited to exercise his arm on
  the foregoing account, yet, as the proverb says, It is easy to find a
  stick, &c. So was it easy to find a rod; and, indeed, the not being
  able to find one was the only thing which could have kept Thwackum any
  long time from chastising poor Jones.
  
  Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to the
  pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have had his
  share; but though Mr Allworthy had given him frequent orders to make
  no difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as kind
  and gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, nay even barbarous, to the
  other. To say the truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master's
  affections; partly by the profound respect he always showed his
  person, but much more by the decent reverence with which he received
  his doctrine; for he had got by heart, and frequently repeated, his
  phrases, and maintained all his master's religious principles with a
  zeal which was surprizing in one so young, and which greatly endeared
  him to the worthy preceptor.
  
  Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward tokens
  of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to bow at his
  master's approach; but was altogether as unmindful both of his
  master's precepts and example. He was indeed a thoughtless, giddy
  youth, with little sobriety in his manners, and less in his
  countenance; and would often very impudently and indecently laugh at
  his companion for his serious behaviour.
  
  Mr Square had the same reason for his preference of the former lad;
  for Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned discourses which
  this gentleman would sometimes throw away upon him, than to those of
  Thwackum. He once ventured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at
  another time said, he believed there was no rule in the world capable
  of making such a man as his father (for so Mr Allworthy suffered
  himself to be called).
  
  Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen to
  recommend himself at one and the same time to both these opposites.
  With one he was all religion, with the other he was all virtue. And
  when both were present, he was profoundly silent, which both
  interpreted in his favour and in their own.
  
  Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to their
  faces; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind their backs
  to Allworthy; before whom, when they two were alone, and his uncle
  commended any religious or virtuous sentiment (for many such came
  constantly from him) he seldom failed to ascribe it to the good
  instructions he had received from either Thwackum or Square; for he
  knew his uncle repeated all such compliments to the persons for whose
  use they were meant; and he found by experience the great impressions
  which they made on the philosopher, as well as on the divine: for, to
  say the truth, there is no kind of flattery so irresistible as this,
  at second hand.
  
  The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely grateful
  all those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr Allworthy himself,
  as they so loudly resounded the praise of that singular plan of
  education which he had laid down; for this worthy man having observed
  the imperfect institution of our public schools, and the many vices
  which boys were there liable to learn, had resolved to educate his
  nephew, as well as the other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in
  his own house; where he thought their morals would escape all that
  danger of being corrupted to which they would be unavoidably exposed
  in any public school or university.
  
  Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the tuition of a
  private tutor, Mr Thwackum was recommended to him for that office, by
  a very particular friend, of whose understanding Mr Allworthy had a
  great opinion, and in whose integrity he placed much confidence. This
  Thwackum was fellow of a college, where he almost entirely resided;
  and had a great reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of
  manners. And these were doubtless the qualifications by which Mr
  Allworthy's friend had been induced to recommend him; though indeed
  this friend had some obligations to Thwackum's family, who were the
  most considerable persons in a borough which that gentleman
  represented in parliament.
  
  Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to Allworthy;
  and indeed he perfectly answered the character which had been given of
  him. Upon longer acquaintance, however, and more intimate
  conversation, this worthy man saw infirmities in the tutor, which he
  could have wished him to have been without; though as those seemed
  greatly overbalanced by his good qualities, they did not incline Mr
  Allworthy to part with him: nor would they indeed have justified such
  a proceeding; for the reader is greatly mistaken, if he conceives that
  Thwackum appeared to Mr Allworthy in the same light as he doth to him
  in this history; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines that the
  most intimate acquaintance which he himself could have had with that
  divine, would have informed him of those things which we, from our
  inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of readers who, from
  such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom or penetration of Mr
  Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they make a very bad and
  ungrateful use of that knowledge which we have communicated to them.
  
  These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served greatly to
  palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our good man no
  less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, that the different
  exuberancies of these gentlemen would correct their different
  imperfections; and that from both, especially with his assistance, the
  two lads would derive sufficient precepts of true religion and virtue.
  If the event happened contrary to his expectations, this possibly
  proceeded from some fault in the plan itself; which the reader hath my
  leave to discover, if he can: for we do not pretend to introduce any
  infallible characters into this history; where we hope nothing will be
  found which hath never yet been seen in human nature.
  
  To return therefore: the reader will not, I think, wonder that the
  different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, produced the
  different effects of which he hath already seen some instance; and
  besides this, there was another reason for the conduct of the
  philosopher and the pedagogue; but this being matter of great
  importance, we shall reveal it in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Containing a better reason still for the before-mentioned opinions.
  
  
  It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, who have
  lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of this history, had,
  from their first arrival at Mr Allworthy's house, taken so great an
  affection, the one to his virtue, the other to his religion, that they
  had meditated the closest alliance with him.
  
  For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, whom,
  though we have not for some time made any mention of her, the reader,
  we trust, hath not forgot. Mrs Blifil was indeed the object to which
  they both aspired.
  
  It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have
  commemorated at Mr Allworthy's house, three of them should fix their
  inclinations on a lady who was never greatly celebrated for her
  beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little descended into the vale of
  years; but in reality bosom friends, and intimate acquaintance, have a
  kind of natural propensity to particular females at the house of a
  friend--viz., to his grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt,
  niece, or cousin, when they are rich; and to his wife, sister,
  daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, or servant-maid, if they should be
  handsome.
  
  We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons of such
  characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, would undertake a
  matter of this kind, which hath been a little censured by some rigid
  moralists, before they had thoroughly examined it, and considered
  whether it was (as Shakespear phrases it) “Stuff o' th' conscience,”
   or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that
  to covet your neighbour's sister is nowhere forbidden: and he knew it
  was a rule in the construction of all laws, that “_Expressum facit
  cessare tacitum._” The sense of which is, “When a lawgiver sets down
  plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him mean what
  we please ourselves.” As some instances of women, therefore, are
  mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our neighbour's
  goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be lawful. And
  as to Square, who was in his person what is called a jolly fellow, or
  a widow's man, he easily reconciled his choice to the eternal fitness
  of things.
  
  Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking every
  opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, they apprehended
  one certain method was, by giving her son the constant preference to
  the other lad; and as they conceived the kindness and affection which
  Mr Allworthy showed the latter, must be highly disagreeable to her,
  they doubted not but the laying hold on all occasions to degrade and
  vilify him, would be highly pleasing to her; who, as she hated the
  boy, must love all those who did him any hurt. In this Thwackum had
  the advantage; for while Square could only scarify the poor lad's
  reputation, he could flea his skin; and, indeed, he considered every
  lash he gave him as a compliment paid to his mistress; so that he
  could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old flogging line,
  _“Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod_ AMEM. I chastise thee not
  out of hatred, but out of love.” And this, indeed, he often had in his
  mouth, or rather, according to the old phrase, never more properly
  applied, at his fingers' ends.
  
  For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as we have
  seen above, in their opinion concerning the two lads; this being,
  indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring on any point;
  for, beside the difference of their principles, they had both long ago
  strongly suspected each other's design, and hated one another with no
  little degree of inveteracy.
  
  This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate
  successes; for Mrs Blifil knew what they would be at long before they
  imagined it; or, indeed, intended she should: for they proceeded with
  great caution, lest she should be offended, and acquaint Mr Allworthy.
  But they had no reason for any such fear; she was well enough pleased
  with a passion, of which she intended none should have any fruits but
  herself. And the only fruits she designed for herself were, flattery
  and courtship; for which purpose she soothed them by turns, and a long
  time equally. She was, indeed, rather inclined to favour the parson's
  principles; but Square's person was more agreeable to her eye, for he
  was a comely man; whereas the pedagogue did in countenance very nearly
  resemble that gentleman, who, in the Harlot's Progress, is seen
  correcting the ladies in Bridewell.
  
  Whether Mrs Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of marriage, or
  disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it proceeded, I
  will not determine; but she could never be brought to listen to any
  second proposals. However, she at last conversed with Square with such
  a degree of intimacy that malicious tongues began to whisper things of
  her, to which, as well for the sake of the lady, as that they were
  highly disagreeable to the rule of right and the fitness of things, we
  will give no credit, and therefore shall not blot our paper with them.
  The pedagogue, 'tis certain, whipped on, without getting a step nearer
  to his journey's end.
  
  Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square discovered much
  sooner than himself. Mrs Blifil (as, perhaps, the reader may have
  formerly guessed) was not over and above pleased with the behaviour of
  her husband; nay, to be honest, she absolutely hated him, till his
  death at last a little reconciled him to her affections. It will not
  be therefore greatly wondered at, if she had not the most violent
  regard to the offspring she had by him. And, in fact, she had so
  little of this regard, that in his infancy she seldom saw her son, or
  took any notice of him; and hence she acquiesced, after a little
  reluctance, in all the favours which Mr Allworthy showered on the
  foundling; whom the good man called his own boy, and in all things put
  on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This acquiescence in Mrs
  Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the family, as a mark
  of her condescension to her brother's humour, and she was imagined by
  all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate the foundling in
  her heart; nay, the more civility she showed him, the more they
  conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes she was laying for
  his ruin: for as they thought it her interest to hate him, it was very
  difficult for her to persuade them she did not.
  
  Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had more than
  once slily caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr Allworthy, who was an
  enemy to this exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any
  such orders concerning young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed
  upon Square. In reality, though she certainly hated her own son--of
  which, however monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a
  singular instance--she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward
  compliance, to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the
  favour shown by Mr Allworthy to the foundling. She frequently
  complained of this behind her brother's back, and very sharply
  censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square; nay, she would throw
  it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a little quarrel, or miff,
  as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.
  
  However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry of temper
  which greatly recommends men to women, this disinclination which she
  had discovered to him when a child, by degrees abated, and at last she
  so evidently demonstrated her affection to him to be much stronger
  than what she bore her own son, that it was impossible to mistake her
  any longer. She was so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered
  such satisfaction and delight in his company, that before he was
  eighteen years old he was become a rival to both Square and Thwackum;
  and what is worse, the whole country began to talk as loudly of her
  inclination to Tom, as they had before done of that which she had
  shown to Square: on which account the philosopher conceived the most
  implacable hatred for our poor heroe.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which the author himself makes his appearance on the stage.
  
  
  Though Mr Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things in a
  disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public voice, which
  seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it rings in the ears
  of all the neighbourhood; yet was this affection of Mrs Blifil to Tom,
  and the preference which she too visibly gave him to her own son, of
  the utmost disadvantage to that youth.
  
  For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr Allworthy's mind, that
  nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. To be
  unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if there was no demerit to
  counterpoise it, to turn the scale of that good man's pity, and to
  engage his friendship and his benefaction.
  
  When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely detested
  (for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that account only,
  to look with an eye of compassion upon him; and what the effects of
  compassion are, in good and benevolent minds, I need not here explain
  to most of my readers.
  
  Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth through
  the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the glass inverted,
  so that they became scarce perceptible. And this perhaps the amiable
  temper of pity may make commendable; but the next step the weakness of
  human nature alone must excuse; for he no sooner perceived that
  preference which Mrs Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however
  innocent) began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers. This, it
  is true, would of itself alone never have been able to eradicate Jones
  from his bosom; but it was greatly injurious to him, and prepared Mr
  Allworthy's mind for those impressions which afterwards produced the
  mighty events that will be contained hereafter in this history; and to
  which, it must be confest, the unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness,
  wildness, and want of caution, too much contributed.
  
  In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly understood,
  afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed youths who shall
  hereafter be our readers; for they may here find, that goodness of
  heart, and openness of temper, though these may give them great
  comfort within, and administer to an honest pride in their own minds,
  will by no means, alas! do their business in the world. Prudence and
  circumspection are necessary even to the best of men. They are indeed,
  as it were, a guard to Virtue, without which she can never be safe. It
  is not enough that your designs, nay, that your actions, are
  intrinsically good; you must take care they shall appear so. If your
  inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair outside also.
  This must be constantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care
  to blacken it so, that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will
  not be able to see through it, and to discern the beauties within. Let
  this, my young readers, be your constant maxim, that no man can be
  good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of prudence; nor will
  Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the outward
  ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, my worthy
  disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I hope, find
  sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages.
  
  I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the
  stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am discovering
  the rocks on which innocence and goodness often split, I may not be
  misunderstood to recommend the very means to my worthy readers, by
  which I intend to show them they will be undone. And this, as I could
  not prevail on any of my actors to speak, I myself was obliged to
  declare.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a good-natured
  disposition in Tom Jones.
  
  
  The reader may remember that Mr Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little
  horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which he imagined
  he had suffered innocently.
  
  This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a
  neighbouring fair, and sold him.
  
  At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had done with the
  money for which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would not
  tell him.
  
  “Oho!” says Thwackum, “you will not! then I will have it out of your
  br--h;” that being the place to which he always applied for
  information on every doubtful occasion.
  
  Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and everything prepared
  for execution, when Mr Allworthy, entering the room, gave the criminal
  a reprieve, and took him with him into another apartment; where, being
  alone with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum had
  before asked him.
  
  Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as for that
  tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other answer than with
  a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able to pay him for all his
  barbarities.
  
  Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his indecent and
  disrespectful expressions concerning his master; but much more for his
  avowing an intention of revenge. He threatened him with the entire
  loss of his favour, if he ever heard such another word from his mouth;
  for, he said, he would never support or befriend a reprobate. By these
  and the like declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in
  which that youth was not over-sincere; for he really meditated some
  return for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands of
  the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr Allworthy to express a
  concern for his resentment against Thwackum; and then the good man,
  after some wholesome admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he
  did as follows:--
  
  “Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all the world: I
  know the great obligations I have to you, and should detest myself if
  I thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. Could the little horse
  you gave me speak, I am sure he could tell you how fond I was of your
  present; for I had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him.
  Indeed, sir, it went to my heart to part with him; nor would I have
  sold him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You
  yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the same:
  for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. What would
  you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the occasion of them?
  Indeed, sir, there never was any misery like theirs.”
  
  “Like whose, child?” says Allworthy: “What do you mean?”
  
  “Oh, sir!” answered Tom, “your poor gamekeeper, with all his large
  family, ever since your discarding him, have been perishing with all
  the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not bear to see these poor
  wretches naked and starving, and at the same time know myself to have
  been the occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it, sir;
  upon my soul, I could not.” [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and
  he thus proceeded.] “It was to save them from absolute destruction I
  parted with your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for
  it: I sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the
  money.”
  
  Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before he spoke
  the tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a
  gentle rebuke, advising him for the future to apply to him in cases of
  distress, rather than to use extraordinary means of relieving them
  himself.
  
  This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between Thwackum
  and Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr Allworthy's
  face, who had intended to punish the fellow for his disobedience. He
  said, in some instances, what the world called charity appeared to him
  to be opposing the will of the Almighty, which had marked some
  particular persons for destruction; and that this was in like manner
  acting in opposition to Mr Allworthy; concluding, as usual, with a
  hearty recommendation of birch.
  
  Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps to
  Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr Allworthy, who seemed very much to
  approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged on this occasion, as
  I am convinced most of my readers will be much abler advocates for
  poor Jones, it would be impertinent to relate it. Indeed it was not
  difficult to reconcile to the rule of right an action which it would
  have been impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the comments of
  Thwackum and Square.
  
  
  It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation for
  wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance
  of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have the
  misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected; for here discovery
  seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus it happened to poor Tom;
  who was no sooner pardoned for selling the horse, than he was
  discovered to have some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr
  Allworthy gave him, the money arising from which sale he had disposed
  of in the same manner. This Bible Master Blifil had purchased, though
  he had already such another of his own, partly out of respect for the
  book, and partly out of friendship to Tom, being unwilling that the
  Bible should be sold out of the family at half-price. He therefore
  deposited the said half-price himself; for he was a very prudent lad,
  and so careful of his money, that he had laid up almost every penny
  which he had received from Mr Allworthy.
  
  Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but their
  own. On the contrary, from the time when Master Blifil was first
  possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, he was seen
  reading in it much oftener than he had before been in his own. Now, as
  he frequently asked Thwackum to explain difficult passages to him,
  that gentleman unfortunately took notice of Tom's name, which was
  written in many parts of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which
  obliged Master Blifil to discover the whole matter.
  
  Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called sacrilege,
  should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded immediately to
  castigation: and not contented with that he acquainted Mr Allworthy,
  at their next meeting, with this monstrous crime, as it appeared to
  him: inveighing against Tom in the most bitter terms, and likening him
  to the buyers and sellers who were driven out of the temple.
  
  Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, he could
  not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than in selling
  another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by all laws both
  Divine and human, and consequently there was no unfitness in it. He
  told Thwackum, that his great concern on this occasion brought to his
  mind the story of a very devout woman, who, out of pure regard to
  religion, stole Tillotson's Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance.
  
  This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the parson's
  face, which of itself was none of the palest; and he was going to
  reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs Blifil, who was present
  at this debate, interposed. That lady declared herself absolutely of
  Mr Square's side. She argued, indeed, very learnedly in support of his
  opinion; and concluded with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any
  fault, she must confess her own son appeared to be equally culpable;
  for that she could see no difference between the buyer and the seller;
  both of whom were alike to be driven out of the temple.
  
  Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the debate.
  Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed
  them; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not
  venture at disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation.
  As to Mr Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been already punished
  he would not deliver his sentiments on the occasion; and whether he
  was or was not angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader's own
  conjecture.
  
  Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper by
  Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge was
  killed), for depredations of the like kind. This was a most
  unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself
  threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr Allworthy from
  restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking out one
  evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter slily drew him
  to the habitation of Black George; where the family of that poor
  wretch, namely, his wife and children, were found in all the misery
  with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, can affect human creatures:
  for as to the money they had received from Jones, former debts had
  consumed almost the whole.
  
  Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr
  Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, with
  which he bid her cloath her children. The poor woman burst into tears
  at this goodness, and while she was thanking him, could not refrain
  from expressing her gratitude to Tom; who had, she said, long
  preserved both her and hers from starving. “We have not,” says she,
  “had a morsel to eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put
  on, but what his goodness hath bestowed on us.” For, indeed, besides
  the horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and other
  things, to the use of this distressed family.
  
  On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to display the
  wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of Black George
  himself; and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr Allworthy said, he
  thought the man had suffered enough for what was past; that he would
  forgive him, and think of some means of providing for him and his
  family.
  
  Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was dark when
  they returned home, he could not help going back a mile, in a shower
  of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the glad tidings; but, like
  other hasty divulgers of news, he only brought on himself the trouble
  of contradicting it: for the ill fortune of Black George made use of
  the very opportunity of his friend's absence to overturn all again.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different lights.
  
  
  Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable quality
  of mercy; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much higher kind,
  namely, in justice: in which he followed both the precepts and example
  of Thwackum and Square; for though they would both make frequent use
  of the word mercy, yet it was plain that in reality Square held it to
  be inconsistent with the rule of right; and Thwackum was for doing
  justice, and leaving mercy to heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed
  somewhat differ in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime
  virtue; by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half of
  mankind, and Square the other half.
  
  Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence of
  Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by no
  means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer favours on
  the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately to acquaint him
  with the fact which we have above slightly hinted to the readers. The
  truth of which was as follows:
  
  The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from Mr
  Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selling the horse, being in want
  of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his family, as he
  passed through a field belonging to Mr Western espied a hare sitting
  in her form. This hare he had basely and barbarously knocked on the
  head, against the laws of the land, and no less against the laws of
  sportsmen.
  
  The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately taken many
  months after with a quantity of game upon him, was obliged to make his
  peace with the squire, by becoming evidence against some poacher. And
  now Black George was pitched upon by him, as being a person already
  obnoxious to Mr Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He
  was, besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had
  supplied him with no game since; and by this means the witness had an
  opportunity of screening his better customers: for the squire, being
  charmed with the power of punishing Black George, whom a single
  transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further enquiry.
  
  Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might probably
  have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But there is no zeal
  blinder than that which is inspired with the love of justice against
  offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the distance of the time. He
  varied likewise in the manner of the fact: and by the hasty addition
  of the single letter S he considerably altered the story; for he said
  that George had wired hares. These alterations might probably have
  been set right, had not Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise
  of secrecy from Mr Allworthy before he revealed the matter to him; but
  by that means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without having an
  opportunity to defend himself: for as the fact of killing the hare,
  and of the action brought, were certainly true, Mr Allworthy had no
  doubt concerning the rest.
  
  Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people; for Mr Allworthy
  the next morning declared he had fresh reason, without assigning it,
  for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention George any more:
  though as for his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from
  starving; but as to the fellow himself, he would leave him to the
  laws, which nothing could keep him from breaking.
  
  Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr Allworthy, for of
  Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. However, as his
  friendship was to be tired out by no disappointments, he now
  determined to try another method of preserving the poor gamekeeper
  from ruin.
  
  Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He had so
  greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by leaping over
  five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsmanship, that the squire
  had declared Tom would certainly make a great man if he had but
  sufficient encouragement. He often wished he had himself a son with
  such parts; and one day very solemnly asserted at a drinking bout,
  that Tom should hunt a pack of hounds for a thousand pound of his
  money, with any huntsman in the whole country.
  
  By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with the squire,
  that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite
  companion in his sport: everything which the squire held most dear, to
  wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of
  Jones, as if they had been his own. He resolved therefore to make use
  of this favour on behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped to
  introduce into Mr Western's family, in the same capacity in which he
  had before served Mr Allworthy.
  
  The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already obnoxious to
  Mr Western, and if he considers farther the weighty business by which
  that gentleman's displeasure had been incurred, will perhaps condemn
  this as a foolish and desperate undertaking; but if he should totally
  condemn young Jones on that account, he will greatly applaud him for
  strengthening himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an
  occasion.
  
  For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western's daughter, a young
  lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, next after
  those necessary implements of sport just before mentioned, loved and
  esteemed above all the world. Now, as she had some influence on the
  squire, so Tom had some little influence on her. But this being the
  intended heroine of this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are
  greatly in love, and with whom many of our readers will probably be in
  love too, before we part, it is by no means proper she should make her
  appearance at the end of a book.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK IV.
  
  CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Containing five pages of paper.
  
  
  As truth distinguishes our writings from those idle romances which are
  filled with monsters, the productions, not of nature, but of
  distempered brains; and which have been therefore recommended by an
  eminent critic to the sole use of the pastry-cook; so, on the other
  hand, we would avoid any resemblance to that kind of history which a
  celebrated poet seems to think is no less calculated for the emolument
  of the brewer, as the reading it should be always attended with a
  tankard of good ale--
  
       While--history with her comrade ale,
       Soothes the sad series of her serious tale
  
  For as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps their
  muse, if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who attributes
  inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of their
  readers, since every book ought to be read with the same spirit and in
  the same manner as it is writ. Thus the famous author of Hurlothrumbo
  told a learned bishop, that the reason his lordship could not taste
  the excellence of his piece was, that he did not read it with a fiddle
  in his hand; which instrument he himself had always had in his own,
  when he composed it.
  
  That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being likened to
  the labours of these historians, we have taken every occasion of
  interspersing through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and
  other kind of poetical embellishments. These are, indeed, designed to
  supply the place of the said ale, and to refresh the mind, whenever
  those slumbers, which in a long work are apt to invade the reader as
  well as the writer, shall begin to creep upon him. Without
  interruptions of this kind, the best narrative of plain matter of fact
  must overpower every reader; for nothing but the ever lasting
  watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be
  proof against a newspaper of many volumes.
  
  We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment we have
  chosen the several occasions for inserting those ornamental parts of
  our work. Surely it will be allowed that none could be more proper
  than the present, where we are about to introduce a considerable
  character on the scene; no less, indeed, than the heroine of this
  heroic, historical, prosaic poem. Here, therefore, we have thought
  proper to prepare the mind of the reader for her reception, by filling
  it with every pleasing image which we can draw from the face of
  nature. And for this method we plead many precedents. First, this is
  an art well known to, and much practised by, our tragick poets, who
  seldom fail to prepare their audience for the reception of their
  principal characters.
  
  Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums and
  trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, and to
  accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which Mr Locke's blind
  man would not have grossly erred in likening to the sound of a
  trumpet. Again, when lovers are coming forth, soft music often
  conducts them on the stage, either to soothe the audience with the
  softness of the tender passion, or to lull and prepare them for that
  gentle slumber in which they will most probably be composed by the
  ensuing scene.
  
  And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the managers
  of playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides the aforesaid
  kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe's approach, he is generally
  ushered on the stage by a large troop of half a dozen scene-shifters;
  and how necessary these are imagined to his appearance, may be
  concluded from the following theatrical story:--
  
  King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the theatre,
  when he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, being unwilling to
  quit his shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling to draw on himself the
  indignation of Mr Wilks (his brother-manager) for making the audience
  wait, had bribed these his harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr
  Wilks, therefore, was thundering out, “Where are the carpenters to
  walk on before King Pyrrhus?” that monarch very quietly eat his
  mutton, and the audience, however impatient, were obliged to entertain
  themselves with music in his absence.
  
  To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath
  generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the utility of
  this practice. I am convinced that awful magistrate my lord-mayor
  contracts a good deal of that reverence which attends him through the
  year, by the several pageants which precede his pomp. Nay, I must
  confess, that even I myself, who am not remarkably liable to be
  captivated with show, have yielded not a little to the impressions of
  much preceding state. When I have seen a man strutting in a
  procession, after others whose business was only to walk before him, I
  have conceived a higher notion of his dignity than I have felt on
  seeing him in a common situation. But there is one instance, which
  comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a
  basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, and to strew
  the stage with flowers, before the great personages begin their
  procession. The antients would certainly have invoked the goddess
  Flora for this purpose, and it would have been no difficulty for their
  priests, or politicians to have persuaded the people of the real
  presence of the deity, though a plain mortal had personated her and
  performed her office. But we have no such design of imposing on our
  reader; and therefore those who object to the heathen theology, may,
  if they please, change our goddess into the above-mentioned
  basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine
  with the utmost solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile,
  and all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration of our
  reader.--Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of our male
  readers who have any hearts, to read no farther, were we not well
  assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will
  appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair
  countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to
  answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able to
  raise.
  
  And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a description of
  Miss Sophia Western.
  
  
  Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds
  confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the
  sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus,
  rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those
  delicious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from
  her chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the 1st of June, her
  birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over
  the verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the
  whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with sweets which
  shall ravish her most.
  
  So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of
  nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excell, tune your
  melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your
  music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in
  every swain: for lo! adorned with all the charms in which nature can
  array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence,
  modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and
  darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes!
  
  Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the _Venus de Medicis_.
  Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court.
  Thou may'st remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all the
  toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at
  least thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of
  the present age; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they
  would fill the whole volume.
  
  Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer
  which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things. No.
  If thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou hast
  no eyes; if without feeling its power, thou hast no heart.
  
  Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all these
  without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for she did not
  exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of Lady
  Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous dutchess of
  Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one whose image never can
  depart from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast
  then, my friend, an adequate idea of Sophia.
  
  But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour with
  our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible that
  our highest abilities are very inadequate to the task.
  
  Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a middle-sized
  woman; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but
  extremely delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the
  truest symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so
  luxuriant, that it reached her middle, before she cut it to comply
  with the modern fashion; and it was now curled so gracefully in her
  neck, that few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find any
  part of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest, it
  might possibly think her forehead might have been higher without
  prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched beyond the
  power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre in them, which
  all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly regular,
  and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir
  John Suckling's description in those lines:--
  
        Her lips were red, and one was thin,
        Compar'd to that was next her chin.
           Some bee had stung it newly.
  
  Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a dimple,
  which the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in
  forming the beauty of her face; but it was difficult to say it was
  either large or small, though perhaps it was rather of the former
  kind. Her complexion had rather more of the lily than of the rose; but
  when exercise or modesty increased her natural colour, no vermilion
  could equal it. Then one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr
  Donne:
  
       --Her pure and eloquent blood
       Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
       That one might almost say her body thought.
  
  Her neck was long and finely turned: and here, if I was not afraid of
  offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest beauties of
  the famous _Venus de Medicis_ were outdone. Here was whiteness which
  no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. The finest cambric might
  indeed be supposed from envy to cover that bosom which was much whiter
  than itself.--It was indeed,
  
       _Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius_.
  
       A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble.
  
  Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame disgraced
  by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way equal to her
  person; nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the former; for when
  she smiled, the sweetness of her temper diffused that glory over her
  countenance which no regularity of features can give. But as there are
  no perfections of the mind which do not discover themselves in that
  perfect intimacy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this
  charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them here: nay,
  it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's understanding, and may
  also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in forming his own
  judgment of her character.
  
  It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental
  accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat
  improved and cultivated by art: for she had been educated under the
  care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was
  thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth about
  the court, whence she had retired some years since into the country.
  By her conversation and instructions, Sophia was perfectly well bred,
  though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in her behaviour which
  is to be acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the
  polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too dearly
  purchased; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that the
  French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when
  they declare they know not what it is; yet its absence is well
  compensated by innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility
  ever stand in need of it.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling incident that
  happened some years since; but which, trifling as it was, had some
  future consequences.
  
  
  The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is
  introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was
  fonder of her than of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom
  Jones applied, in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his
  friend the gamekeeper.
  
  But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of some
  previous matters may be necessary.
  
  Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr Western did not
  admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet they lived upon what is
  called a decent footing together; by which means the young people of
  both families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as they were
  all near of the same age, had been frequent playmates together.
  
  The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave
  and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she
  gave the former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of
  a more passionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some
  displeasure at it.
  
  As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would
  be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his
  mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of
  their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to
  discover their poverty and meanness to the world.
  
  However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of
  offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an
  action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of
  Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from a much better
  principle.
  
  Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird,
  which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing.
  
  Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so extremely
  fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and her chief
  pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for so the bird
  was called, was become so tame, that it would feed out of the hand of
  its mistress, would perch upon the finger, and lie contented in her
  bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its own happiness; though
  she always kept a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it
  with the liberty of flying away.
  
  One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr Western's,
  Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia, and observing
  the extreme fondness that she showed for her little bird, desired her
  to trust it for a moment in his hands. Sophia presently complied with
  the young gentleman's request, and after some previous caution,
  delivered him her bird; of which he was no sooner in possession, than
  he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into the air.
  
  The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than
  forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew
  directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance.
  
  Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom Jones,
  who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her assistance.
  
  He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed Blifil
  for a pitiful malicious rascal; and then immediately stripping off his
  coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to which the bird
  escaped.
  
  Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on which
  it was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the poor lad
  plumped over head and ears into the water.
  
  Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended the
  boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than before;
  and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the
  vociferation in his power.
  
  The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were
  instantly alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they reached the
  canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part)
  arrived safely on shore.
  
  Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and shivering
  before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to have patience; and
  turning to Master Blifil, said, “Pray, child, what is the reason of
  all this disturbance?”
  
  Master Blifil answered, “Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I
  have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. I had Miss
  Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished
  for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired; for
  I always thought there was something very cruel in confining anything.
  It seemed to be against the law of nature, by which everything hath a
  right to liberty; nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing
  what we would be done by; but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have
  been so much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it;
  nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird itself: for
  when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it, fell into the
  water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty hawk
  carried it away.”
  
  Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate (for her
  concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when it happened),
  shed a shower of tears. These Mr Allworthy endeavoured to assuage,
  promising her a much finer bird: but she declared she would never have
  another. Her father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but
  could not help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his
  backside should be well flead.
  
  Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were sent
  home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle; where a
  conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that we
  think it deserves a chapter by itself.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some readers,
  perhaps, may not relish it.
  
  
  Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to
  Allworthy, he thus began: “Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on
  your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of
  sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right
  from wrong. To confine anything, seems to me against the law of
  nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty. These were his
  words; and the impression they have made on me is never to be
  eradicated. Can any man have a higher notion of the rule of right, and
  the eternal fitness of things? I cannot help promising myself, from
  such a dawn, that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that of
  either the elder or the younger Brutus.”
  
  Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine, and
  swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, “From another
  expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better men.
  The law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I know
  not of any such law, nor of any right which can be derived from it. To
  do as we would be done by, is indeed a Christian motive, as the boy
  well expressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have
  borne such good fruit.”
  
  “If vanity was a thing fit,” says Square, “I might indulge some on the
  same occasion; for whence only he can have learnt his notions of right
  or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law of nature,
  there is no right nor wrong.”
  
  “How!” says the parson, “do you then banish revelation? Am I talking
  with a deist or an atheist?”
  
  “Drink about,” says Western. “Pox of your laws of nature! I don't know
  what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To take away my
  girl's bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour Allworthy may
  do as he pleases; but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed
  them up to the gallows.”
  
  Allworthy answered, “That he was sorry for what his nephew had done,
  but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a
  generous than unworthy motive.” He said, “If the boy had stolen the
  bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe
  chastisement than himself; but it was plain that was not his design:”
   and, indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no other
  view but what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose
  which Sophia suspected, it never once entered into the head of Mr
  Allworthy.) He at length concluded with again blaming the action as
  inconsiderate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child.
  
  Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was now silent,
  he must submit to have his judgment censured. He said, therefore, with
  some warmth, “That Mr Allworthy had too much respect to the dirty
  consideration of property. That in passing our judgments on great and
  mighty actions, all private regards should be laid aside; for by
  adhering to those narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned
  of ingratitude, and the elder of parricide.”
  
  “And if they had been hanged too for those crimes,” cried Thwackum,
  “they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple of
  heathenish villains! Heaven be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days!
  I wish, Mr Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my
  pupils with such antichristian stuff; for the consequence must be,
  while they are under my care, its being well scourged out of them
  again. There is your disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard
  him the other day disputing with Master Blifil that there was no merit
  in faith without works. I know that is one of your tenets, and I
  suppose he had it from you.”
  
  “Don't accuse me of spoiling him,” says Square. “Who taught him to
  laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right in the
  nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No, no,
  Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad's notions of moral
  rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate.”
  
  Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, “Ay, ay, I
  will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all your
  philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil such
  principles into him--”
  
  “And I have instilled principles into him too,” cries Square. “What
  but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with the
  generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again, if it
  was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of having
  infused that idea.”--
  
  “And if pride was not forbidden,” said Thwackum, “I might boast of
  having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as his motive.”
  
  “So between you both,” says the squire, “the young gentleman hath been
  taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must take care of my
  partridge-mew. I shall have some virtuous religious man or other set
  all my partridges at liberty.” Then slapping a gentleman of the law,
  who was present, on the back, he cried out, “What say you to this, Mr
  Counsellor? Is not this against law?”
  
  The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:--
  
  “If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an
  action would lie; for though this be _ferae naturae_, yet being
  reclaimed, property vests: but being the case of a singing bird,
  though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be
  considered as _nullius in bonis_. In this case, therefore, I conceive
  the plaintiff must be non-suited; and I should disadvise the bringing
  any such action.”
  
  “Well,” says the squire, “if it be _nullus bonus_, let us drink about,
  and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some such discourse
  that we all understand; for I am sure I don't understand a word of
  this. It may be learning and sense for aught I know: but you shall
  never persuade me into it. Pox! you have neither of you mentioned a
  word of that poor lad who deserves to be commended: to venture
  breaking his neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action: I
  have learning enough to see that. D--n me, here's Tom's health! I
  shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to live.”
  
  Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon
  resumed, had not Mr Allworthy presently called for his coach, and
  carried off the two combatants.
  
  Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the
  dialogue occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our
  reader, though it happened some years before that stage or period of
  time at which our history is now arrived.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
  
  
  “Parva leves capiunt animos--Small things affect light minds,” was the
  sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And certain it is,
  that from this day Sophia began to have some little kindness for Tom
  Jones, and no little aversion for his companion.
  
  Many accidents from time to time improved both these passions in her
  breast; which, without our recounting, the reader may well conclude,
  from what we have before hinted of the different tempers of these
  lads, and how much the one suited with her own inclinations more than
  the other. To say the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned that
  Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody's enemy
  but his own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober
  young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached to the
  interest only of one single person; and who that single person was the
  reader will be able to divine without any assistance of ours.
  
  These two characters are not always received in the world with the
  different regard which seems severally due to either; and which one
  would imagine mankind, from self-interest, should show towards them.
  But perhaps there may be a political reason for it: in finding one of
  a truly benevolent disposition, men may very reasonably suppose they
  have found a treasure, and be desirous of keeping it, like all other
  good things, to themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to trumpet
  forth the praises of such a person, would, in the vulgar phrase, be
  crying Roast-meat, and calling in partakers of what they intend to
  apply solely to their own use. If this reason does not satisfy the
  reader, I know no other means of accounting for the little respect
  which I have commonly seen paid to a character which really does great
  honour to human nature, and is productive of the highest good to
  society. But it was otherwise with Sophia. She honoured Tom Jones, and
  scorned Master Blifil, almost as soon as she knew the meaning of those
  two words.
  
  Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her aunt; during
  all which time she had seldom seen either of these young gentlemen.
  She dined, however, once, together with her aunt, at Mr Allworthy's.
  This was a few days after the adventure of the partridge, before
  commemorated. Sophia heard the whole story at table, where she said
  nothing: nor indeed could her aunt get many words from her as she
  returned home; but her maid, when undressing her, happening to say,
  “Well, miss, I suppose you have seen young Master Blifil to-day?” she
  answered with much passion, “I hate the name of Master Blifil, as I do
  whatever is base and treacherous: and I wonder Mr Allworthy would
  suffer that old barbarous schoolmaster to punish a poor boy so cruelly
  for what was only the effect of his good-nature.” She then recounted
  the story to her maid, and concluded with saying, “Don't you think he
  is a boy of noble spirit?”
  
  This young lady was now returned to her father; who gave her the
  command of his house, and placed her at the upper end of his table,
  where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was become a great
  favourite of the squire) often dined. Young men of open, generous
  dispositions are naturally inclined to gallantry, which, if they have
  good understandings, as was in reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an
  obliging complacent behaviour to all women in general. This greatly
  distinguished Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country
  squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat sullen
  deportment of Master Blifil on the other; and he began now, at twenty,
  to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the women in the
  neighbourhood.
  
  Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps by showing
  her a higher respect than he paid to any other. This distinction her
  beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, seemed to demand; but as
  to design upon her person he had none; for which we shall at present
  suffer the reader to condemn him of stupidity; but perhaps we shall be
  able indifferently well to account for it hereafter.
  
  Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, had a
  remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so greatly increased
  whenever she was in company with Tom, that had he not been very young
  and thoughtless, he must have observed it: or had not Mr Western's
  thoughts been generally either in the field, the stable, or the
  dog-kennel, it might have perhaps created some jealousy in him: but so
  far was the good gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions, that
  he gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover could
  have wished; and this Tom innocently improved to better advantage, by
  following only the dictates of his natural gallantry and good-nature,
  than he might perhaps have done had he had the deepest designs on the
  young lady.
  
  But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter escaped the
  observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never remarked it;
  and her heart was irretrievably lost before she suspected it was in
  danger.
  
  Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, finding
  Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious face,
  to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her which he hoped her
  goodness would comply with.
  
  Though neither the young man's behaviour, nor indeed his manner of
  opening this business, were such as could give her any just cause of
  suspecting he intended to make love to her; yet whether Nature
  whispered something into her ear, or from what cause it arose I will
  not determine; certain it is, some idea of that kind must have
  intruded itself; for her colour forsook her cheeks, her limbs
  trembled, and her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an
  answer; but he soon relieved her from her perplexity, by proceeding to
  inform her of his request; which was to solicit her interest on behalf
  of the gamekeeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must
  be, he said, the consequence of Mr Western's pursuing his action
  against him.
  
  Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile full of
  sweetness, said, “Is this the mighty favour you asked with so much
  gravity? I will do it with all my heart. I really pity the poor
  fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a small matter to his
  wife.” This small matter was one of her gowns, some linen, and ten
  shillings in money, of which Tom had heard, and it had, in reality,
  put this solicitation into his head.
  
  Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push the
  matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recommendation of him to
  her father's service; protesting that he thought him one of the
  honestest fellows in the country, and extremely well qualified for the
  place of a gamekeeper, which luckily then happened to be vacant.
  
  Sophia answered, “Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot
  promise you as much success as in the former part, which I assure you
  I will not quit my father without obtaining. However, I will do what I
  can for the poor fellow; for I sincerely look upon him and his family
  as objects of great compassion. And now, Mr Jones, I must ask you a
  favour.”
  
  “A favour, madam!” cries Tom: “if you knew the pleasure you have given
  me in the hopes of receiving a command from you, you would think by
  mentioning it you did confer the greatest favour on me; for by this
  dear hand I would sacrifice my life to oblige you.”
  
  He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the first
  time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which before had
  forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, by rushing all
  over her face and neck with such violence, that they became all of a
  scarlet colour. She now first felt a sensation to which she had been
  before a stranger, and which, when she had leisure to reflect on it,
  began to acquaint her with some secrets, which the reader, if he doth
  not already guess them, will know in due time.
  
  Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly), informed
  him that the favour she had to desire of him was, not to lead her
  father through so many dangers in hunting; for that, from what she had
  heard, she was terribly frightened every time they went out together,
  and expected some day or other to see her father brought home with
  broken limbs. She therefore begged him, for her sake, to be more
  cautious; and as he well knew Mr Western would follow him, not to ride
  so madly, nor to take those dangerous leaps for the future.
  
  Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after thanking her
  for her kind compliance with his request, took his leave, and departed
  highly charmed with his success.
  
  Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. Her
  sensations, however, the reader's heart (if he or she have any) will
  better represent than I can, if I had as many mouths as ever poet
  wished for, to eat, I suppose, those many dainties with which he was
  so plentifully provided.
  
  It was Mr Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he was drunk,
  to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for he was a great lover
  of music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, might have passed for a
  connoisseur; for he always excepted against the finest compositions of
  Mr Handel. He never relished any music but what was light and airy;
  and indeed his most favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St
  George he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others.
  
  His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and would
  never willingly have played any but Handel's, was so devoted to her
  father's pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes to oblige him.
  However, she would now and then endeavour to lead him into her own
  taste; and when he required the repetition of his ballads, would
  answer with a “Nay, dear sir;” and would often beg him to suffer her
  to play something else.
  
  This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from his bottle,
  she played all his favourites three times over without any
  solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he started from
  his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her hand was greatly
  improved. She took this opportunity to execute her promise to Tom; in
  which she succeeded so well, that the squire declared, if she would
  give him t'other bout of Old Sir Simon, he would give the gamekeeper
  his deputation the next morning. Sir Simon was played again and again,
  till the charms of the music soothed Mr Western to sleep. In the
  morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement; and his
  attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any further
  proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputation.
  
  Tom's success in this affair soon began to ring over the country, and
  various were the censures passed upon it; some greatly applauding it
  as an act of good nature; others sneering, and saying, “No wonder that
  one idle fellow should love another.” Young Blifil was greatly enraged
  at it. He had long hated Black George in the same proportion as Jones
  delighted in him; not from any offence which he had ever received, but
  from his great love to religion and virtue;--for Black George had the
  reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. Blifil therefore represented
  this as flying in Mr Allworthy's face; and declared, with great
  concern, that it was impossible to find any other motive for doing
  good to such a wretch.
  
  Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. They were now
  (especially the latter) become greatly jealous of young Jones with the
  widow; for he now approached the age of twenty, was really a fine
  young fellow, and that lady, by her encouragements to him, seemed
  daily more and more to think him so.
  
  Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He declared
  himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said the
  perseverance and integrity of his friendship was highly commendable,
  and he wished he could see more frequent instances of that virtue.
  
  But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my friend Tom,
  perhaps because they do not pay more ardent addresses to her, gave now
  a very different turn to all his actions, and showed them to Mr
  Allworthy in a light far less agreeable than that gentleman's goodness
  had hitherto seen them in.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the charms of the
  lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree,
  lower his character in the estimation of those men of wit and
  gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies.
  
  
  There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already
  conceived some contempt for my heroe, on account of his behaviour to
  Sophia. The former of these will blame his prudence in neglecting an
  opportunity to possess himself of Mr Western's fortune; and the latter
  will no less despise him for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who
  seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to receive
  her.
  
  Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of
  either of these charges (for want of prudence admits of no excuse; and
  what I shall produce against the latter charge will, I apprehend, be
  scarce satisfactory); yet, as evidence may sometimes be offered in
  mitigation, I shall set forth the plain matter of fact, and leave the
  whole to the reader's determination.
  
  Mr Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers are not
  thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly inhabit some human
  breasts; whose use is not so properly to distinguish right from wrong,
  as to prompt and incite them to the former, and to restrain and
  withhold them from the latter.
  
  This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in the
  playhouse; for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth what
  is right, no ravished or friendly spectator is so eager or so loud in
  his applause: on the contrary, when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt
  to hiss and explode him.
  
  To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more
  familiar to the present age; it may be considered as sitting on its
  throne in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in
  his court; where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and
  condemns according to merit and justice, with a knowledge which
  nothing escapes, a penetration which nothing can deceive, and an
  integrity which nothing can corrupt.
  
  This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most
  essential barrier between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if
  there be some in the human shape who are not under any such dominion,
  I choose rather to consider them as deserters from us to our
  neighbours; among whom they will have the fate of deserters, and not
  be placed in the first rank.
  
  Our heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not
  determine, was very strongly under the guidance of this principle; for
  though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise
  without feeling and suffering for it. It was this which taught him,
  that to repay the civilities and little friendships of hospitality by
  robbing the house where you have received them, is to be the basest
  and meanest of thieves. He did not think the baseness of this offence
  lessened by the height of the injury committed; on the contrary, if to
  steal another's plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him
  difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing a man of his
  whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain.
  
  This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of making
  his fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, is an active
  principle, and doth not content itself with knowledge or belief only).
  Had he been greatly enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have
  thought otherwise; but give me leave to say, there is great difference
  between running away with a man's daughter from the motive of love,
  and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.
  
  Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of
  Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other
  qualifications, she had made, however, no deep impression on his
  heart; for which, as it renders him liable to the charge of stupidity,
  or at least of want of taste, we shall now proceed to account.
  
  The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman.
  Here I question not but the reader will be surprized at our long
  taciturnity as to this matter; and quite at a loss to divine who this
  woman was, since we have hitherto not dropt a hint of any one likely
  to be a rival to Sophia; for as to Mrs Blifil, though we have been
  obliged to mention some suspicions of her affection for Tom, we have
  not hitherto given the least latitude for imagining that he had any
  for her; and, indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of both
  sexes are too apt to be deficient in their gratitude for that regard
  with which persons more advanced in years are sometimes so kind to
  honour them.
  
  That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to
  remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim
  (commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at
  present of a wife and five children.
  
  The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and
  who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.
  
  Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar
  souls cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags hide this something from
  those souls which are not of the vulgar stamp.
  
  The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till she
  grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three years
  older, began first to cast the eyes of affection upon her. And this
  affection he had fixed on the girl long before he could bring himself
  to attempt the possession of her person: for though his constitution
  urged him greatly to this, his principles no less forcibly restrained
  him. To debauch a young woman, however low her condition was, appeared
  to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he bore the father,
  with the compassion he had for his family, very strongly corroborated
  all such sober reflections; so that he once resolved to get the better
  of his inclinations, and he actually abstained three whole months
  without ever going to Seagrim's house, or seeing his daughter.
  
  Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very fine
  girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the most
  amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of feminine in it, and would
  have become a man at least as well as a woman; for, to say the truth,
  youth and florid health had a very considerable share in the
  composition.
  
  Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and
  robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had she of modesty,
  that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as
  most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she
  perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward;
  and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means
  of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the
  youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her
  endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over
  all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last
  with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the
  triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.
  
  In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part,
  that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered
  the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his
  passion. He likewise imputed her yielding to the ungovernable force of
  her love towards him; and this the reader will allow to have been a
  very natural and probable supposition, as we have more than once
  mentioned the uncommon comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was
  one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
  
  As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil's, are
  solely placed on one single person, whose interest and indulgence
  alone they consider on every occasion; regarding the good and ill of
  all others as merely indifferent, any farther than as they contribute
  to the pleasure or advantage of that person: so there is a different
  temper of mind which borrows a degree of virtue even from self-love.
  Such can never receive any kind of satisfaction from another, without
  loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without
  making its well-being in some sort necessary to their own ease.
  
  Of this latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl as
  one whose happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on
  himself. Her beauty was still the object of desire, though greater
  beauty, or a fresher object, might have been more so; but the little
  abatement which fruition had occasioned to this was highly
  overbalanced by the considerations of the affection which she visibly
  bore him, and of the situation into which he had brought her. The
  former of these created gratitude, the latter compassion; and both,
  together with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion which
  might, without any great violence to the word, be called love; though,
  perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed.
  
  This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had
  shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might
  have been reasonably enough interpreted as an encouragement to his
  addresses; for as he could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and
  destitute as she was, so no more could he entertain a notion of
  betraying such a creature as Sophia. And surely, had he given the
  least encouragement to any passion for that young lady, he must have
  been absolutely guilty of one or other of those crimes; either of
  which would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that
  fate, which, at his first introduction into this history, I mentioned
  to have been generally predicted as his certain destiny.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Being the shortest chapter in this book.
  
  
  Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and
  in order to hide it from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in
  that sack which Sophia had sent her; though, indeed, that young lady
  had little apprehension that the poor woman would have been weak
  enough to let any of her daughters wear it in that form.
  
  Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing
  her beauty to advantage; for though she could very well bear to
  contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed in rags; and
  though she had in that dress conquered the heart of Jones, and perhaps
  of some others; yet she thought the addition of finery would much
  improve her charms, and extend her conquests.
  
  Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a new
  laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs
  to church with her fan in her hand the very next Sunday. The great are
  deceived if they imagine they have appropriated ambition and vanity to
  themselves. These noble qualities flourish as notably in a country
  church and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the closet.
  Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly
  disgrace the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition.
  Here are plots and circumventions, parties and factions, equal to
  those which are to be found in courts.
  
  Nor are the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts
  than their fair superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes and
  coquettes. Here are dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy, malice,
  scandal; in short, everything which is common to the most splendid
  assembly, or politest circle. Let those of high life, therefore, no
  longer despise the ignorance of their inferiors; nor the vulgar any
  longer rail at the vices of their betters.
  
  Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her
  neighbours. And then a whisper ran through the whole congregation,
  “Who is she?” but when she was discovered, such sneering, gigling,
  tittering, and laughing ensued among the women, that Mr Allworthy was
  obliged to exert his authority to preserve any decency among them.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and which none but
  the classical reader can taste.
  
  
  Mr Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at
  little greater distance from this church than from his own, he very
  often came to Divine Service here; and both he and the charming Sophia
  happened to be present at this time.
  
  Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied
  for her simplicity in having dressed herself in that manner, as she
  saw the envy which it had occasioned among her equals. She no sooner
  came home than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring
  his daughter to her; saying she would provide for her in the family,
  and might possibly place the girl about her own person, when her own
  maid, who was now going away, had left her.
  
  Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the
  fault in the shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering
  voice, “That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to wait on her
  ladyship, as she had never been at service.” “No matter for that,”
   says Sophia; “she will soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and
  am resolved to try her.”
  
  Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he
  depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came
  thither he found his house in some confusion. So great envy had this
  sack occasioned, that when Mr Allworthy and the other gentry were gone
  from church, the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an
  uproar; and, having vented itself at first in opprobrious words,
  laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile
  weapons; which, though from their plastic nature they threatened
  neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently
  dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear
  this treatment tamely. Having therefore--but hold, as we are diffident
  of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power to our
  assistance.
  
  Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and
  principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those
  fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with
  thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are
  not in the power of all.
  
  As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are
  milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery
  which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the
  Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls,
  screams, and other different sounds as there were persons, or indeed
  passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others alarmed by
  fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but
  chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed
  among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no sooner came
  up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
  
  Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced
  about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of
  the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army of
  the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their
  general, gave back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for
  the churchyard was the field of battle, where there was to be a
  funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up
  a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged it with such
  fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, the two skulls sent
  equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the taylor took
  presently measure of his length on the ground, where the skulls lay
  side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more valuable of the
  two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the
  flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either
  side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty heroe and heroine.
  
  Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First,
  Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the
  pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished, where he first
  learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and
  fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green
  they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling
  and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He
  thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the
  sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine,
  and immediately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and
  fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at
  the same time from his pocket, which Molly took up as lawful spoils.
  Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tombstone, which
  catching hold of her ungartered stocking inverted the order of nature,
  and gave her heels the superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with
  young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground; where, oh perverse
  fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith's
  son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and
  made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked
  down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms
  in the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the
  daughter of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch,
  Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose
  father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler,
  and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves.
  
  Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of
  them in their flight overthrew each other.
  
  But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had
  inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was the right
  side, hastily turned about: for now Goody Brown--whom Zekiel Brown
  caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so
  famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of
  Mars. The trophies of both these her husband always bore about on his
  head and face; for if ever human head did by its horns display the
  amorous glories of a wife, Zekiel's did; nor did his well-scratched
  face less denote her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind.
  
  No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopt
  short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: “Ye
  Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not
  ashamed thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose
  her, I myself and Joan Top here will have the honour of the victory.”
   Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the
  thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from
  her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand,
  she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that the
  blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was not idle this
  while. She soon removed the clout from the head of Goody Brown, and
  then fastening on her hair with one hand, with the other she caused
  another bloody stream to issue forth from the nostrils of the enemy.
  
  When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair
  from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was against the
  garments. In this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very
  few minutes they were both naked to the middle.
  
  It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not the
  same with them as among men; but though they may seem a little to
  deviate from their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have
  observed, they never so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each
  other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of them. This, I know,
  some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination than the
  males. On which account they apply to the nose, as to the part whence
  blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as well
  as ill-natured supposition.
  
  Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the
  former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as
  well in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an
  antient piece of parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a
  considerable while without doing her any great damage.
  
  Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently formed in
  those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to
  give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this
  instant put an immediate end to the bloody scene.
  
  This accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, Master Blifil,
  and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the air,
  and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his
  mind (not idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon as we
  have leisure), desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another
  way than they had at first purposed. This motion being complied with,
  brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard.
  
  Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and two
  women in the posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his horse
  to enquire what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head,
  answered him: “I don't know, measter, un't I; an't please your honour,
  here hath been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll
  Seagrim.”
  
  “Who, who?” cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer, having
  discovered the features of his Molly through all the discomposure in
  which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and,
  leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into tears,
  told him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting
  the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his rage--for, in
  reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, which he
  might not observe--he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip; and
  then flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his
  blows so profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the
  muse (which the good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon
  her, as she hath so lately been violently sweated), it would be
  impossible for me to recount the horse-whipping of that day.
  
  Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer's
  heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world
  could have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition
  which must give both me and my reader pain, was it to be described
  here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped
  on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been
  concerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round her, put
  his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face as well as he
  could with his handkerchief, and called out to the servant to ride as
  fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion, that he might carry
  her safe home.
  
  Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had
  only one with them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones, he was
  obliged to comply.
  
  The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and Molly,
  having collected her rags as well as she could, was placed behind him.
  In which manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones
  attending.
  
  Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and
  whispered her, that he would return in the evening, quitted his Molly,
  and rode on after his companions.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
  
  
  Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags, than
  her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particularly her eldest
  sister, who told her she was well enough served. “How had she the
  assurance to wear a gown which young Madam Western had given to
  mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think,” says she, “I myself
  have the best right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your
  beauty. I suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of
  us.”--“Hand her down the bit of glass from over the cupboard,” cries
  another; “I'd wash the blood from my face before I talked of my
  beauty.”--“You'd better have minded what the parson says,” cries the
  eldest, “and not a harkened after men voke.”--“Indeed, child, and so
  she had,” says the mother, sobbing: “she hath brought a disgrace upon
  us all. She's the vurst of the vamily that ever was a whore.”
  
  “You need not upbraid me with that, mother,” cries Molly; “you
  yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you
  was married.”
  
  “Yes, hussy,” answered the enraged mother, “so I was, and what was the
  mighty matter of that? I was made an honest woman then; and if you was
  to be made an honest woman, I should not be angry; but you must have
  to doing with a gentleman, you nasty slut; you will have a bastard,
  hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say of me.”
  
  In this situation Black George found his family, when he came home for
  the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were all
  of them talking together, and most of them crying, it was some time
  before he could get an opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such
  an interval occurred, he acquainted the company with what Sophia had
  said to him.
  
  Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. “Here,” says
  she, “you have brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What will madam
  say to that big belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this day!”
  
  Molly answered with great spirit, “And what is this mighty place which
  you have got for me, father?” (for he had not well understood the
  phrase used by Sophia of being about her person). “I suppose it is to
  be under the cook; but I shan't wash dishes for anybody. My gentleman
  will provide better for me. See what he hath given me this afternoon.
  He hath promised I shall never want money; and you shan't want money
  neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know when you are
  well.” And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her
  mother one of them.
  
  The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her
  temper began (such is the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified.
  “Why, husband,” says she, “would any but such a blockhead as you not
  have enquired what place this was before he had accepted it? Perhaps,
  as Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I don't care my
  daughter should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a
  gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a
  clergyman, died worse than nothing, and so could not give me a
  shilling of _potion_, to undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet
  I would have you to know, I have a spirit above all them things. Marry
  come up! it would better become Madam Western to look at home, and
  remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my family, for aught I
  know, might ride in their coaches, when the grandfathers of some voke
  walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter, when she
  sent us that old gownd; some of my family would not have picked up
  such rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled
  upon.--The parish need not have been in such a fluster with Molly. You
  might have told them, child, your grandmother wore better things new
  out of the shop.”
  
  “Well, but consider,” cried George, “what answer shall I make to
  madam?”
  
  “I don't know what answer,” says she; “you are always bringing your
  family into one quandary or other. Do you remember when you shot the
  partridge, the occasion of all our misfortunes? Did not I advise you
  never to go into Squire Western's manor? Did not I tell you many a
  good year ago what would come of it? But you would have your own
  headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain.”
  
  Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and nothing
  choleric nor rash; yet did he bear about him something of what the
  antients called the irascible, and which his wife, if she had been
  endowed with much wisdom, would have feared. He had long experienced,
  that when the storm grew very high, arguments were but wind, which
  served rather to increase, than to abate it. He was therefore seldom
  unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, as he had
  often essayed, and which the word villain served as a hint for his
  applying.
  
  No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had immediate
  recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is usual in all very
  efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to heighten and inflame the
  disease, soon produced a total calm, and restored the patient to
  perfect ease and tranquillity.
  
  This is, however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very
  robust constitution to digest, and is therefore proper only for the
  vulgar, unless in one single instance, viz., where superiority of
  birth breaks out; in which case, we should not think it very
  improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the application was not
  in itself so base, that, like certain applications of the physical
  kind which need not be mentioned, it so much degrades and contaminates
  the hand employed in it, that no gentleman should endure the thought
  of anything so low and detestable.
  
  The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet; for
  the virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is often
  communicated through one person to many others, who are not touched by
  the instrument. To say the truth, as they both operate by friction, it
  may be doubted whether there is not something analogous between them,
  of which Mr Freke would do well to enquire, before he publishes the
  next edition of his book.
  
  A council was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly still
  persisting that she would not go to service, it was at length
  resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western, and
  endeavour to procure the place for her eldest daughter, who declared
  great readiness to accept it: but Fortune, who seems to have been an
  enemy of this little family, afterwards put a stop to her promotion.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of Squire
  Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it made by
  her.
  
  
  The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western, and was at his
  return invited by that gentleman to dinner.
  
  The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and
  sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly levelled at our
  heroe; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet knew her own
  intention; but if she had any design of charming him, she now
  succeeded.
  
  Mr Supple, the curate of Mr Allworthy's parish, made one of the
  company. He was a good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable for
  his great taciturnity at table, though his mouth was never shut at it.
  In short, he had one of the best appetites in the world. However, the
  cloth was no sooner taken away, than he always made sufficient amends
  for his silence: for he was a very hearty fellow; and his conversation
  was often entertaining, never offensive.
  
  At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the
  roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had brought some news
  with him, and was beginning to tell, that he came that moment from Mr
  Allworthy's, when the sight of the roast-beef struck him dumb,
  permitting him only to say grace, and to declare he must pay his
  respect to the baronet, for so he called the sirloin.
  
  When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began
  as follows: “I believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman at
  church yesterday at even-song, who was drest in one of your outlandish
  garments; I think I have seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in
  the country, such dresses are
  
       _Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno._
  
  That is, madam, as much as to say, 'A rare bird upon the earth, and
  very like a black swan.' The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to
  what I was relating. I was saying such garments are rare sights in the
  country; and perchance, too, it was thought the more rare, respect
  being had to the person who wore it, who, they tell me, is the
  daughter of Black George, your worship's gamekeeper, whose sufferings,
  I should have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress
  forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much confusion
  in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had not silenced it, it
  would have interrupted the service: for I was once about to stop in
  the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit, nevertheless, after prayer
  was over, and I was departed home, this occasioned a battle in the
  churchyard, where, amongst other mischief, the head of a travelling
  fidler was very much broken. This morning the fidler came to Squire
  Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The
  squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a sudden
  the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship's pardon) to be, as it were,
  at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded of her who
  was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response.
  So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I
  departed.”
  
  “And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?” cries
  Western; “I thought it might have been some public matter, something
  about the nation.”
  
  “I am afraid it is too common, indeed,” answered the parson; “but I
  thought the whole story altogether deserved commemorating. As to
  national matters, your worship knows them best. My concerns extend no
  farther than my own parish.”
  
  “Why, ay,” says the squire, “I believe I do know a little of that
  matter, as you say. But, come, Tommy, drink about; the bottle stands
  with you.”
  
  Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular business; and
  getting up from table, escaped the clutches of the squire, who was
  rising to stop him, and went off with very little ceremony.
  
  The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and then turning to
  the parson, he cried out, “I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is certainly
  the father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember how he
  recommended the veather o' her to me. D--n un, what a sly b--ch 'tis.
  Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, Tom is the veather of the bastard.”
  
  “I should be very sorry for that,” says the parson.
  
  “Why sorry,” cries the squire: “Where is the mighty matter o't? What,
  I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got a bastard? Pox! more
  good luck's thine? for I warrant hast a done a _therefore_ many's the
  good time and often.”
  
  “Your worship is pleased to be jocular,” answered the parson; “but I
  do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the action--though that
  surely is to be greatly deprecated--but I fear his unrighteousness may
  injure him with Mr Allworthy. And truly I must say, though he hath the
  character of being a little wild, I never saw any harm in the young
  man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your worship now
  mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his
  responses at church; but altogether he seems
  
       _Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris._
  
  That is a classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into
  English, is, `a lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous
  modesty;' for this was a virtue in great repute both among the Latins
  and Greeks. I must say, the young gentleman (for so I think I may call
  him, notwithstanding his birth) appears to me a very modest, civil
  lad, and I should be sorry that he should do himself any injury in
  Squire Allworthy's opinion.”
  
  “Poogh!” says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Why, Allworthy
  loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country know whose son Tom is?
  You must talk to another person in that manner. I remember Allworthy
  at college.”
  
  “I thought,” said the parson, “he had never been at the university.”
  
  “Yes, yes, he was,” says the squire: “and many a wench have we two had
  together. As arrant a whore-master as any within five miles o'un. No,
  no. It will do'n no harm with he, assure yourself; nor with anybody
  else. Ask Sophy there--You have not the worse opinion of a young
  fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the women will
  like un the better for't.”
  
  This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom's
  colour change at the parson's story; and that, with his hasty and
  abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason to think her father's
  suspicion not groundless. Her heart now at once discovered the great
  secret to her which it had been so long disclosing by little and
  little; and she found herself highly interested in this matter. In
  such a situation, her father's malapert question rushing suddenly upon
  her, produced some symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious
  heart; but, to do the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she
  rose therefore from her chair, and told him a hint from him was always
  sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to leave the room,
  and then with great gravity of countenance remarked, “That it was
  better to see a daughter over-modest than over-forward;”--a sentiment
  which was highly applauded by the parson.
  
  There now ensued between the squire and the parson a most excellent
  political discourse, framed out of newspapers and political pamphlets;
  in which they made a libation of four bottles of wine to the good of
  their country: and then, the squire being fast asleep, the parson
  lighted his pipe, mounted his horse, and rode home.
  
  When the squire had finished his half-hour's nap, he summoned his
  daughter to her harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that
  evening, on account of a violent head-ache. This remission was
  presently granted; for indeed she seldom had occasion to ask him
  twice, as he loved her with such ardent affection, that, by gratifying
  her, he commonly conveyed the highest gratification to himself. She
  was really, what he frequently called her, his little darling, and she
  well deserved to be so; for she returned all his affection in the most
  ample manner. She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him in all
  things; and this her love made not only easy, but so delightful, that
  when one of her companions laughed at her for placing so much merit in
  such scrupulous obedience, as that young lady called it, Sophia
  answered, “You mistake me, madam, if you think I value myself upon
  this account; for besides that I am barely discharging my duty, I am
  likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight equal to
  that of contributing to my father's happiness; and if I value myself,
  my dear, it is on having this power, and not on executing it.”
  
  This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of
  tasting this evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused
  from her attendance at the harpsichord, but likewise begged that he
  would suffer her to absent herself from supper. To this request
  likewise the squire agreed, though not without some reluctance; for he
  scarce ever permitted her to be out of his sight, unless when he was
  engaged with his horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he yielded to
  the desire of his daughter, though the poor man was at the same time
  obliged to avoid his own company (if I may so express myself), by
  sending for a neighbouring farmer to sit with him.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some observations for which
  we have been forced to dive pretty deep into nature.
  
  
  Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr Western's horses that morning in the
  chase; so that having no horse of his own in the squire's stable, he
  was obliged to go home on foot: this he did so expeditiously that he
  ran upwards of three miles within the half-hour.
  
  Just as he arrived at Mr Allworthy's outward gate, he met the
  constable and company with Molly in their possession, whom they were
  conducting to that house where the inferior sort of people may learn
  one good lesson, viz., respect and deference to their superiors; since
  it must show them the wide distinction Fortune intends between those
  persons who are to be corrected for their faults, and those who are
  not; which lesson if they do not learn, I am afraid they very rarely
  learn any other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the house of
  correction.
  
  A lawyer may perhaps think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a
  little in this instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here
  was no regular information before him, whether his conduct was
  strictly regular. However, as his intention was truly upright, he
  ought to be excused in _foro conscientiae_; since so many arbitrary
  acts are daily committed by magistrates who have not this excuse to
  plead for themselves.
  
  Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were
  proceeding (indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than he
  caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly before them all,
  swore he would murder the first man who offered to lay hold of her. He
  bid her dry her eyes and be comforted; for, wherever she went, he
  would accompany her. Then turning to the constable, who stood
  trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to
  return with him for a moment only to his father (for so he now called
  Allworthy); for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he had
  alledged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be
  discharged.
  
  The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his
  prisoner had Tom demanded her, very readily consented to this request.
  So back they all went into Mr Allworthy's hall; where Tom desired them
  to stay till his return, and then went himself in pursuit of the good
  man. As soon as he was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and
  having begged a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the father of
  the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to have
  compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any guilt
  in the case, it lay principally at his door.
  
  “If there is any guilt in the case!” answered Allworthy warmly: “Are
  you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine to doubt whether the
  breaking the laws of God and man, the corrupting and ruining a poor
  girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it doth lie principally upon you; and so
  heavy it is, that you ought to expect it should crush you.”
  
  “Whatever may be my fate,” says Tom, “let me succeed in my
  intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but
  whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For Heaven's sake, sir,
  revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a place which must
  unavoidably prove her destruction.”
  
  Allworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was
  no occasion; for he had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon
  his goodness, had brought them all back into his hall, where they now
  waited his final resolution, which upon his knees he besought him
  might be in favour of the girl; that she might be permitted to go home
  to her parents, and not be exposed to a greater degree of shame and
  scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. “I know,” said he, “that is
  too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will endeavour to
  make amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter the goodness
  to forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it.”
  
  Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, “Well, I will
  discharge my mittimus.--You may send the constable to me.” He was
  instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl.
  
  It will be believed that Mr Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very
  severe lecture on this occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it
  here, as we have faithfully transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in
  the first book, most of which may be applied to the men, equally with
  the women. So sensible an effect had these reproofs on the young man,
  who was no hardened sinner, that he retired to his own room, where he
  passed the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.
  
  Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of Jones;
  for notwithstanding the assertions of Mr Western, it is certain this
  worthy man had never indulged himself in any loose pleasures with
  women, and greatly condemned the vice of incontinence in others.
  Indeed, there is much reason to imagine that there was not the least
  truth in what Mr Western affirmed, especially as he laid the scene of
  those impurities at the university, where Mr Allworthy had never been.
  In fact, the good squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of
  pleasantry which is generally called rhodomontade: but which may, with
  as much propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word; and perhaps we
  too often supply the use of this little monosyllable by others; since
  very much of what frequently passes in the world for wit and humour,
  should, in the strictest purity of language, receive that short
  appellation, which, in conformity to the well-bred laws of custom, I
  here suppress.
  
  But whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to any other
  vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue
  in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if there had been no
  mixture of vice in the same character. While he was angry therefore
  with the incontinence of Jones, he was no less pleased with the honour
  and honesty of his self-accusation. He began now to form in his mind
  the same opinion of this young fellow, which, we hope, our reader may
  have conceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections, the
  latter seemed rather to preponderate.
  
  It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was immediately
  charged by Mr Blifil with the story, unbended all his rancour against
  poor Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hearing to their invectives, and
  then answered coldly: “That young men of Tom's complexion were too
  generally addicted to this vice; but he believed that youth was
  sincerely affected with what he had said to him on the occasion, and
  he hoped he would not transgress again.” So that, as the days of
  whipping were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth
  for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent revenge.
  
  But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man; and as
  he hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he contrived
  to do him more mischief in the mind of Mr Allworthy.
  
  The reader must remember the several little incidents of the
  partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in the
  second book. By all which Jones had rather improved than injured the
  affection which Mr Allworthy was inclined to entertain for him. The
  same, I believe, must have happened to him with every other person who
  hath any idea of friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, that
  is to say, who hath any traces of goodness in his mind.
  
  Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which
  those several instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of
  Allworthy; for the philosopher very well knew what virtue was, though
  he was not always perhaps steady in its pursuit; but as for Thwackum,
  from what reason I will not determine, no such thoughts ever entered
  into his head: he saw Jones in a bad light, and he imagined Allworthy
  saw him in the same, but that he was resolved, from pride and
  stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had once
  cherished; since by so doing, he must tacitly acknowledge that his
  former opinion of him had been wrong.
  
  Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones
  in the tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these
  before-mentioned occurrences. “I am sorry, sir,” said he, “to own I
  have been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help
  being pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though
  it was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but
  in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the
  sacrifice of truth, which we both imagined to have been made to
  friendship, was in reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and
  debauched appetite. You now plainly see whence all the seeming
  generosity of this young man to the family of the gamekeeper
  proceeded. He supported the father in order to corrupt the daughter,
  and preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to shame
  and ruin. This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir Richard
  Steele says, `Gluttons who give high prices for delicacies, are very
  worthy to be called generous.' In short I am resolved, from this
  instance, never to give way to the weakness of human nature more, nor
  to think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the
  unerring rule of right.”
  
  The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from
  occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and
  hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what
  Square had said sunk very deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness
  which it there created was very visible to the other; though the good
  man would not acknowledge this, but made a very slight answer, and
  forcibly drove off the discourse to some other subject. It was well
  perhaps for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been made before he
  was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the mind of Allworthy the
  first bad impression concerning Jones.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the same
  fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
  
  
  The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia.
  She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable
  manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the
  morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended her at the usual hour,
  she was found already up and drest.
  
  Persons who live two or three miles' distance in the country are
  considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one house
  fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs Honour, therefore, had
  heard the whole story of Molly's shame; which she, being of a very
  communicative temper, had no sooner entered the apartment of her
  mistress, than she began to relate in the following manner:--
  
  “La, ma'am, what doth your la'ship think? the girl that your la'ship
  saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you
  would not have thought her so handsome neither, if you had seen her
  nearer, but to be sure she hath been carried before the justice for
  being big with child. She seemed to me to look like a confident slut:
  and to be sure she hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And all the
  parish says Mr Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he
  won't see him. To be sure, one can't help pitying the poor young man,
  and yet he doth not deserve much pity neither, for demeaning himself
  with such kind of trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should
  be sorry to have him turned out of doors. I dares to swear the wench
  was as willing as he; for she was always a forward kind of body. And
  when wenches are so coming, young men are not so much to be blamed
  neither; for to be sure they do no more than what is natural. Indeed
  it is beneath them to meddle with such dirty draggle-tails; and
  whatever happens to them, it is good enough for them. And yet, to be
  sure, the vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes, with all my
  heart, they were well to be whipped at the cart's tail; for it is pity
  they should be the ruin of a pretty young gentleman; and nobody can
  deny but that Mr Jones is one of the most handsomest young men that
  ever----”
  
  She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than
  she had ever spoken to her in before, cried, “Prithee, why dost thou
  trouble me with all this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr Jones
  doth? I suppose you are all alike. And you seem to me to be angry it
  was not your own case.”
  
  “I, ma'am!” answered Mrs Honour, “I am sorry your ladyship should have
  such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any such thing of me.
  All the young fellows in the world may go to the divil for me. Because
  I said he was a handsome man? Everybody says it as well as I. To be
  sure, I never thought as it was any harm to say a young man was
  handsome; but to be sure I shall never think him so any more now; for
  handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench!--”
  
  “Stop thy torrent of impertinence,” cries Sophia, “and see whether my
  father wants me at breakfast.”
  
  Mrs Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself, of
  which “Marry come up, I assure you,” was all that could be plainly
  distinguished.
  
  Whether Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her
  mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our
  reader's curiosity by resolving. We will, however, make him amends in
  disclosing what passed in the mind of Sophia.
  
  The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for
  Mr Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady. That
  it had there grown to a pretty great height before she herself had
  discovered it. When she first began to perceive its symptoms, the
  sensations were so sweet and pleasing, that she had not resolution
  sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went on cherishing a
  passion of which she never once considered the consequences.
  
  This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first
  perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it
  caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of
  other nauseous physic, and for the time expelled her distemper. Its
  operation indeed was most wonderfully quick; and in the short
  interval, while her maid was absent, so entirely removed all symptoms,
  that when Mrs Honour returned with a summons from her father, she was
  become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough
  indifference for Mr Jones.
  
  The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those
  of the body. For which reason, we hope, that learned faculty, for whom
  we have so profound a respect, will pardon us the violent hands we
  have been necessitated to lay on several words and phrases, which of
  right belong to them, and without which our descriptions must have
  been often unintelligible.
  
  Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind
  bear a more exact analogy to those which are called bodily, than that
  aptness which both have to a relapse. This is plain in the violent
  diseases of ambition and avarice. I have known ambition, when cured at
  court by frequent disappointments (which are the only physic for it),
  to break out again in a contest for foreman of the grand jury at an
  assizes; and have heard of a man who had so far conquered avarice, as
  to give away many a sixpence, that comforted himself, at last, on his
  deathbed, by making a crafty and advantageous bargain concerning his
  ensuing funeral, with an undertaker who had married his only child.
  
  In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the Stoic
  philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness to
  relapse is no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia; upon
  whom, the very next time she saw young Jones, all the former symptoms
  returned, and from that time cold and hot fits alternately seized her
  heart.
  
  The situation of this young lady was now very different from what it
  had ever been before. That passion which had formerly been so
  exquisitely delicious, became now a scorpion in her bosom. She
  resisted it therefore with her utmost force, and summoned every
  argument her reason (which was surprisingly strong for her age) could
  suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far succeeded, that
  she began to hope from time and absence a perfect cure. She resolved
  therefore to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; for which purpose
  she began to conceive a design of visiting her aunt, to which she made
  no doubt of obtaining her father's consent.
  
  But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop
  to any such proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be
  related in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant behaviour of
  Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to the
  young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex.
  
  
  Mr Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch that
  his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his
  affections; but as he could not prevail on himself to abandon these,
  he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their company, together with that
  of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a hunting with him.
  
  Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied with his
  desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which was of
  too rough and masculine a nature to suit with her disposition. She had
  however another motive, beside her obedience, to accompany the old
  gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she hoped in some measure
  to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently
  exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
  
  The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an
  inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom
  she had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting season now
  approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her aunt, to reason
  herself entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt
  of being able to meet him in the field the subsequent season without
  the least danger.
  
  On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the chase,
  and was arrived within a little distance from Mr Western's house, her
  horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider, fell suddenly
  to prancing and capering in such a manner that she was in the most
  imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was at a little distance
  behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her assistance. As
  soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse, and caught hold of
  hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared himself an end
  on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his back, and
  Jones caught her in his arms.
  
  She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately able
  to satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know whether she had
  received any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her spirits,
  assured him she was safe, and thanked him for the care he had taken of
  her. Jones answered, “If I have preserved you, madam, I am
  sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you from
  the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself
  than I have suffered on this occasion.”
  
  “What misfortune?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you have come to no
  mischief?”
  
  “Be not concerned, madam,” answered Jones. “Heaven be praised you have
  escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I have broke my
  arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I feared upon
  your account.”
  
  Sophia then screamed out, “Broke your arm! Heaven forbid.”
  
  “I am afraid I have, madam,” says Jones: “but I beg you will suffer me
  first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your service, to
  help you into the next field, whence we have but a very little walk to
  your father's house.”
  
  Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using
  the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew
  much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All her
  limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could scarce
  support her; and as her thoughts were in no less agitation, she could
  not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it
  almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude
  and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the
  assistance of a third more powerful passion.
  
  Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident
  happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia
  immediately acquainted them with what had befallen Jones, and begged
  them to take care of him. Upon which Western, who had been much
  alarmed by meeting his daughter's horse without its rider, and was now
  overjoyed to find her unhurt, cried out, “I am glad it is no worse. If
  Tom hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again.”
  
  The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on
  foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial spectator, who had met
  them on the way, would, on viewing their several countenances, have
  concluded Sophia alone to have been the object of compassion: for as
  to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved the life of the young
  lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he
  was not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was,
  however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate escape
  of his daughter.
  
  The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour of Jones
  into great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her heart: for
  certain it is, that there is no one quality which so generally
  recommends men to women as this; proceeding, if we believe the common
  opinion, from that natural timidity of the sex, which is, says Mr
  Osborne, “so great, that a woman is the most cowardly of all the
  creatures God ever made;”--a sentiment more remarkable for its
  bluntness than for its truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I
  believe, more justice, when he says, “The modesty and fortitude of men
  differ from those virtues in women; for the fortitude which becomes a
  woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the modesty which becomes a
  man, would be pertness in a woman.” Nor is there, perhaps, more of
  truth in the opinion of those who derive the partiality which women
  are inclined to show to the brave, from this excess of their fear. Mr
  Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen) imputes this, and with
  greater probability, to their violent love of glory; for the truth of
  which, we have the authority of him who of all others saw farthest
  into human nature, and who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, the
  great pattern of matrimonial love and constancy, assigning the glory
  of her husband as the only source of her affection towards him.[*]
  
    [*] The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
    sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.
  
  However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very
  strongly on Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I
  am inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia
  made no less impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had
  for some time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiv.
  
  The arrival of a surgeon.--His operations, and a long dialogue between
  Sophia and her maid.
  
  
  When they arrived at Mr Western's hall, Sophia, who had tottered along
  with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the assistance of
  hartshorn and water, she was prevented from fainting away, and had
  pretty well recovered her spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for
  to Jones appeared. Mr Western, who imputed these symptoms in his
  daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently blooded by way of
  prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the surgeon, who gave
  so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many cases where persons
  had miscarried for want of it, that the squire became very
  importunate, and indeed insisted peremptorily that his daughter should
  be blooded.
  
  Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely
  contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less
  danger from the fright, than either the squire or the surgeon. She
  then stretched out her beautiful arm, and the operator began to
  prepare for his work.
  
  While the servants were busied in providing materials, the surgeon,
  who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in Sophia to her
  fears, began to comfort her with assurances that there was not the
  least danger; for no accident, he said, could ever happen in bleeding,
  but from the monstrous ignorance of pretenders to surgery, which he
  pretty plainly insinuated was not at present to be apprehended. Sophia
  declared she was not under the least apprehension; adding, “If you
  open an artery, I promise you I'll forgive you.” “Will you?” cries
  Western: “D--n me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, d--n
  me if I don't ha' the heart's blood o'un out.” The surgeon assented to
  bleed her upon these conditions, and then proceeded to his operation,
  which he performed with as much dexterity as he had promised; and with
  as much quickness: for he took but little blood from her, saying, it
  was much safer to bleed again and again, than to take away too much at
  once.
  
  Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not willing
  (nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the operation
  on Jones. Indeed, one objection which she had to bleeding (though she
  did not make it) was the delay which it would occasion to setting the
  broken bone. For Western, when Sophia was concerned, had no
  consideration but for her; and as for Jones himself, he “sat like
  patience on a monument smiling at grief.” To say the truth, when he
  saw the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce
  thought of what had happened to himself.
  
  The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and
  then entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in
  such a manner that the tortures he put him to caused Jones to make
  several wry faces; which the surgeon observing, greatly wondered at,
  crying, “What is the matter, sir? I am sure it is impossible I should
  hurt you.” And then holding forth the broken arm, he began a long and
  very learned lecture of anatomy, in which simple and double fractures
  were most accurately considered; and the several ways in which Jones
  might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper annotations
  showing how many of these would have been better, and how many worse
  than the present case.
  
  Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the
  audience, though it had greatly raised their attention and admiration,
  were not much edified, as they really understood not a single syllable
  of all he had said, he proceeded to business, which he was more
  expeditious in finishing, than he had been in beginning.
  
  Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to
  accept at his own house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed upon
  him.
  
  Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the
  bone-setting, Mrs Honour was one; who being summoned to her mistress
  as soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young gentleman did,
  presently launched into extravagant praises on the magnanimity, as she
  called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, “was so charming in so
  pretty a creature.” She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums on
  the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending
  with the whiteness of his skin.
  
  This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which would not
  perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman,
  had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was
  speaking: but as a looking-glass, which was most commodiously placed
  opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of surveying those features,
  in which, of all others, she took most delight; so she had not once
  removed her eyes from that amiable object during her whole speech.
  
  Mrs Honour was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she
  exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave
  her mistress time to conquer her confusion; which having done, she
  smiled on her maid, and told her, “she was certainly in love with this
  young fellow.”--“I in love, madam!” answers she: “upon my word, ma'am,
  I assure you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not.”--“Why, if you
  was,” cries her mistress, “I see no reason that you should be ashamed
  of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow.”--“Yes, ma'am,” answered
  the other, “that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in my life.
  Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I don't know
  why I should be ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be
  sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more than us servants.
  Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a gentleman
  of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for thof I am a poor
  body, I am an honest person's child, and my father and mother were
  married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they hold
  their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you, my dirty cousin! thof his
  skin be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was
  seen, I am a Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am
  base born: my grandfather was a clergyman,[*] and would have been very
  angry, I believe, to have thought any of his family should have taken
  up with Molly Seagrim's dirty leavings.”
  
    [*] This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded
    in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped
    such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for
    the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can
    be thought at present.
  
  Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner,
  from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader
  may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for certainly there
  were some passages in her speech which were far from being agreeable
  to the lady. However, she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no
  end of its flowing. “I wonder,” says she, “at your assurance in daring
  to talk thus of one of my father's friends. As to the wench, I order
  you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young
  gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage,
  may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the
  future.”
  
  “I am sorry I have offended your ladyship,” answered Mrs Honour. “I am
  sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can; and as for
  abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the house to
  witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have
  always taken his part; for which of you, says I to the footmen, would
  not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I,
  I am sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of the whitest
  hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the
  sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and,
  says I, all the servants and neighbours all round the country loves
  him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship something, but that I
  am afraid it would offend you.”--“What could you tell me, Honour?”
   says Sophia. “Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore
  I would not have your ladyship be offended.”--“Prithee tell me,” says
  Sophia; “I will know it this instant.”--“Why, ma'am,” answered Mrs
  Honour, “he came into the room one day last week when I was at work,
  and there lay your ladyship's muff on a chair, and to be sure he put
  his hands into it; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday.
  La! says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it:
  but he still kept his hands in it: and then he kissed it--to be sure I
  hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it.”--“I suppose he
  did not know it was mine,” replied Sophia. “Your ladyship shall hear,
  ma'am. He kissed it again and again, and said it was the prettiest
  muff in the world. La! sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times.
  Yes, Mrs Honour, cried he; but who can see anything beautiful in the
  presence of your lady but herself?--Nay, that's not all neither; but I
  hope your ladyship won't be offended, for to be sure he meant nothing.
  One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master,
  Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked
  melancholy. La! says I, Mr Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your
  thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, what
  can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing? And
  then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs Honour, says he, how happy will
  that man be!--and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is as
  sweet as a nosegay.--But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So I hope
  your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a crown never to
  mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe, indeed, it
  was not the Bible.”
  
  Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I
  shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion. “Ho--nour,”
   says she, “I--if you will not mention this any more to me--nor to
  anybody else, I will not betray you--I mean, I will not be angry; but
  I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it such
  liberties?”--“Nay, ma'am,” answered she, “to be sure, I would sooner
  cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall never
  mention a word that your ladyship would not have me.”--“Why, I would
  not have you mention this any more,” said Sophia, “for it may come to
  my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr Jones; though I really
  believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry myself,
  if I imagined--“--“Nay, ma'am,” says Honour, “I protest I believe he
  meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of his senses;
  nay, he said he believed he was beside himself when he had spoken the
  words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he, Honour.--But I
  ask your ladyship's pardon; I could tear my tongue out for offending
  you.” “Go on,” says Sophia; “you may mention anything you have not
  told me before.”--“Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time
  afterwards, when he gave me the crown), I am neither such a coxcomb,
  or such a villain, as to think of her in any other delight but as my
  goddess; as such I will always worship and adore her while I have
  breath.--This was all, ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my
  remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he meant
  no harm.”--“Indeed, Honour,” says Sophia, “I believe you have a real
  affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you
  warning; but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall.”--“To be
  sure, ma'am,” answered Mrs Honour, “I shall never desire to part with
  your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you gave me
  warning. It would be very ungrateful in me to desire to leave your
  ladyship; because as why, I should never get so good a place again. I
  am sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr Jones
  said, happy is the man----”
  
  Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such
  an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her
  bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she
  should be. As to the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere to
  a rule of Horace, by not attempting to describe it, from despair of
  success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily to themselves; and
  the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at least
  would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK V.
  
  CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is introduced.
  
  
  Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will
  give the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have
  given the author the greatest pains in composing. Among these probably
  may be reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the
  historical matter contained in every book; and which we have
  determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of
  which we have set ourselves at the head.
  
  For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to
  assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it
  down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic
  writing. Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or
  place which is now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry?
  What critic hath been ever asked, why a play may not contain two days
  as well as one? Or why the audience (provided they travel, like
  electors, without any expense) may not be wafted fifty miles as well
  as five? Hath any commentator well accounted for the limitation which
  an antient critic hath set to the drama, which he will have contain
  neither more nor less than five acts? Or hath any one living attempted
  to explain what the modern judges of our theatres mean by that word
  _low_; by which they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour
  from the stage, and have made the theatre as dull as a drawing-room!
  Upon all these occasions the world seems to have embraced a maxim of
  our law, viz., _cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est:_ for it
  seems perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should have had
  enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules in any art or science
  without the least foundation. In such cases, therefore, we are apt to
  conclude there are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are
  unfortunately not able to see so far.
  
  Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to
  critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than
  they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been
  emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded,
  that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give
  laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received
  them.
  
  The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose
  office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great
  judges whose vast strength of genius hath placed them in the light of
  legislators, in the several sciences over which they presided. This
  office was all which the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever
  dare to advance a sentence, without supporting it by the authority of
  the judge from whence it was borrowed.
  
  But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to
  invade the power and assume the dignity of his master. The laws of
  writing were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on
  the dictates of the critic. The clerk became the legislator, and those
  very peremptorily gave laws whose business it was, at first, only to
  transcribe them.
  
  Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these
  critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form
  for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the
  lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances,
  which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics
  considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as
  essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these
  encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of
  imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have
  been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or
  nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and
  restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the
  dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it
  down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.
  
  To avoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for
  posterity, founded only on the authority of _ipse dixit_--for which,
  to say the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration--we shall
  here waive the privilege above contended for, and proceed to lay
  before the reader the reasons which have induced us to intersperse
  these several digressive essays in the course of this work.
  
  And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge,
  which if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been
  wrought on by any antient or modern writer. This vein is no other than
  that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation,
  and may probably have a large share in constituting in us the idea of
  all beauty, as well natural as artificial: for what demonstrates the
  beauty and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of
  day, and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and
  winter. And, I believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only
  the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.
  
  But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the
  finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the
  eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies
  themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious to
  procure foils: nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I have
  observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly
  as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty which they
  intend to show you in the evening.
  
  Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have
  not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest
  brilliant requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his
  figures, often acquires great applause.
  
  A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot,
  indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath
  a title to be placed among those
  
         _Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes._
          Who by invented arts have life improved.
  
  I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called
  the English Pantomime.
  
  This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor
  distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious
  exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were
  certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was
  ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually
  intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the
  entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better
  advantage.
  
  This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the
  contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect.
  And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we
  supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly
  duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off
  only by that superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious.
  So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that
  harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all
  related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious
  disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the
  audience from worse company.
  
  Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with
  great success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at this
  art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line:
  
       _Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;
       Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum._
  
       I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
       Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.
  
  For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an
  author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that
  readers are too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as
  any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be
  subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,
  
       Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
  
  To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious
  artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and
  this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the
  public that whenever he was dull they might be assured there was a
  design in it.
  
  In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the
  reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he
  shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts
  of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be
  laboriously dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during his
  confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
  visible to the naked eye.
  
  
  Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some,
  perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy saw him almost
  every day; but though he pitied Tom's sufferings, and greatly approved
  the gallant behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he thought this
  was a favourable opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his
  indiscreet conduct; and that wholesome advice for that purpose could
  never be applied at a more proper season than at the present, when the
  mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by danger; and
  when its attention was unembarrassed with those turbulent passions
  which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.
  
  At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the youth,
  especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took occasion to
  remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the mildest and
  tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce the caution which he
  prescribed for his future behaviour; “on which alone,” he assured him,
  “would depend his own felicity, and the kindness which he might yet
  promise himself to receive at the hands of his father by adoption,
  unless he should hereafter forfeit his good opinion: for as to what
  had past,” he said, “it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He
  therefore advised him to make a good use of this accident, that so in
  the end it might prove a visitation for his own good.”
  
  Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too
  considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His
  stile, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy's: he told his
  pupil, “That he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from
  heaven on his sins. That it would become him to be daily on his knees,
  pouring forth thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not
  his neck; which latter,” he said, “was very probably reserved for some
  future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part,” he
  said, “he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him
  before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments,
  though slow, are always sure.” Hence likewise he advised him, “to
  foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet
  behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his state
  of reprobacy. These are,” said he, “to be averted only by such a
  thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for
  from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid, is
  totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this
  repentance, though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and
  fruitless. But _liberavi animam meam._ I can accuse my own conscience
  of no neglect; though it is at the same time with the utmost concern I
  see you travelling on to certain misery in this world, and to as
  certain damnation in the next.”
  
  Square talked in a very different strain; he said, “Such accidents as
  a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it was
  abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these
  mischances, to reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of
  mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good of the whole.” He said, “It
  was a mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which there
  was no moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst consequence of
  such accidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world;” with
  more of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of
  Tully's Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In
  pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit
  his tongue; and in such a manner, that it not only put an end to his
  discourse, but created much emotion in him, and caused him to mutter
  an oath or two: but what was worst of all, this accident gave
  Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such doctrine to be
  heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap a judgment on his
  back. Now this was done with so malicious a sneer, that it totally
  unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of the philosopher, which the
  bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and as he was disabled from
  venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly found a more violent
  method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who was then luckily
  in the room, contrary to his own interest, interposed and preserved
  the peace.
  
  Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. This
  worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and as great
  concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any intimacy, lest,
  as he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the sobriety of his own
  character: for which purpose he had constantly in his mouth that
  proverb in which Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that
  he was so bitter as Thwackum; for he always expressed some hopes of
  Tom's reformation; “which,” he said, “the unparalleled goodness shown
  by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect in one not
  absolutely abandoned:” but concluded, “if Mr Jones ever offends
  hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his favour.”
  
  As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless when
  he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he would
  sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without
  difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer
  too: for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea
  than he did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in
  all the physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much
  entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine;
  but from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the horn
  under his window, it was impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever
  lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all companies, when
  he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being at
  that time either awake or asleep.
  
  This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it effected
  none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as he was able
  to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire then brought to
  visit him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was able to attend
  her to the harpsichord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours
  together, to charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the
  squire thought proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon,
  or some other of his favourite pieces.
  
  Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set on
  her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and
  then slip forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this,
  that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out
  in another. What her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her
  blushes, and many little involuntary actions, betrayed.
  
  One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was
  attending, the squire came into the room, crying, “There, Tom, I have
  had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He hath
  been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a
  judgment upon thee. D--n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not come
  by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if he never
  doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the parsons
  in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to be ashamed
  of it.”--“Indeed, sir,” says Jones, “I have no reason for either; but
  if it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest
  accident of my life.”--“And to gu,” said the squire, “to zet Allworthy
  against thee vor it! D--n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats
  on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and
  d--n me if there is anything in my power which I won't do for thee.
  Sha't take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow
  morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.” Jones thanked
  him, but declined accepting the offer. “Nay,” added the squire, “sha't
  ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty guineas, and
  comes six years old this grass.” “If she had cost me a thousand,”
   cries Jones passionately, “I would have given her to the dogs.” “Pooh!
  pooh!” answered Western; “what! because she broke thy arm? Shouldst
  forget and forgive. I thought hadst been more a man than to bear
  malice against a dumb creature.”--Here Sophia interposed, and put an
  end to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to
  him; a request which he never refused.
  
  The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change during
  the foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate
  resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different
  motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits
  were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably
  ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked
  it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an
  ear any more than without eyes, made some observations; which being
  joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly,
  gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the
  whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an opinion
  which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his
  not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he
  had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward enough
  in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune which can be
  cured only by that early town education, which is at present so
  generally in fashion.
  
  When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they
  occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less
  pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended
  with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great
  worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her
  accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he
  had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever
  given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a
  much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His
  heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it
  assured him the adorable object returned his affection.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about
  nothing.
  
  
  The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in
  Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend
  to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those
  dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of
  this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a
  very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them.
  They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain
  circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended
  altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet;
  than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so
  nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.
  
  For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in
  what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of
  misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He
  was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection
  towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if
  they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to
  require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness
  from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual
  bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in his
  diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever regarded his
  fortune; had the most violent affection for his only daughter, and had
  often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he proposed in seeing her
  married to one of the richest men in the county. Jones was not so vain
  and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western
  had professed for him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside
  these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that fortune is
  generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which
  operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes
  us warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the
  gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which
  may result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion
  ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father's
  consent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such
  means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western's life, was to make a
  very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the
  many little favours received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw
  such a consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he
  shocked with what regarded Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than
  filial obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew
  the nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or
  treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight
  of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a
  detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable
  difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however
  ardent his wishes had been; but even these were contruoled by
  compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded
  itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she
  had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her
  in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the
  miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he
  would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting
  her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even
  her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her
  to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or
  rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her
  for being a whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery,
  and would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the
  same rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw,
  unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to
  the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of
  aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not
  represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it
  appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that
  misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart
  would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought,
  loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good
  heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one
  interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the
  agonies its owner brought on another.
  
  When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones,
  by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it
  artfully called in the assistance of another passion, and represented
  the girl in all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as
  one greatly the object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good
  mind, from being, at the same time, the object of compassion.
  
  Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and
  in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to
  think no more of Sophia.
  
  In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the
  evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his
  thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all
  his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind,
  that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.
  
  
  Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young
  gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps,
  when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from
  her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for
  Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome
  young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard;
  but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the
  love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely
  deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept
  together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since
  been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all
  handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and
  virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a
  lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to
  another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never
  carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the
  philosophical serenity of her temper.
  
  The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have
  seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and
  finding him alone, began in the following manner:--“La, sir, where do
  you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty
  years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you
  neither.”--“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said
  Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not
  be so barbarous to refuse me.”--“I don't know,” cries she, “why I
  should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't
  mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have
  been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify
  much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for
  to be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began
  to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised
  not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:--“Why, you must know, sir,
  my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see
  whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,
  methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.--How could you
  undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?--So my lady bid me go and carry her
  some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts
  were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady,
  says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness.”--“And was my
  Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,”
   answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all--indeed, if I was as Mr
  Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly
  Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I knew
  all?” “I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don't you remember putting
  your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my
  heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the
  hearing on't.” Jones then made several solemn protestations. And
  Honour proceeded--“Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and
  afterwards, upon hearing what you had done”--“Then you told her what I
  had done?” interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you need
  not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have
  had my lady told, if they had known,--for, to be sure, the biggest
  lord in the land might be proud--but, I protest, I have a great mind
  not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her
  to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this
  muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she
  quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that
  ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big
  for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have
  my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't--for she's a
  good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you
  that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she
  hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given
  it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.”
  
  Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came
  to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went
  all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs
  Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty
  curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach
  up the game in his warren.
  
  Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may
  believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr
  Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.
  
  She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was
  leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her
  out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from
  her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly
  started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the
  flames.
  
  Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to
  many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an
  effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In
  reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by
  injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance
  arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which
  the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very
  minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.
  
  Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the
  dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony
  of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour,
  greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so
  absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this
  little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy--
  
        _--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti
        Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,
        Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae._
  
        What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,
        A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done
        False tears and fawning words the city won.
  
  The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those
  considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with
  so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his
  heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in
  triumph.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
  
  
  But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies
  from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the
  garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory,
  the concern for what must become of poor Molly greatly disturbed and
  perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia
  totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor
  girl; but compassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was
  convinced the girl had placed all her affections, and all her prospect
  of future happiness, in him only. For this he had, he knew, given
  sufficient occasion, by the utmost profusion of tenderness towards
  her: a tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he
  would always maintain. She, on her side, had assured him of her firm
  belief in his promise, and had with the most solemn vows declared,
  that on his fulfilling or breaking these promises, it depended,
  whether she should be the happiest or most miserable of womankind. And
  to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human being,
  was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a single moment.
  He considered this poor girl as having sacrificed to him everything in
  her little power; as having been at her own expense the object of his
  pleasure; as sighing and languishing for him even at that very
  instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she hath so
  ardently wished; shall my presence, which she hath so eagerly
  expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath flattered
  herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such
  a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the
  love of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious,
  rushed upon his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it.
  
  At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make
  Molly amends another way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This,
  nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he
  recollected the frequent and vehement assurances he had received from
  her, that the world put in balance with him would make her no amends
  for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious
  vanity (somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the reader),
  gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed
  tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with a
  fortune superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her
  vanity, by setting her above all her equals. He resolved therefore to
  take the first opportunity of making a proposal of this kind.
  
  One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could
  walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when
  the squire was engaged in his field exercises, and visited his fair
  one. Her mother and sisters, whom he found taking their tea, informed
  him first that Molly was not at home; but afterwards the eldest sister
  acquainted him, with a malicious smile, that she was above stairs
  a-bed. Tom had no objection to this situation of his mistress, and
  immediately ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but
  when he came to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door
  fast; nor could he for some time obtain any answer from within; for
  Molly, as she herself afterwards informed him, was fast asleep.
  
  The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very
  similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it
  is apt to create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are
  often thereby deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot
  therefore be wondered at, that the unexpected sight of Mr Jones should
  so strongly operate on the mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her
  with such confusion, that for some minutes she was unable to express
  the great raptures, with which the reader will suppose she was
  affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed,
  and as it were enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that
  he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose
  of his visit.
  
  This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first
  transports of their meeting were over, he found means by degrees to
  introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend
  their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him ever
  seeing her more, should discover that he still carried on this
  commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies gave him reason to think
  would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently
  in hers. Since therefore their hard fates had determined that they
  must separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he
  would never omit any opportunity, through the course of his life, of
  showing her the sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a
  manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if
  ever that should be in his power; concluding at last, that she might
  soon find some man who would marry her, and who would make her much
  happier than she could be by leading a disreputable life with him.
  
  Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a
  flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following words: “And
  this is your love for me, to forsake me in this manner, now you have
  ruined me! How often, when I have told you that all men are false and
  perjury alike, and grow tired of us as soon as ever they have had
  their wicked wills of us, how often have you sworn you would never
  forsake me! And can you be such a perjury man after all? What
  signifies all the riches in the world to me without you, now you have
  gained my heart, so you have--you have--? Why do you mention another
  man to me? I can never love any other man as long as I live. All other
  men are nothing to me. If the greatest squire in all the country would
  come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would not give my company to him.
  No, I shall always hate and despise the whole sex for your sake.”--
  
  She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue,
  before it had run out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in
  which Molly lay, being up one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the
  top of the house, was of a sloping figure, resembling the great Delta
  of the Greeks. The English reader may perhaps form a better idea of
  it, by being told that it was impossible to stand upright anywhere but
  in the middle. Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet,
  Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the
  rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best
  apparel, such as the remains of that sack which we have formerly
  mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she had lately
  provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust.
  
  This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which,
  indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the
  want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage,
  pushed this rug with her feet; or Jones might touch it; or whether the
  pin or nail gave way of its own accord, I am not certain; but as Molly
  pronounced those last words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug
  got loose from its fastening, and discovered everything hid behind it;
  where among other female utensils appeared--(with shame I write it,
  and with sorrow will it be read)--the philosopher Square, in a posture
  (for the place would not near admit his standing upright) as
  ridiculous as can possibly be conceived.
  
  The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of
  a soldier who is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the
  attitude in which we often see fellows in the public streets of
  London, who are not suffering but deserving punishment by so standing.
  He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head, and his two large
  eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; so that when
  the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it
  would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained
  from immoderate laughter.
  
  I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to
  that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance
  of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent
  with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in
  the opinion of every one.
  
  But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than
  real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other
  human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of
  these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to
  other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as
  we have before hinted, that consists the difference: for though such
  great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act
  exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all
  appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and
  this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily
  acquired; but the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and,
  therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches
  them to avoid carrying it into execution.
  
  Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader
  may be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had
  caused all that disturbance. Here he first observed her, and was so
  pleased with her beauty, that he prevailed with the young gentlemen to
  change their intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the
  habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a second chance of
  seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at that time mention
  to any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to the
  reader.
  
  Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in
  Mr Square's opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty
  therefore which he apprehended there might be in corrupting this young
  wench, and the danger which would accrue to his character on the
  discovery, were such strong dissuasives, that it is probable he at
  first intended to have contented himself with the pleasing ideas which
  the sight of beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a
  full meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of
  dessert: for which purpose, certain books and pictures find their way
  into the most private recesses of their study, and a certain liquorish
  part of natural philosophy is often the principal subject of their
  conversation.
  
  But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the
  fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger
  scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind
  which cannot feed on a dainty because another hath tasted it. In
  short, he liked the girl the better for the want of that chastity,
  which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his pleasures;
  he pursued and obtained her.
  
  The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the
  preference to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she been
  confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would undoubtedly have
  been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor was it solely the
  consideration that two are better than one (though this had its proper
  weight) to which Mr Square owed his success: the absence of Jones
  during his confinement was an unlucky circumstance; and in that
  interval some well-chosen presents from the philosopher so softened
  and unguarded the girl's heart, that a favourable opportunity became
  irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue
  which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.
  
  It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the
  above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square
  were in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied
  her as we have seen; for as the old woman shared in the profits
  arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and
  protected her in it to the utmost of her power; but such was the envy
  and hatred which the elder sister bore towards Molly, that,
  notwithstanding she had some part of the booty, she would willingly
  have parted with this to ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence
  she had acquainted Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes
  that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, however, Molly
  found means to prevent, as the door was fastened; which gave her an
  opportunity of conveying her lover behind that rug or blanket where he
  now was unhappily discovered.
  
  Square no sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in
  her bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair.
  This poor girl, who was yet but a novice in her business, had not
  arrived to that perfection of assurance which helps off a town lady in
  any extremity; and either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires
  her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who, from love of
  quiet, or out of fear of his reputation--and sometimes, perhaps, from
  fear of the gallant, who, like Mr Constant in the play, wears a
  sword--is glad to shut his eyes, and content to put his horns in his
  pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced by this evidence, and
  very fairly gave up a cause which she had hitherto maintained with so
  many tears, and with such solemn and vehement protestations of the
  purest love and constancy.
  
  As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less
  consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and seemed equally at
  a loss what to say, or whither to direct his eyes. Jones, though
  perhaps the most astonished of the three, first found his tongue; and
  being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly
  by her upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and
  then saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to
  relieve him from his place of confinement.
  
  Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only
  he could stand upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance,
  and said to him, “Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery,
  and, I dare swear, take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me;
  but if you will consider the matter fairly, you will find you are
  yourself only to blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I
  have done nothing for which that part of the world which judges of
  matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by
  the nature of things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws.
  Nothing is indeed unfit which is not unnatural.”--“Well reasoned, old
  boy,” answered Jones; “but why dost thou think that I should desire to
  expose thee? I promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in
  my life; and unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this
  affair may remain a profound secret for me.”--“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied
  Square, “I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame is
  a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it.
  Besides, to murder one's own reputation is a kind of suicide, a
  detestable and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal
  any infirmity of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly
  perfect), I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be
  fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for
  by the perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the
  subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent but
  laudable.”--“Right!” cries Jones: “what can be more innocent than the
  indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than the
  propagation of our species?”--“To be serious with you,” answered
  Square, “I profess they always appeared so to me.”--“And yet,” said
  Jones, “you was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl
  was first discovered.”--“Why, I must confess,” says Square, “as the
  matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I might
  condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was
  that--and that--: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of
  fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances
  cause great alteration.”--“Well,” cries Jones, “be that as it will, it
  shall be your own fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any
  more of this adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never
  open my lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be
  faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity
  to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So saying, he took a
  hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much
  expedition.
  
  Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse
  conclusion; and as for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she
  began at first to upbraid Square with having been the occasion of her
  loss of Jones; but that gentleman soon found the means of mitigating
  her anger, partly by caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his
  purse, of wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill
  humours of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.
  
  She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new
  lover; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into
  ridicule; and vowed, though he once had the possession of her person,
  that none but Square had ever been master of her heart.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct
  some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the application of
  the word love.
  
  
  The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would,
  perhaps, have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he
  expressed on the occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from
  that moment, very few, I believe, would have blamed him.
  
  Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion;
  and though his love to her was not of that kind which could give him
  any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was he not a little
  shocked on reflecting that he had himself originally corrupted her
  innocence; for to this corruption he imputed all the vice into which
  she appeared now so likely to plunge herself.
  
  This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the
  elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him
  by a hint, that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had been the first
  seducer of Molly; and that the little child, which he had hitherto so
  certainly concluded to be his own, might very probably have an equal
  title, at least, to claim Barnes for its father.
  
  Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in
  a very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him
  truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, but at last by that
  of Molly herself.
  
  This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many
  trophies of this kind as any ensign or attorney's clerk in the
  kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced several women to a state of utter
  profligacy, had broke the hearts of some, and had the honour of
  occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either drowned
  herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him.
  
  Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart
  of Betty Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown
  to be a fit object of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her,
  and applied to her sister, with whom he had almost immediate success.
  Now Will had, in reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection,
  while Jones and Square were almost equally sacrifices to her interest
  and to her pride.
  
  Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen
  raging in the mind of Betty; though we did not think it necessary to
  assign this cause sooner, as envy itself alone was adequate to all the
  effects we have mentioned.
  
  Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with
  regard to Molly; but as to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of
  tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most violent perturbation;
  his heart was now, if I may use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and
  Sophia took absolute possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded
  passion, and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had for him; yet
  could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent
  of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by
  any base or treacherous method.
  
  The injury which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which
  would accrue to Mr Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him
  all day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a
  constant struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately
  triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the
  absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house, and to see her no
  more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and
  determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the
  forfeiture of what was much dearer to him.
  
  This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects:
  for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and
  became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in
  company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr
  Western's humour, the constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to
  have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to
  conceal by such ostentation.
  
  It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to
  conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to
  reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever
  reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to
  her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature
  was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the
  young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes
  accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his
  countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged
  him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue was
  sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame,
  trembled. And if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the
  idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal from his
  bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to
  throw daily in his way.
  
  All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of
  Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was
  at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her
  own breast. And this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which
  hath been so often noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently
  account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her father.
  
  But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of
  accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we
  must observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one
  which will serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others.
  From whence is it that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to
  those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest
  man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general
  sympathy among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign
  of communication. In reality, it is only because they have the same
  thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way.
  Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain
  symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the
  idea of love never entered into the head of the father, whereas the
  daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
  
  When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented
  poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she
  had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his
  present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her
  mind two of the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a
  mistress--these were, esteem and pity--for sure the most outrageously
  rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw
  miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one
  who visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother
  a flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was
  preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his
  shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the
  most diligent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates; and wrought
  so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt for
  him all those gentle sensations which are consistent with a virtuous
  and elevated female mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and
  pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man--indeed, all which
  the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to
  distraction.
  
  One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end
  of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones
  had formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia
  had there lost.
  
  This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used
  to ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident
  which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds
  of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.
  
  Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together
  before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A
  bystander would have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the
  countenance of each; but they felt too much themselves to make any
  observation. As soon as Jones had a little recovered his first
  surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the ordinary forms
  of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their
  conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning.
  Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched
  forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had
  formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him
  of that accident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little
  shuddering when you see that water.”--“I assure you, madam,” answered
  Jones, “the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will
  always appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor
  little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little
  wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in
  which I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment
  for his ingratitude.”--“Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your
  gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance
  must affect you.”--“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason
  to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not
  been a little deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter
  heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.”--“Fie, Mr
  Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This
  affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me.
  You would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured
  it for my sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words
  with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a
  sigh, “He feared it was already too late for caution:” and then
  looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, “Oh, Miss Western!
  can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?” Sophia, looking
  down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones,
  I do not wish you ill.”--“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,”
   cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond every other
  charm.”--“Nay, now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can stay
  no longer.”--“I--I would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can't
  be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so
  unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I
  have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would
  rather have died--nay, the very thought would kill me.”--“You surprize
  me,” answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended
  me?”--“Fear, madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is
  no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I
  speak then? Nay, don't look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me.
  I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I
  saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have
  struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal
  a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it
  impossible for me ever to offend you more.”
  
  Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of
  an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his,
  answered in these words: “Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand
  you; indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven's sake, if you
  have any affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the
  house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither.”
  
  Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm,
  which she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a
  word more to her of this nature at present. He promised he would not;
  insisting only on her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of
  his will, had forced from him: this, she told him, he knew how to
  obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and
  trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his
  mistress, though it was locked in his.
  
  Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the
  hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only
  relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which,
  as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader
  hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next
  chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
  
  
  Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part
  with him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either
  from the love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily
  persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a
  fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy's;
  nay, without ever hearing from thence.
  
  Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had
  been attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as
  it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not
  confine him to his bed, or prevent his several faculties from
  performing their ordinary functions;--a conduct which we would by no
  means be thought to approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the
  gentlemen of the Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that
  the moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician should
  be introduced at the other: what else is meant by that old adage,
  _Venienti occurrite morbo?_ “Oppose a distemper at its first
  approach.” Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal
  conflict; whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him
  to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army; so that the
  learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible,
  to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time the disease
  applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature over to
  his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late.
  Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the
  great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late
  applications which were made to his skill, saying, “Bygar, me believe
  my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me till de
  physicion have kill dem.”
  
  Mr Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such
  ground, that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for
  assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he
  had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very
  imminent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this
  world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human nature to
  be for the other, received this information with the utmost calmness
  and unconcern. He could, indeed, whenever he laid himself down to
  rest, say with Cato in the tragical poem--
  
                                 Let guilt or fear
       Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;
       Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.
  
  In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and
  confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the antient or
  modern heroes; for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be
  considered as a faithful labourer, when at the end of harvest he is
  summoned to receive his reward at the hands of a bountiful master.
  
  The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned
  round him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs Blifil, who had
  been some time in London, and Mr Jones, whom the reader hath just
  parted from at Mr Western's, and who received this summons just as
  Sophia had left him.
  
  The news of Mr Allworthy's danger (for the servant told him he was
  dying) drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried
  instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the
  coachman to drive with all imaginable haste; nor did the idea of
  Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the way.
  
  And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr Thwackum, Mr
  Square, and some of the servants (for such were Mr Allworthy's orders)
  being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was
  beginning to speak, when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to
  express very loud and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr Allworthy
  shook him by the hand, and said, “Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew,
  at the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal
  our friends we are justly grieved; for those are accidents which might
  often have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one
  man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others; but death is
  certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot in which alone the
  fortunes of all men agree: nor is the time when this happens to us
  very material. If the wisest of men hath compared life to a span,
  surely we may be allowed to consider it as a day. It is my fate to
  leave it in the evening; but those who are taken away earlier have
  only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting, and much
  oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. One of the
  Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life to our departure from
  a feast;--a thought which hath often occurred to me when I have seen
  men struggling to protract an entertainment, and to enjoy the company
  of their friends a few moments longer. Alas! how short is the most
  protracted of such enjoyments! how immaterial the difference between
  him who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest! This is
  seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to quit our
  friends is the most amiable motive from which we can derive the fear
  of death; and yet the longest enjoyment which we can hope for of this
  kind is of so trivial a duration, that it is to a wise man truly
  contemptible. Few men, I own, think in this manner; for, indeed, few
  men think of death till they are in its jaws. However gigantic and
  terrible an object this may appear when it approaches them, they are
  nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any distance; nay, though they
  have been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have
  apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner cleared
  from this apprehension than even the fears of it are erased from their
  minds. But, alas! he who escapes from death is not pardoned; he is
  only reprieved, and reprieved to a short day.
  
  “Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: an event
  which may happen every hour; which every element, nay, almost every
  particle of matter that surrounds us is capable of producing, and
  which must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought
  neither to occasion our surprize nor our lamentation.
  
  “My physician having acquainted me (which I take very kindly of him)
  that I am in danger of leaving you all very shortly, I have determined
  to say a few words to you at this our parting, before my distemper,
  which I find grows very fast upon me, puts it out of my power.
  
  “But I shall waste my strength too much. I intended to speak
  concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, I think
  proper to mention such heads of it as concern any of you, that I may
  have the comfort of perceiving you are all satisfied with the
  provision I have there made for you.
  
  “Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only
  £500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother,
  and except one other estate of £500 a-year, and the sum of £6000,
  which I have bestowed in the following manner:
  
  “The estate of £500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: and as I
  know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have
  added £1000 in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or
  fallen short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given
  you too little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for
  giving you too much; but the latter censure I despise; and as to the
  former, unless you should entertain that common error which I have
  often heard in my life pleaded as an excuse for a total want of
  charity, namely, that instead of raising gratitude by voluntary acts
  of bounty, we are apt to raise demands, which of all others are the
  most boundless and most difficult to satisfy.--Pardon me the bare
  mention of this; I will not suspect any such thing.”
  
  Jones flung himself at his benefactor's feet, and taking eagerly hold
  of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now and all other
  times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit but his hopes,
  that no words could express his sense of it. “And I assure you, sir,”
   said he, “your present generosity hath left me no other concern than
  for the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father!” Here
  his words choaked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was
  starting from his eyes.
  
  Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus: “I am
  convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and
  honour, in your temper: if you will add prudence and religion to
  these, you must be happy; for the three former qualities, I admit,
  make you worthy of happiness, but they are the latter only which will
  put you in possession of it.
  
  “One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; a sum I am
  convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as well as your wants.
  However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship; and
  whatever superfluities may redound to you, that piety which you so
  rigidly maintain will instruct you how to dispose of them.
  
  “A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, I hope, will
  enable you to pursue your profession with better success than
  hitherto. I have often observed with concern, that distress is more
  apt to excite contempt than commiseration, especially among men of
  business, with whom poverty is understood to indicate want of ability.
  But the little I have been able to leave you will extricate you from
  those difficulties with which you have formerly struggled; and then I
  doubt not but you will meet with sufficient prosperity to supply what
  a man of your philosophical temper will require.
  
  “I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will for my
  disposition of the residue. My servants will there find some tokens to
  remember me by; and there are a few charities which, I trust, my
  executors will see faithfully performed. Bless you all. I am setting
  out a little before you.”--
  
  Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there was an
  attorney from Salisbury who had a particular message, which he said he
  must communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: that he seemed in a violent
  hurry, and protested he had so much business to do, that, if he could
  cut himself into four quarters, all would not be sufficient.
  
  “Go, child,” said Allworthy to Blifil, “see what the gentleman wants.
  I am not able to do any business now, nor can he have any with me, in
  which you are not at present more concerned than myself. Besides, I
  really am--I am incapable of seeing any one at present, or of any
  longer attention.” He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps he should
  be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose
  himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits
  in discourse.
  
  Some of the company shed tears at their parting; and even the
  philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood.
  As to Mrs Wilkins, she dropt her pearls as fast as the Arabian trees
  their medicinal gums; for this was a ceremonial which that gentlewoman
  never omitted on a proper occasion.
  
  After this Mr Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow, and
  endeavoured to compose himself to rest.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
  
  
  Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny
  stream which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous cheek-bones
  of the housekeeper. She was no sooner retired, than she began to
  mutter to herself in the following pleasant strain: “Sure master might
  have made some difference, methinks, between me and the other
  servants. I suppose he hath left me mourning; but, i'fackins! if that
  be all, the devil shall wear it for him, for me. I'd have his worship
  know I am no beggar. I have saved five hundred pound in his service,
  and after all to be used in this manner.--It is a fine encouragement
  to servants to be honest; and to be sure, if I have taken a little
  something now and then, others have taken ten times as much; and now
  we are all put in a lump together. If so be that it be so, the legacy
  may go to the devil with him that gave it. No, I won't give it up
  neither, because that will please some folks. No, I'll buy the gayest
  gown I can get, and dance over the old curmudgeon's grave in it. This
  is my reward for taking his part so often, when all the country have
  cried shame of him, for breeding up his bastard in that manner; but he
  is going now where he must pay for all. It would have become him
  better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed, than to glory in
  them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten
  child. Found in his bed, forsooth! a pretty story! ay, ay, those that
  hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I warrant he hath many more
  bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. One comfort is, they
  will all be known where he is a going now.--`The servants will find
  some token to remember me by.' Those were the very words; I shall
  never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall
  remember you for huddling me among the servants. One would have
  thought he might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but
  he is a gentleman forsooth, though he had not cloths on his back when
  he came hither first. Marry come up with such gentlemen! though he
  hath lived here this many years, I don't believe there is arrow a
  servant in the house ever saw the colour of his money. The devil shall
  wait upon such a gentleman for me.” Much more of the like kind she
  muttered to herself; but this taste shall suffice to the reader.
  
  Neither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied with their
  legacies. Though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from
  the discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from
  the following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in
  their minds.
  
  About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackum
  in the hall and accosted him thus: “Well, sir, have you heard any news
  of your friend since we parted from him?”--“If you mean Mr Allworthy,”
   answered Thwackum, “I think you might rather give him the appellation
  of your friend; for he seems to me to have deserved that title.”--“The
  title is as good on your side,” replied Square, “for his bounty, such
  as it is, hath been equal to both.”--“I should not have mentioned it
  first,” cries Thwackum, “but since you begin, I must inform you I am
  of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary
  favours and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care
  I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which
  some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you
  imagine I am therefore dissatisfied; for St Paul hath taught me to
  be content with the little I have. Had the modicum been less, I
  should have known my duty. But though the Scriptures obliges me to
  remain contented, it doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own
  merit, nor restrain me from seeing when I am injured by an unjust
  comparison.”--“Since you provoke me,” returned Square, “that injury is
  done to me; nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my friendship
  so light, as to put me in balance with one who received his wages. I
  know to what it is owing; it proceeds from those narrow principles
  which you have been so long endeavouring to infuse into him, in
  contempt of everything which is great and noble. The beauty and
  loveliness of friendship is too strong for dim eyes, nor can it be
  perceived by any other medium than that unerring rule of right, which
  you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have perverted
  your friend's understanding.”--“I wish,” cries Thwackum, in a rage, “I
  wish, for the sake of his soul, your damnable doctrines have not
  perverted his faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so
  unbecoming a Christian. Who but an atheist could think of leaving the
  world without having first made up his account? without confessing his
  sins, and receiving that absolution which he knew he had one in the
  house duly authorized to give him? He will feel the want of these
  necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that place
  where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find
  in what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and
  all other deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon
  his priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament the want
  of that absolution, without which no sinner can be safe.”--“If it be
  so material,” says Square, “why don't you present it him of your own
  accord?” “It hath no virtue,” cries Thwackum, “but to those who have
  sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to a heathen
  and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this lesson, for which
  you have been well rewarded in this world, as I doubt not your
  disciple will soon be in the other.”--“I know not what you mean by
  reward,” said Square; “but if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our
  friendship, which he hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise it;
  and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should
  prevail on me to accept it.”
  
  The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputants,
  how we all did above-stairs? “In a miserable way,” answered Thwackum.
  “It is no more than I expected,” cries the doctor: “but pray what
  symptoms have appeared since I left you?”--“No good ones, I am
  afraid,” replied Thwackum: “after what past at our departure, I think
  there were little hopes.” The bodily physician, perhaps, misunderstood
  the curer of souls; and before they came to an explanation, Mr Blifil
  came to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted them
  that he brought sad news, that his mother was dead at Salisbury; that
  she had been seized on the road home with the gout in her head and
  stomach, which had carried her off in a few hours. “Good-lack-a-day!”
   says the doctor. “One cannot answer for events; but I wish I had been
  at hand, to have been called in. The gout is a distemper which it is
  difficult to treat; yet I have been remarkably successful in it.”
   Thwackum and Square both condoled with Mr Blifil for the loss of his
  mother, which the one advised him to bear like a man, and the other
  like a Christian. The young gentleman said he knew very well we were
  all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his loss as well as he
  could. That he could not, however, help complaining a little against
  the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news of so great
  a calamity to him by surprize, and that at a time when he hourly
  expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the malice
  of fortune. He said, the present occasion would put to the test those
  excellent rudiments which he had learnt from Mr Thwackum and Mr
  Square; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to
  survive such misfortunes.
  
  It was now debated whether Mr Allworthy should be informed of the
  death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I
  believe, the whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said,
  he had received such positive and repeated orders from his uncle,
  never to keep any secret from him for fear of the disquietude which it
  might give him, that he durst not think of disobedience, whatever
  might be the consequence. He said, for his part, considering the
  religious and philosophic temper of his uncle, he could not agree with
  the doctor in his apprehensions. He was therefore resolved to
  communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered (as he heartily
  prayed he might) he knew he would never forgive an endeavour to keep a
  secret of this kind from him.
  
  The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two
  other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr
  Blifil and the doctor toward the sick-room; where the physician first
  entered, and approached the bed, in order to feel his patient's pulse,
  which he had no sooner done, than he declared he was much better; that
  the last application had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the
  fever to intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as
  little danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes.
  
  To say the truth, Mr Allworthy's situation had never been so bad as
  the great caution of the doctor had represented it: but as a wise
  general never despises his enemy, however inferior that enemy's force
  may be, so neither doth a wise physician ever despise a distemper,
  however inconsiderable. As the former preserves the same strict
  discipline, places the same guards, and employs the same scouts,
  though the enemy be never so weak; so the latter maintains the same
  gravity of countenance, and shakes his head with the same significant
  air, let the distemper be never so trifling. And both, among many
  other good ones, may assign this solid reason for their conduct, that
  by these means the greater glory redounds to them if they gain the
  victory, and the less disgrace if by any unlucky accident they should
  happen to be conquered.
  
  Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for
  these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew near, with a very
  dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye,
  either to wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses
  himself on another occasion
  
       _Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,_
  
       If there be none, then wipe away that none,
  
  he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before
  acquainted with.
  
  Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with
  resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed his countenance,
  and at last cried, “The Lord's will be done in everything.”
  
  He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it had been
  impossible to detain him a moment; for he appeared by the great hurry
  he was in to have some business of importance on his hands; that he
  complained of being hurried and driven and torn out of his life, and
  repeated many times, that if he could divide himself into four
  quarters, he knew how to dispose of every one.
  
  Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he
  would have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the
  particulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning the
  person whom he would have employed on this occasion.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of
  Aeschines, that “drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirrour
  reflects his person.”
  
  
  The reader may perhaps wonder at hearing nothing of Mr Jones in the
  last chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so different from that of the
  persons there mentioned, that we chose not to confound his name with
  theirs.
  
  When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the last who
  deserted the room. Thence he retired to his own apartment, to give
  vent to his concern; but the restlessness of his mind would not suffer
  him to remain long there; he slipped softly therefore to Allworthy's
  chamber-door, where he listened a considerable time without hearing
  any kind of motion within, unless a violent snoring, which at last his
  fears misrepresented as groans. This so alarmed him, that he could not
  forbear entering the room; where he found the good man in the bed, in
  a sweet composed sleep, and his nurse snoring in the above mentioned
  hearty manner, at the bed's feet. He immediately took the only method
  of silencing this thorough bass, whose music he feared might disturb
  Mr Allworthy; and then sitting down by the nurse, he remained
  motionless till Blifil and the doctor came in together and waked the
  sick man, in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and that the
  other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had Jones
  been apprized of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its
  way to Mr Allworthy's ear at such a season.
  
  When he first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones could
  hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other's
  indiscretion, especially as the doctor shook his head, and declared
  his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as
  his passion did not so far deprive him of all use of his
  understanding, as to hide from him the consequences which any violent
  expression towards Blifil might have on the sick, this apprehension
  stilled his rage at the present; and he grew afterwards so satisfied
  with finding that this news had, in fact, produced no mischief, that
  he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom, without ever mentioning
  it to Blifil.
  
  The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy's; and having after
  dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company, and told them,
  that he had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his
  patient was out of all danger: that he had brought his fever to a
  perfect intermission, and doubted not by throwing in the bark to
  prevent its return.
  
  This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate
  excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with
  joy--an intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and
  as he was very free too with the bottle on this occasion (for he drank
  many bumpers to the doctor's health, as well as to other toasts) he
  became very soon literally drunk.
  
  Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set on float
  and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most extravagant
  effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him with the most
  passionate endearments; swearing that next to Mr Allworthy himself, he
  loved him of all men living. “Doctor,” added he, “you deserve a statue
  to be erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a
  man, who is not only the darling of all good men who know him, but a
  blessing to society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human
  nature. D--n me if I don't love him better than my own soul.”
  
  “More shame for you,” cries Thwackum. “Though I think you have reason
  to love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And perhaps it
  might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to see
  just reason of revoking his gift.”
  
  Jones now looking on Thwackum with inconceivable disdain, answered,
  “And doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could
  weigh with me? No, let the earth open and swallow her own dirt (if I
  had millions of acres I would say it) rather than swallow up my dear
  glorious friend.”
  
       _Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
       Tam chari capitis?_[*]
  
    [*] “What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear
    a friend?” The word _desiderium_ here cannot be easily translated.
    It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief
    which attends that desire.
  
  The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which
  was kindling between Jones and Thwackum; after which the former gave a
  loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every
  frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but so far was
  he from any disposition to quarrel, that he was ten times better
  humoured, if possible, than when he was sober.
  
  To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation,
  that men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are
  very worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth
  not reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in
  them before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently
  forces us to produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art
  enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally
  indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry
  temper, the amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious,
  and all other dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and
  exposed.
  
  And yet as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially
  among the lower people, as England (for indeed, with them, to drink
  and to fight together are almost synonymous terms), I would not,
  methinks, have it thence concluded, that the English are the
  worst-natured people alive. Perhaps the love of glory only is at the
  bottom of this; so that the fair conclusion seems to be, that our
  countrymen have more of that love, and more of bravery, than any other
  plebeians. And this the rather, as there is seldom anything
  ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured, exercised on these occasions: nay,
  it is common for the combatants to express good-will for each other
  even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth generally
  ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship.
  
  But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no design of
  giving offence, yet Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which
  was so inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own
  temper. He bore it too with the greater impatience, as it appeared to
  him very indecent at this season; “When,” as he said, “the house was a
  house of mourning, on the account of his dear mother; and if it had
  pleased Heaven to give him some prospect of Mr Allworthy's recovery,
  it would become them better to express the exultations of their hearts
  in thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and riots; which were properer
  methods to encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it.” Thwackum, who
  had swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on
  his brain, seconded the pious harangue of Blifil; but Square, for
  reasons which the reader may probably guess, was totally silent.
  
  Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his
  recollecting Mr Blifil's loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no
  person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn his own
  errors, he offered to shake Mr Blifil by the hand, and begged his
  pardon, saying, “His excessive joy for Mr Allworthy's recovery had
  driven every other thought out of his mind.”
  
  Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indignation
  answered, “It was little to be wondered at, if tragical spectacles
  made no impression on the blind; but, for his part, he had the
  misfortune to know who his parents were, and consequently must be
  affected with their loss.”
  
  Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mixture of the
  irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair, and
  catching hold of Blifil's collar, cried out, “D--n you for a rascal,
  do you insult me with the misfortune of my birth?” He accompanied
  these words with such rough actions, that they soon got the better of
  Mr Blifil's peaceful temper; and a scuffle immediately ensued, which
  might have produced mischief, had it not been prevented by the
  interposition of Thwackum and the physician; for the philosophy of
  Square rendered him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly
  smoaked his pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when he
  apprehended some danger of having it broke in his mouth.
  
  The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on
  each other, betook themselves to the common resources of disappointed
  rage, and vented their wrath in threats and defiance. In this kind of
  conflict, Fortune, which, in the personal attack, seemed to incline to
  Jones, was now altogether as favourable to his enemy.
  
  A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on, by the mediation of
  the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the
  table; where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil to
  give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed _in statu quo_.
  
  But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled,
  the good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means
  restored. All merriment was now at an end, and the subsequent
  discourse consisted only of grave relations of matters of fact, and of
  as grave observations upon them; a species of conversation, in which,
  though there is much of dignity and instruction, there is but little
  entertainment. As we presume therefore to convey only this last to the
  reader, we shall pass by whatever was said, till the rest of the
  company having by degrees dropped off, left only Square and the
  physician together; at which time the conversation was a little
  heightened by some comments on what had happened between the two young
  gentlemen; both of whom the doctor declared to be no better than
  scoundrels; to which appellation the philosopher, very sagaciously
  shaking his head, agreed.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of other more
  grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that wine is
  often the forerunner of incontinency.
  
  
  Jones retired from the company, in which we have seen him engaged,
  into the fields, where he intended to cool himself by a walk in the
  open air before he attended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed
  those meditations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of
  his friend and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident
  happened, which with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will
  it be read; however, that historic truth to which we profess so
  inviolable an attachment, obliges us to communicate it to posterity.
  
  It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our
  heroe was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes
  fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring
  stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the
  most enchanting harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to
  love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed
  unbounded over all her beauties, and his lively imagination painted
  the charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted
  with tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground, by the
  side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the following
  ejaculation:
  
  “O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest would be my
  condition! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us. Was
  I but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is
  there a man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the
  brightest Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies,
  appear to my eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think
  my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, these hands
  should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, if cruel fortune
  separates us for ever, my soul shall doat on thee alone. The chastest
  constancy will I ever preserve to thy image. Though I should never
  have possession of thy charming person, still shalt thou alone have
  possession of my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so
  wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me
  have no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their embraces.
  Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures are in that name! I
  will engrave it on every tree.”
  
  At these words he started up, and beheld--not his Sophia--no, nor a
  Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the grand Signior's
  seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that was somewhat of the
  coarsest, and none of the cleanest, bedewed likewise with some
  odoriferous effluvia, the produce of the day's labour, with a
  pitchfork in her hand, Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his
  penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned
  purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cryed
  out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”--“Why
  should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied
  she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me
  would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”
  
  Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to
  relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full
  quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the
  thickest part of the grove.
  
  Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event unnatural.
  However, the fact is true; and perhaps may be sufficiently accounted
  for by suggesting, that Jones probably thought one woman better than
  none, and Molly as probably imagined two men to be better than one.
  Besides the before-mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour
  of Jones, the reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his
  favour, that he was not at this time perfect master of that wonderful
  power of reason, which so well enables grave and wise men to subdue
  their unruly passions, and to decline any of these prohibited
  amusements. Wine now had totally subdued this power in Jones. He was,
  indeed, in a condition, in which, if reason had interposed, though
  only to advise, she might have received the answer which one
  Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked him, if
  he was not ashamed to be drunk? “Are not you,” said Cleostratus,
  “ashamed to admonish a drunken man?”--To say the truth, in a court of
  justice drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in a court of
  conscience it is greatly so; and therefore Aristotle, who commends the
  laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men received double punishment for
  their crimes, allows there is more of policy than justice in that law.
  Now, if there are any transgressions pardonable from drunkenness, they
  are certainly such as Mr Jones was at present guilty of; on which head
  I could pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I imagined it
  would either entertain my reader, or teach him anything more than he
  knows already. For his sake therefore I shall keep my learning to
  myself, and return to my history.
  
  It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by halves. To
  say truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever she is disposed to
  gratify or displease. No sooner had our heroe retired with his Dido,
  but
  
       _Speluncam_ Blifil _dux et divinus eandem
       Deveniunt--_
  
  the parson and the young squire, who were taking a serious walk,
  arrived at the stile which leads into the grove, and the latter caught
  a view of the lovers just as they were sinking out of sight.
  
  Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred yards'
  distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his companion, though
  not to the individual person. He started, blessed himself, and uttered
  a very solemn ejaculation.
  
  Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, and asked
  the reason of them. To which Blifil answered, “He was certain he had
  seen a fellow and wench retire together among the bushes, which he
  doubted not was with some wicked purpose.” As to the name of Jones, he
  thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the
  judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives
  to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being
  mistaken.
  
  The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own person, but a
  great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at this
  information. He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him immediately to the
  place, which as he approached he breathed forth vengeance mixed with
  lamentations; nor did he refrain from casting some oblique reflections
  on Mr Allworthy; insinuating that the wickedness of the country was
  principally owing to the encouragement he had given to vice, by having
  exerted such kindness to a bastard, and by having mitigated that just
  and wholesome rigour of the law which allots a very severe punishment
  to loose wenches.
  
  The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit of their
  game was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed their walk,
  and caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had sufficient warning
  of their arrival before they could surprize him; nay, indeed, so
  incapable was Thwackum of concealing his indignation, and such
  vengeance did he mutter forth every step he took, that this alone must
  have abundantly satisfied Jones that he was (to use the language of
  sportsmen) found sitting.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile introduces as bloody a
  battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or
  cold iron.
  
  
  As in the season of _rutting_ (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar
  denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of
  Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the
  lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, a couple of puppies,
  or any other beasts of hostile note, should wander so near the temple
  of Venus Ferina that the fair hind should shrink from the place,
  touched with that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of nicety or
  skittishness, with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at
  least instructed them how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy
  of males, the Samean mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed
  eyes: for, at the celebration of these rites, the female priestess
  cries out with her in Virgil (who was then, probably, hard at work on
  such celebration),
  
        _--Procul, o procul este, profani;
        Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco._
  
        --Far hence be souls profane,
        The sibyl cry'd, and from the grove abstain.--DRYDEN.
  
    [*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
    cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.
  
  If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to _genus
  omne animantium,_ are in agitation between the stag and his mistress,
  any hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by
  the frighted hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag to the
  entrance of the thicket; there stands he centinel over his love,
  stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft
  in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.
  
  Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the enemy's approach,
  leaped forth our heroe. Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to
  conceal the trembling hind, and, if possible, to secure her retreat.
  And now Thwackum, having first darted some livid lightning from his
  fiery eyes, began to thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr
  Jones. Is it possible you should be the person?”--“You see,” answered
  Jones, “it is possible I should be here.”--“And who,” said Thwackum,
  “is that wicked slut with you?”--“If I have any wicked slut with me,”
   cries Jones, “it is possible I shall not let you know who she is.”--“I
  command you to tell me immediately,” says Thwackum: “and I would not
  have you imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat
  abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the authority
  of the master. The relation of the master and scholar is indelible;
  as, indeed, all other relations are; for they all derive their
  original from heaven. I would have you think yourself, therefore, as
  much obliged to obey me now, as when I taught you your first
  rudiments.”--“I believe you would,” cries Jones; “but that will not
  happen, unless you had the same birchen argument to convince
  me.”--“Then I must tell you plainly,” said Thwackum, “I am resolved to
  discover the wicked wretch.”--“And I must tell you plainly,” returned
  Jones, “I am resolved you shall not.” Thwackum then offered to
  advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured
  to rescue, declaring, “he would not see his old master insulted.”
  
  Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to
  rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as possible. He
  therefore applied to the weakest first; and, letting the parson go, he
  directed a blow at the young squire's breast, which luckily taking
  place, reduced him to measure his length on the ground.
  
  Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found
  himself at liberty, he stept forward directly into the fern, without
  any great consideration of what might in the meantime befal his
  friend; but he had advanced a very few paces into the thicket, before
  Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook the parson, and dragged him
  backward by the skirt of his coat.
  
  This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour
  by his fist, both at school and at the university. He had now indeed,
  for a great number of years, declined the practice of that noble art;
  yet was his courage full as strong as his faith, and his body no less
  strong than either. He was moreover, as the reader may perhaps have
  conceived, somewhat irascible in his nature. When he looked back,
  therefore, and saw his friend stretched out on the ground, and found
  himself at the same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly
  been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which
  highly aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; he
  threw himself into a posture of offence; and collecting all his force,
  attacked Jones in the front with as much impetuosity as he had
  formerly attacked him in the rear.
  
  Our heroe received the enemy's attack with the most undaunted
  intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he presently
  returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the parson's
  breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist of Jones, so that it
  reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and as many of
  pudding were then deposited, and whence consequently no hollow sound
  could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to
  have seen, than to read or describe, were given on both sides: at last
  a violent fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum's
  breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had been no longer
  dubious, had not Blifil, who had now recovered his strength, again
  renewed the fight, and by engaging with Jones, given the parson a
  moment's time to shake his ears, and to regain his breath.
  
  And now both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain
  that force with which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by
  his combat with Thwackum; for though the pedagogue chose rather to
  play _solos_ on the human instrument, and had been lately used to
  those only, yet he still retained enough of his antient knowledge to
  perform his part very well in a _duet_.
  
  The victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by
  numbers, when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the
  battle, and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the
  owner of them at the same time crying out, “Are not you ashamed, and
  be d--n'd to you, to fall two of you upon one?”
  
  The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction's sake is
  called royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes;
  till Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum
  condescended to apply for quarter to his new antagonist, who was now
  found to be Mr Western himself; for in the heat of the action none of
  the combatants had recognized him.
  
  In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon's walk with
  some company, to pass through the field where the bloody battle was
  fought, and having concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two
  of them must be on a side, he hastened from his companions, and with
  more gallantry than policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By
  which generous proceeding he very probably prevented Mr Jones from
  becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the pious
  friendship which Blifil bore his old master; for, besides the
  disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered
  the former strength of his broken arm. This reinforcement, however,
  soon put an end to the action, and Jones with his ally obtained the
  victory.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the
  bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of
  producing.
  
  
  The rest of Mr Western's company were now come up, being just at the
  instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman,
  whom we have formerly seen at Mr Western's table; Mrs Western, the
  aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.
  
  At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one
  place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the
  vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered
  with blood, part of which was naturally his own, and part had been
  lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place
  stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the
  conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most
  gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.
  
  Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the
  principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs
  Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was
  herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the
  attention of the whole company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose
  spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an opportunity
  of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.
  
  For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless
  before them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who,
  from the sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some
  other reason, had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to
  her assistance.
  
  Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three
  voices cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every
  remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.
  
  The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we
  mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such
  gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose
  than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook
  with a higher honour than any of those which wash the plains of
  Arcadia ever deserved.
  
  Jones was rubbing Blifil's temples, for he began to fear he had given
  him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at
  once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to
  Sophia, whom, while all the rest were running against each other,
  backward and forward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up
  in his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the rivulet
  above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived
  to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.
  
  Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her
  other friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from
  obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways before they knew what
  he was doing, and he had actually restored her to life before they
  reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes,
  and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the parson
  came up.
  
  Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now
  relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender
  caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not
  have escaped her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no
  displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently
  recovered from her swoon at the time.
  
  This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In
  this our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he
  probably felt more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she
  herself received from being saved, so neither were the congratulations
  paid to her equal to what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr
  Western himself, who, after having once or twice embraced his
  daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the
  preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or
  his estate, which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he
  afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch
  (for so he called his favourite mare).
  
  All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the
  squire's consideration.--“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d'off thy
  quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise
  thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we'l
  zee to vind thee another quoat.”
  
  Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the
  water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much
  exposed and as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear
  off the blood, it could not remove the black and blue marks which
  Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and breast, and which, being
  discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look full of
  inexpressible tenderness.
  
  Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger
  effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An
  effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that,
  had all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have
  prevented his feeling their smart.
  
  The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had
  got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish,
  that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which
  Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold
  iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then
  would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles
  between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of
  several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves,
  might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be
  this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead
  men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr
  Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle,
  as should be previously agreed on.
  
  I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest
  grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may
  cry pish at it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided
  by the greater number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes,
  as by the greater heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might
  not towns be contended for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be
  thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest, since they
  would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the
  superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and
  generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline
  putting themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase
  is, making themselves his match.
  
  But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall
  content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my
  narrative.
  
  Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel.
  To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said
  surlily, “I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes
  well you may find her.”--“Find her?” replied Western: “what! have you
  been fighting for a wench?”--“Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat
  there,” said Thwackum: “he best knows.” “Nay then,” cries Western, “it
  is a wench certainly.--Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But
  come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final
  peace over a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum: “it is
  no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously
  treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my
  duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot;
  but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself;
  for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will
  soon rid the country of these vermin.”
  
  “I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. “I think we
  ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day
  losing in the war.--But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then
  began to beat about, in the same language and in the same manner as if
  he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is
  not far off. Here's her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry stole
  away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now discovered the place
  whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray, stolen away,
  upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.
  
  Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself
  very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied
  with his daughter's request (for he was the fondest of parents). He
  earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup
  with him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former
  saying, there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he
  must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly)
  that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen at any
  place in his present condition.
  
  Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia;
  so on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson
  bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his
  brother Thwackum, professing his regard for the cloth would not permit
  him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no
  great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.
  
  Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this
  history.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK VI.
  
  CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Of love.
  
  
  In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the
  passion of love; and in our succeeding book shall be forced to handle
  this subject still more largely. It may not therefore in this place be
  improper to apply ourselves to the examination of that modern
  doctrine, by which certain philosophers, among many other wonderful
  discoveries, pretend to have found out, that there is no such passion
  in the human breast.
  
  Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect, who
  are honourably mentioned by the late Dr Swift, as having, by the mere
  force of genius alone, without the least assistance of any kind of
  learning, or even reading, discovered that profound and invaluable
  secret that there is no God; or whether they are not rather the same
  with those who some years since very much alarmed the world, by
  showing that there were no such things as virtue or goodness really
  existing in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from pride,
  I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined to
  suspect, that all these several finders of truth, are the very
  identical men who are by others called the finders of gold. The method
  used in both these searches after truth and after gold, being indeed
  one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, and examining into a
  nasty place; indeed, in the former instances, into the nastiest of all
  places, A BAD MIND.
  
  But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the
  truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be compared
  together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between
  the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder that had the impudence or
  folly to assert, from the ill success of his search, that there was no
  such thing as gold in the world? whereas the truth-finder, having
  raked out that jakes, his own mind, and being there capable of tracing
  no ray of divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or
  loving, very fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such
  things exist in the whole creation.
  
  To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these
  philosophers, if they will be called so; and to show our own
  disposition to accommodate matters peaceably between us, we shall here
  make them some concessions, which may possibly put an end to the
  dispute.
  
  First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the
  philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a
  passion.
  
  Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of
  satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate
  white human flesh, is by no means that passion for which I here
  contend. This is indeed more properly hunger; and as no glutton is
  ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, and to say he LOVES
  such and such dishes; so may the lover of this kind, with equal
  propriety, say, he HUNGERS after such and such women.
  
  Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable
  concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, though it
  satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth nevertheless
  seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest of all our
  appetites.
  
  And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a
  different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to
  call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above; and which
  it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its delights to a
  degree scarce imaginable by those who have never been susceptible of
  any other emotions than what have proceeded from appetite alone.
  
  In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers to
  grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human breasts a kind
  and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by contributing to the
  happiness of others. That in this gratification alone, as in
  friendship, in parental and filial affection, as indeed in general
  philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite delight. That if we will
  not call such disposition love, we have no name for it. That though
  the pleasures arising from such pure love may be heightened and
  sweetened by the assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can
  subsist alone, nor are they destroyed by the intervention of the
  latter. Lastly, that esteem and gratitude are the proper motives to
  love, as youth and beauty are to desire, and, therefore, though such
  desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness overtakes its object;
  yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or remove, from a
  good mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and esteem
  for its basis.
  
  To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest
  instances, seems to be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed
  only from that self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but how
  unfair is this! Doth the man who recognizes in his own heart no traces
  of avarice or ambition, conclude, therefore, that there are no such
  passions in human nature? Why will we not modestly observe the same
  rule in judging of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or why, in
  any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, “put the world in our own
  person?”
  
  Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is
  one instance of that adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and
  this almost universally. For there is scarce any man, how much soever
  he may despise the character of a flatterer, but will condescend in
  the meanest manner to flatter himself.
  
  To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above observations,
  whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have advanced.
  
  Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do believe
  these matters with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their
  exemplification in the following pages: if you do not, you have, I
  assure you, already read more than you have understood; and it would
  be wiser to pursue your business, or your pleasures (such as they
  are), than to throw away any more of your time in reading what you can
  neither taste nor comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to you,
  must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind;
  since possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we are
  told such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; that
  colour seemed to him to be very much like the sound of a trumpet: and
  love probably may, in your opinion, very greatly resemble a dish of
  soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and knowledge of the
  world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived from
  those advantages.
  
  
  The reader hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daughter, with young
  Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr Western's house, where the
  greater part of the company spent the evening with much joy and
  festivity. Sophia was indeed the only grave person; for as to Jones,
  though love had now gotten entire possession of his heart, yet the
  pleasing reflection on Mr Allworthy's recovery, and the presence of
  his mistress, joined to some tender looks which she now and then could
  not refrain from giving him, so elevated our heroe, that he joined the
  mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as good-humoured people as
  any in the world.
  
  Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning at
  breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual, leaving her
  father and aunt together. The squire took no notice of this change in
  his daughter's disposition. To say the truth, though he was somewhat
  of a politician, and had been twice a candidate in the country
  interest at an election, he was a man of no great observation. His
  sister was a lady of a different turn. She had lived about the court,
  and had seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that knowledge
  which the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect mistress
  of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her erudition
  stop here. She had considerably improved her mind by study; she had
  not only read all the modern plays, operas, oratorios, poems, and
  romances--in all which she was a critic; but had gone through Rapin's
  History of England, Eachard's Roman History, and many French _Mémoires
  pour servir à l'Histoire_: to these she had added most of the
  political pamphlets and journals published within the last twenty
  years. From which she had attained a very competent skill in politics,
  and could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of Europe. She was,
  moreover, excellently well skilled in the doctrine of amour, and knew
  better than anybody who and who were together; a knowledge which she
  the more easily attained, as her pursuit of it was never diverted by
  any affairs of her own; for either she had no inclinations, or they
  had never been solicited; which last is indeed very probable; for her
  masculine person, which was near six foot high, added to her manner
  and learning, possibly prevented the other sex from regarding her,
  notwithstanding her petticoats, in the light of a woman. However, as
  she had considered the matter scientifically, she perfectly well knew,
  though she had never practised them, all the arts which fine ladies
  use when they desire to give encouragement, or to conceal liking, with
  all the long appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, &c., as they are at
  present practised in the beau-monde. To sum the whole, no species of
  disguise or affectation had escaped her notice; but as to the plain
  simple workings of honest nature, as she had never seen any such, she
  could know but little of them.
  
  By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, as she
  thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The
  first hint of this she took from the behaviour of the young lady in
  the field of battle; and the suspicion which she then conceived, was
  greatly corroborated by some observations which she had made that
  evening and the next morning. However, being greatly cautious to avoid
  being found in a mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight in
  her bosom, giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods,
  and now and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed sufficiently
  alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother.
  
  Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her
  observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when she was alone
  with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles in the following
  manner:--
  
  “Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary in my
  niece lately?”--“No, not I,” answered Western; “is anything the matter
  with the girl?”--“I think there is,” replied she; “and something of
  much consequence too.”--“Why, she doth not complain of anything,”
   cries Western; “and she hath had the small-pox.”--“Brother,” returned
  she, “girls are liable to other distempers besides the small-pox, and
  sometimes possibly to much worse.” Here Western interrupted her with
  much earnestness, and begged her, if anything ailed his daughter, to
  acquaint him immediately; adding, “she knew he loved her more than his
  own soul, and that he would send to the world's end for the best
  physician to her.” “Nay, nay,” answered she, smiling, “the distemper
  is not so terrible; but I believe, brother, you are convinced I know
  the world, and I promise you I was never more deceived in my life, if
  my niece be not most desperately in love.”--“How! in love!” cries
  Western, in a passion; “in love, without acquainting me! I'll
  disinherit her; I'll turn her out of doors, stark naked, without a
  farthing. Is all my kindness vor 'ur, and vondness o'ur come to this,
  to fall in love without asking me leave?”--“But you will not,”
   answered Mrs Western, “turn this daughter, whom you love better than
  your own soul, out of doors, before you know whether you shall approve
  her choice. Suppose she should have fixed on the very person whom you
  yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry then?”--“No, no,”
   cries Western, “that would make a difference. If she marries the man I
  would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan't trouble my head
  about that.” “That is spoken,” answered the sister, “like a sensible
  man; but I believe the very person she hath chosen would be the very
  person you would choose for her. I will disclaim all knowledge of the
  world, if it is not so; and I believe, brother, you will allow I have
  some.”--“Why, lookee, sister,” said Western, “I do believe you have as
  much as any woman; and to be sure those are women's matters. You know
  I don't love to hear you talk about politics; they belong to us, and
  petticoats should not meddle: but come, who is the man?”--“Marry!”
   said she, “you may find him out yourself if you please. You, who are
  so great a politician, can be at no great loss. The judgment which can
  penetrate into the cabinets of princes, and discover the secret
  springs which move the great state wheels in all the political
  machines of Europe, must surely, with very little difficulty, find out
  what passes in the rude uninformed mind of a girl.”--“Sister,” cries
  the squire, “I have often warn'd you not to talk the court gibberish
  to me. I tell you, I don't understand the lingo: but I can read a
  journal, or the _London Evening Post._ Perhaps, indeed, there may be
  now and tan a verse which I can't make much of, because half the
  letters are left out; yet I know very well what is meant by that, and
  that our affairs don't go so well as they should do, because of
  bribery and corruption.”--“I pity your country ignorance from my
  heart,” cries the lady.--“Do you?” answered Western; “and I pity your
  town learning; I had rather be anything than a courtier, and a
  Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some people, I believe,
  are.”--“If you mean me,” answered she, “you know I am a woman,
  brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides--“--“I do know
  you are a woman,” cries the squire, “and it's well for thee that art
  one; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long
  ago.”--“Ay, there,” said she, “in that flick lies all your fancied
  superiority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours.
  Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us; or, such
  is the superiority of our understanding, we should make all of you
  what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are already--our
  slaves.”--“I am glad I know your mind,” answered the squire. “But
  we'll talk more of this matter another time. At present, do tell me
  what man is it you mean about my daughter?”--“Hold a moment,” said
  she, “while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for your sex; or
  else I ought to be angry too with you. There--I have made a shift to
  gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what think you of Mr Blifil?
  Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless on the ground? Did
  she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we came up
  to that part of the field where he stood? And pray what else should be
  the occasion of all her melancholy that night at supper, the next
  morning, and indeed ever since?”--“'Fore George!” cries the squire,
  “now you mind me on't, I remember it all. It is certainly so, and I am
  glad on't with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl, and would
  not fall in love to make me angry. I was never more rejoiced in my
  life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our two estates. I had
  this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly the two estates
  are in a manner joined together in matrimony already, and it would be
  a thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed, there be larger
  estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I had rather bate
  something, than marry my daughter among strangers and foreigners.
  Besides, most o' zuch great estates be in the hands of lords, and I
  heate the very name of _themmun_. Well but, sister, what would you
  advise me to do; for I tell you women know these matters better than
  we do?”--“Oh, your humble servant, sir,” answered the lady: “we are
  obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you are
  pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you may
  propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no indecorum in the
  proposal's coming from the parent of either side. King Alcinous, in Mr
  Pope's Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so
  politic a person not to say that your daughter is in love; that would
  indeed be against all rules.”--“Well,” said the squire, “I will
  propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick, if he should refuse
  me.” “Fear not,” cries Mrs Western; “the match is too advantageous to
  be refused.” “I don't know that,” answered the squire: “Allworthy is a
  queer b--ch, and money hath no effect o'un.” “Brother,” said the lady,
  “your politics astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by
  professions? Do you think Mr Allworthy hath more contempt for money
  than other men because he professes more? Such credulity would better
  become one of us weak women, than that wise sex which heaven hath
  formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would make a fine plenipo
  to negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you, that they
  take towns out of mere defensive principles.” “Sister,” answered the
  squire, with much scorn, “let your friends at court answer for the
  towns taken; as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upon you; for I
  suppose they are wiser than to trust women with secrets.” He
  accompanied this with so sarcastical a laugh, that Mrs Western could
  bear no longer. She had been all this time fretted in a tender part
  (for she was indeed very deeply skilled in these matters, and very
  violent in them), and therefore, burst forth in a rage, declared her
  brother to be both a clown and a blockhead, and that she would stay no
  longer in his house.
  
  The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, however,
  in many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all those wise
  tenets, which are so well inculcated in that Politico-Peripatetic
  school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just value and only use of
  money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise well skilled in the exact
  value of reversions, expectations, &c., and had often considered the
  amount of his sister's fortune, and the chance which he or his
  posterity had of inheriting it. This he was infinitely too wise to
  sacrifice to a trifling resentment. When he found, therefore, he had
  carried matters too far, he began to think of reconciling them; which
  was no very difficult task, as the lady had great affection for her
  brother, and still greater for her niece; and though too susceptible
  of an affront offered to her skill in politics, on which she much
  valued herself, was a woman of a very extraordinary good and sweet
  disposition.
  
  Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose
  escape from the stable no place but the window was left open, he next
  applied himself to his sister; softened and soothed her, by unsaying
  all he had said, and by assertions directly contrary to those which
  had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned the eloquence of Sophia to his
  assistance, who, besides a most graceful and winning address, had the
  advantage of being heard with great favour and partiality by her aunt.
  
  The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, who said,
  “Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those have their
  use in the army of the empress queen, so you likewise have some good
  in you. I will therefore once more sign a treaty of peace with you,
  and see that you do not infringe it on your side; at least, as you are
  so excellent a politician, I may expect you will keep your leagues,
  like the French, till your interest calls upon you to break them.”
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Containing two defiances to the critics.
  
  
  The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen in
  the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the proposal
  to Allworthy, that Mrs Western had the utmost difficulty to prevent
  him from visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for this purpose.
  
  Mr Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western at the time when
  he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged out of the
  custody of physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on all
  occasions, both the highest and the lowest) of fulfilling his
  engagement.
  
  In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last chapter,
  and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from certain obscure
  hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some apprehension that the
  sagacious lady suspected her passion for Jones. She now resolved to
  take this opportunity of wiping out all such suspicion, and for that
  purpose to put an entire constraint on her behaviour.
  
  First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart with
  the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest gaiety in
  her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to Mr Blifil,
  and took not the least notice of poor Jones the whole day.
  
  The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, that he
  scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in watching
  opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by winks and nods
  to his sister; who was not at first altogether so pleased with what
  she saw as was her brother.
  
  In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at
  first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in her niece;
  but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she soon attributed
  this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered the many hints she had
  given her niece concerning her being in love, and imagined the young
  lady had taken this way to rally her out of her opinion, by an
  overacted civility: a notion that was greatly corroborated by the
  excessive gaiety with which the whole was accompanied. We cannot here
  avoid remarking, that this conjecture would have been better founded
  had Sophia lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square, where young
  ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and playing with that
  passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods and groves an
  hundred miles distant from London.
  
  To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters much
  that our own art be wound up, if I may use the expression, in the same
  key with theirs: for very artful men sometimes miscarry by fancying
  others wiser, or, in other words, greater knaves, than they really
  are. As this observation is pretty deep, I will illustrate it by the
  following short story. Three countrymen were pursuing a Wiltshire
  thief through Brentford. The simplest of them seeing “The Wiltshire
  House,” written under a sign, advised his companions to enter it, for
  there most probably they would find their countryman. The second, who
  was wiser, laughed at this simplicity; but the third, who was wiser
  still, answered, “Let us go in, however, for he may think we should
  not suspect him of going amongst his own countrymen.” They accordingly
  went in and searched the house, and by that means missed overtaking
  the thief, who was at that time but a little way before them; and who,
  as they all knew, but had never once reflected, could not read.
  
  The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a secret is
  communicated, since every gamester will agree how necessary it is to
  know exactly the play of another, in order to countermine him. This
  will, moreover, afford a reason why the wiser man, as is often seen,
  is the bubble of the weaker, and why many simple and innocent
  characters are so generally misunderstood and misrepresented; but what
  is most material, this will account for the deceit which Sophia put on
  her politic aunt.
  
  Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, Mr
  Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty of what his
  sister had told him, took Mr Allworthy aside, and very bluntly
  proposed a match between Sophia and young Mr Blifil.
  
  Mr Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter at any
  unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His mind was, indeed,
  tempered with that philosophy which becomes a man and a Christian. He
  affected no absolute superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all joy
  and grief; but was not at the same time to be discomposed and ruffled
  by every accidental blast, by every smile or frown of fortune. He
  received, therefore, Mr Western's proposal without any visible
  emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said the
  alliance was such as he sincerely wished; then launched forth into a
  very just encomium on the young lady's merit; acknowledged the offer
  to be advantageous in point of fortune; and after thanking Mr Western
  for the good opinion he had professed of his nephew, concluded, that
  if the young people liked each other, he should be very desirous to
  complete the affair.
  
  Western was a little disappointed at Mr Allworthy's answer, which was
  not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt whether the young
  people might like one another with great contempt, saying, “That
  parents were the best judges of proper matches for their children:
  that for his part he should insist on the most resigned obedience from
  his daughter: and if any young fellow could refuse such a bed-fellow,
  he was his humble servant, and hoped there was no harm done.”
  
  Allworthy endeavoured to soften this resentment by many eulogiums on
  Sophia, declaring he had no doubt but that Mr Blifil would very gladly
  receive the offer; but all was ineffectual; he could obtain no other
  answer from the squire but--“I say no more--I humbly hope there's no
  harm done--that's all.” Which words he repeated at least a hundred
  times before they parted.
  
  Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be offended at
  this behaviour; and though he was so averse to the rigour which some
  parents exercise on their children in the article of marriage, that he
  had resolved never to force his nephew's inclinations, he was
  nevertheless much pleased with the prospect of this union; for the
  whole country resounded the praises of Sophia, and he had himself
  greatly admired the uncommon endowments of both her mind and person.
  
  To which I believe we may add, the consideration of her vast fortune,
  which, though he was too sober to be intoxicated with it, he was too
  sensible to despise.
  
  And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I must
  and will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, of which Mr
  Allworthy was in reality as great a pattern as he was of goodness.
  
  True wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr Hogarth's poor poet may
  have writ against riches, and in spite of all which any rich well-fed
  divine may have preached against pleasure, consists not in the
  contempt of either of these. A man may have as much wisdom in the
  possession of an affluent fortune, as any beggar in the streets; or
  may enjoy a handsome wife or a hearty friend, and still remain as wise
  as any sour popish recluse, who buries all his social faculties, and
  starves his belly while he well lashes his back.
  
  To say truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all worldly
  blessings in an eminent degree; for as that moderation which wisdom
  prescribes is the surest way to useful wealth, so can it alone qualify
  us to taste many pleasures. The wise man gratifies every appetite and
  every passion, while the fool sacrifices all the rest to pall and
  satiate one.
  
  It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously
  avaricious. I answer, Not wise in that instance. It may likewise be
  said, That the wisest men have been in their youth immoderately fond
  of pleasure. I answer, They were not wise then.
  
  Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as so hard to
  learn by those who never were at her school, only teaches us to extend
  a simple maxim universally known and followed even in the lowest life,
  a little farther than that life carries it. And this is, not to buy at
  too dear a price.
  
  Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand market of
  the world, and constantly applies it to honours, to riches, to
  pleasures, and to every other commodity which that market affords, is,
  I will venture to affirm, a wise man, and must be so acknowledged in
  the worldly sense of the word; for he makes the best of bargains,
  since in reality he purchases everything at the price only of a little
  trouble, and carries home all the good things I have mentioned, while
  he keeps his health, his innocence, and his reputation, the common
  prices which are paid for them by others, entire and to himself.
  
  From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, which
  complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath
  made the best bargain, nor dejected when the market is empty, or when
  its commodities are too dear for his purchase.
  
  But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass too
  far on the patience of a good-natured critic. Here, therefore, I put
  an end to the chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing sundry curious matters.
  
  
  As soon as Mr Allworthy returned home, he took Mr Blifil apart, and
  after some preface, communicated to him the proposal which had been
  made by Mr Western, and at the same time informed him how agreeable
  this match would be to himself.
  
  The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil; not
  that his heart was pre-engaged; neither was he totally insensible of
  beauty, or had any aversion to women; but his appetites were by nature
  so moderate, that he was able, by philosophy, or by study, or by some
  other method, easily to subdue them: and as to that passion which we
  have treated of in the first chapter of this book, he had not the
  least tincture of it in his whole composition.
  
  But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of which
  we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty of Sophia formed
  so notable an object; yet was he altogether as well furnished with
  some other passions, that promised themselves very full gratification
  in the young lady's fortune. Such were avarice and ambition, which
  divided the dominion of his mind between them. He had more than once
  considered the possession of this fortune as a very desirable thing,
  and had entertained some distant views concerning it; but his own
  youth, and that of the young lady, and indeed principally a reflection
  that Mr Western might marry again, and have more children, had
  restrained him from too hasty or eager a pursuit.
  
  This last and most material objection was now in great measure
  removed, as the proposal came from Mr Western himself. Blifil,
  therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr Allworthy, that
  matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet thought; but that he
  was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly care, that he should in
  all things submit himself to his pleasure.
  
  Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity arose
  from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any original phlegm in his
  disposition; for he had possessed much fire in his youth, and had
  married a beautiful woman for love. He was not therefore greatly
  pleased with this cold answer of his nephew; nor could he help
  launching forth into the praises of Sophia, and expressing some wonder
  that the heart of a young man could be impregnable to the force of
  such charms, unless it was guarded by some prior affection.
  
  Blifil assured him he had no such guard; and then proceeded to
  discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that he
  would have stopt the mouth of a parent much less devoutly inclined
  than was his uncle. In the end, the good man was satisfied that his
  nephew, far from having any objections to Sophia, had that esteem for
  her, which in sober and virtuous minds is the sure foundation of
  friendship and love. And as he doubted not but the lover would, in a
  little time, become altogether as agreeable to his mistress, he
  foresaw great happiness arising to all parties by so proper and
  desirable an union. With Mr Blifil's consent therefore he wrote the
  next morning to Mr Western, acquainting him that his nephew had very
  thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready to
  wait on the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept his
  visit.
  
  Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately returned an
  answer; in which, without having mentioned a word to his daughter, he
  appointed that very afternoon for opening the scene of courtship.
  
  As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest of his
  sister, whom he found reading and expounding the _Gazette_ to parson
  Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to attend near a quarter of
  an hour, though with great violence to his natural impetuosity, before
  he was suffered to speak. At length, however, he found an opportunity
  of acquainting the lady, that he had business of great consequence to
  impart to her; to which she answered, “Brother, I am entirely at your
  service. Things look so well in the north, that I was never in a
  better humour.”
  
  The parson then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with all which had
  passed, and desired her to communicate the affair to Sophia, which she
  readily and chearfully undertook; though perhaps her brother was a
  little obliged to that agreeable northern aspect which had so
  delighted her, that he heard no comment on his proceedings; for they
  were certainly somewhat too hasty and violent.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt.
  
  
  Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. The moment
  she saw Mrs Western, she shut the book with so much eagerness, that
  the good lady could not forbear asking her, What book that was which
  she seemed so much afraid of showing? “Upon my word, madam,” answered
  Sophia, “it is a book which I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own I
  have read. It is the production of a young lady of fashion, whose good
  understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose good heart
  is an honour to human nature.” Mrs Western then took up the book, and
  immediately after threw it down, saying--“Yes, the author is of a very
  good family; but she is not much among people one knows. I have never
  read it; for the best judges say, there is not much in it.”--“I dare
  not, madam, set up my own opinion,” says Sophia, “against the best
  judges, but there appears to me a great deal of human nature in it;
  and in many parts so much true tenderness and delicacy, that it hath
  cost me many a tear.”--“Ay, and do you love to cry then?” says the
  aunt. “I love a tender sensation,” answered the niece, “and would pay
  the price of a tear for it at any time.”--“Well, but show me,” said
  the aunt, “what was you reading when I came in; there was something
  very tender in that, I believe, and very loving too. You blush, my
  dear Sophia. Ah! child, you should read books which would teach you a
  little hypocrisy, which would instruct you how to hide your thoughts a
  little better.”--“I hope, madam,” answered Sophia, “I have no thoughts
  which I ought to be ashamed of discovering.”--“Ashamed! no,” cries the
  aunt, “I don't think you have any thoughts which you ought to be
  ashamed of; and yet, child, you blushed just now when I mentioned the
  word loving. Dear Sophy, be assured you have not one thought which I
  am not well acquainted with; as well, child, as the French are with
  our motions, long before we put them in execution. Did you think,
  child, because you have been able to impose upon your father, that you
  could impose upon me? Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your
  overacting all that friendship for Mr Blifil yesterday? I have seen a
  little too much of the world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not
  blush again. I tell you it is a passion you need not be ashamed of. It
  is a passion I myself approve, and have already brought your father
  into the approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your
  inclination; for I would always have that gratified, if possible,
  though one may sacrifice higher prospects. Come, I have news which
  will delight your very soul. Make me your confident, and I will
  undertake you shall be happy to the very extent of your wishes.” “La,
  madam,” says Sophia, looking more foolishly than ever she did in her
  life, “I know not what to say--why, madam, should you suspect?”--“Nay,
  no dishonesty,” returned Mrs Western. “Consider, you are speaking to
  one of your own sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced you
  speak to a friend. Consider, you are only revealing to me what I know
  already, and what I plainly saw yesterday, through that most artful of
  all disguises, which you had put on, and which must have deceived any
  one who had not perfectly known the world. Lastly, consider it is a
  passion which I highly approve.” “La, madam,” says Sophia, “you come
  upon one so unawares, and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not
  blind--and certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections
  assembled together--but is it possible my father and you, madam, can
  see with my eyes?” “I tell you,” answered the aunt, “we do entirely
  approve; and this very afternoon your father hath appointed for you to
  receive your lover.” “My father, this afternoon!” cries Sophia, with
  the blood starting from her face.--“Yes, child,” said the aunt, “this
  afternoon. You know the impetuosity of my brother's temper. I
  acquainted him with the passion which I first discovered in you that
  evening when you fainted away in the field. I saw it in your fainting.
  I saw it immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that evening at
  supper, and the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have
  seen the world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but he
  immediately wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it
  yesterday, Allworthy consented (as to be sure he must with joy), and
  this afternoon, I tell you, you are to put on all your best airs.”
   “This afternoon!” cries Sophia. “Dear aunt, you frighten me out of my
  senses.” “O, my dear,” said the aunt, “you will soon come to yourself
  again; for he is a charming young fellow, that's the truth on't.”
   “Nay, I will own,” says Sophia, “I know none with such perfections. So
  brave, and yet so gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so
  civil, so genteel, so handsome! What signifies his being base born,
  when compared with such qualifications as these?” “Base born? What do
  you mean?” said the aunt, “Mr Blifil base born!” Sophia turned
  instantly pale at this name, and faintly repeated it. Upon which the
  aunt cried, “Mr Blifil--ay, Mr Blifil, of whom else have we been
  talking?” “Good heavens,” answered Sophia, ready to sink, “of Mr
  Jones, I thought; I am sure I know no other who deserves--” “I
  protest,” cries the aunt, “you frighten me in your turn. Is it Mr
  Jones, and not Mr Blifil, who is the object of your affection?” “Mr
  Blifil!” repeated Sophia. “Sure it is impossible you can be in
  earnest; if you are, I am the most miserable woman alive.” Mrs Western
  now stood a few moments silent, while sparks of fiery rage flashed
  from her eyes. At length, collecting all her force of voice, she
  thundered forth in the following articulate sounds:
  
  “And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by allying
  yourself to a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns submit to such
  contamination? If you have not sense sufficient to restrain such
  monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of our family would have
  prevented you from giving the least encouragement to so base an
  affection; much less did I imagine you would ever have had the
  assurance to own it to my face.”
  
  “Madam,” answered Sophia, trembling, “what I have said you have
  extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever mentioned the name of
  Mr Jones with approbation to any one before; nor should I now had I
  not conceived he had your approbation. Whatever were my thoughts of
  that poor, unhappy young man, I intended to have carried them with me
  to my grave--to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek
  repose.” Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and,
  in all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a spectacle
  which must have affected almost the hardest heart.
  
  All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt. On
  the contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage.--“And I would
  rather,” she cried, in a most vehement voice, “follow you to your
  grave, than I would see you disgrace yourself and your family by such
  a match. O Heavens! could I have ever suspected that I should live to
  hear a niece of mine declare a passion for such a fellow? You are the
  first--yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name who ever
  entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted for the
  prudence of its women”--here she ran on a full quarter of an hour,
  till, having exhausted her breath rather than her rage, she concluded
  with threatening to go immediately and acquaint her brother.
  
  Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her hands,
  begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn from her; urging
  the violence of her father's temper, and protesting that no
  inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her to do anything which
  might offend him.
  
  Mrs Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having
  recollected herself, said, “That on one consideration only she would
  keep the secret from her brother; and this was, that Sophia should
  promise to entertain Mr Blifil that very afternoon as her lover, and
  to regard him as the person who was to be her husband.”
  
  Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt's power to deny her anything
  positively; she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr Blifil,
  and be as civil to him as possible; but begged her aunt that the match
  might not be hurried on. She said, “Mr Blifil was by no means
  agreeable to her, and she hoped her father would be prevailed on not
  to make her the most wretched of women.”
  
  Mrs Western assured her, “That the match was entirely agreed upon, and
  that nothing could or should prevent it. I must own,” said she, “I
  looked on it as on a matter of indifference; nay, perhaps, had some
  scruples about it before, which were actually got over by my thinking
  it highly agreeable to your own inclinations; but now I regard it as
  the most eligible thing in the world: nor shall there be, if I can
  prevent it, a moment of time lost on the occasion.”
  
  Sophia replied, “Delay at least, madam, I may expect from both your
  goodness and my father's. Surely you will give me time to endeavour to
  get the better of so strong a disinclination as I have at present to
  this person.”
  
  The aunt answered, “She knew too much of the world to be so deceived;
  that as she was sensible another man had her affections, she should
  persuade Mr Western to hasten the match as much as possible. It would
  be bad politics, indeed,” added she, “to protract a siege when the
  enemy's army is at hand, and in danger of relieving it. No, no,
  Sophy,” said she, “as I am convinced you have a violent passion which
  you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put your
  honour out of the care of your family: for when you are married those
  matters will belong only to the consideration of your husband. I hope,
  child, you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes you; but
  if you should not, marriage hath saved many a woman from ruin.”
  
  Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper
  to make her an answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr
  Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as she could, for on that
  condition only she obtained a promise from her aunt to keep secret the
  liking which her ill fortune, rather than any scheme of Mrs Western,
  had unhappily drawn from her.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour, which may a
  little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may
  have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.
  
  
  Mrs Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we have
  seen in the last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived Mrs
  Honour. She was at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been
  summoned to the keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding
  dialogue, where she had continued during the remaining part of it. At
  her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing motionless, with
  the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she immediately ordered
  a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, and then began, “O
  Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?”--“Nothing,” cries Sophia.
  “Nothing! O dear Madam!” answers Honour, “you must not tell me that,
  when your ladyship is in this taking, and when there hath been such a
  preamble between your ladyship and Madam Western.”--“Don't teaze me,”
   cries Sophia; “I tell you nothing is the matter. Good heavens! why was
  I born?”--“Nay, madam,” says Mrs Honour, “you shall never persuade me
  that your la'ship can lament yourself so for nothing. To be sure I am
  but a servant; but to be sure I have been always faithful to your
  la'ship, and to be sure I would serve your la'ship with my life.”--“My
  dear Honour,” says Sophia, “'tis not in thy power to be of any service
  to me. I am irretrievably undone.”--“Heaven forbid!” answered the
  waiting-woman; “but if I can't be of any service to you, pray tell me,
  madam--it will be some comfort to me to know--pray, dear ma'am, tell
  me what's the matter.”--“My father,” cries Sophia, “is going to marry
  me to a man I both despise and hate.”--“O dear, ma'am,” answered the
  other, “who is this wicked man? for to be sure he is very bad, or your
  la'ship would not despise him.”--“His name is poison to my tongue,”
   replied Sophia: “thou wilt know it too soon.” Indeed, to confess the
  truth, she knew it already, and therefore was not very inquisitive as
  to that point. She then proceeded thus: “I don't pretend to give your
  la'ship advice, whereof your la'ship knows much better than I can
  pretend to, being but a servant; but, i-fackins! no father in England
  should marry me against my consent. And, to be sure, the 'squire is so
  good, that if he did but know your la'ship despises and hates the
  young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. And if
  your la'ship would but give me leave to tell my master so. To be sure,
  it would be more properer to come from your own mouth; but as your
  la'ship doth not care to foul your tongue with his nasty name--“--“You
  are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia; “my father was determined before
  he ever thought fit to mention it to me.”--“More shame for him,” cries
  Honour: “you are to go to bed to him, and not master: and thof a man
  may be a very proper man, yet every woman mayn't think him handsome
  alike. I am sure my master would never act in this manner of his own
  head. I wish some people would trouble themselves only with what
  belongs to them; they would not, I believe, like to be served so, if
  it was their own case; for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as
  how all men are not equally agreeable. And what signifies your la'ship
  having so great a fortune, if you can't please yourself with the man
  you think most handsomest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a
  pity some folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I
  should not mind it myself; but then there is not so much money; and
  what of that? your la'ship hath money enough for both; and where can
  your la'ship bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must
  allow that he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest,
  properest man in the world.”--“What do you mean by running on in this
  manner to me?” cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance. “Have I
  ever given any encouragement for these liberties?”--“Nay, ma'am, I ask
  pardon; I meant no harm,” answered she; “but to be sure the poor
  gentleman hath run in my head ever since I saw him this morning. To be
  sure, if your la'ship had but seen him just now, you must have pitied
  him. Poor gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to
  him; for he hath been walking about with his arms across, and looking
  so melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me almost
  cry to see him.”--“To see whom?” says Sophia. “Poor Mr Jones,”
   answered Honour. “See him! why, where did you see him?” cries Sophia.
  “By the canal, ma'am,” says Honour. “There he hath been walking all
  this morning, and at last there he laid himself down: I believe he
  lies there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my modesty, being
  a maid, as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma'am, let
  me go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is there still.”--“Pugh!”
   says Sophia. “There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone
  before this time, to be sure. Besides, why--what--why should you go to
  see? besides, I want you for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and
  gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner.” Honour
  did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on; when,
  looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her hat was
  tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon
  of a different colour; and then giving Mrs Honour repeated charges not
  to leave her work on any account, as she said it was in violent haste,
  and must be finished that very day, she muttered something more about
  going to the grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and walked,
  as fast as her tender trembling limbs could carry her, directly
  towards the canal.
  
  Jones had been there as Mrs Honour had told her; he had indeed spent
  two hours there that morning in melancholy contemplation on his
  Sophia, and had gone out from the garden at one door the moment she
  entered it at another. So that those unlucky minutes which had been
  spent in changing the ribbons, had prevented the lovers from meeting
  at this time;--a most unfortunate accident, from which my fair readers
  will not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I strictly
  forbid all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance which I
  have recounted only for the sake of the ladies, and upon which they
  only are at liberty to comment.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be
  drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full length.
  
  
  It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that misfortunes do
  not come single. This wise maxim was now verified by Sophia, who was
  not only disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but had the
  vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, in order to receive a
  visit from the man she hated.
  
  That afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted his daughter
  with his intention; telling her, he knew very well that she had heard
  it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this, nor could
  she prevent a few pearls from stealing into her eyes. “Come, come,”
   says Western, “none of your maidenish airs; I know all; I assure you
  sister hath told me all.”
  
  “Is it possible,” says Sophia, “that my aunt can have betrayed me
  already?”--“Ay, ay,” says Western; “betrayed you! ay. Why, you
  betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You showed your fancy very
  plainly, I think. But you young girls never know what you would be at.
  So you cry because I am going to marry you to the man you are in love
  with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the same
  manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we were
  married: Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put an end to
  your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un every
  minute.”
  
  Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to her:
  and she determined to go through that disagreeable afternoon with as
  much resolution as possible, and without giving the least suspicion in
  the world to her father.
  
  Mr Blifil soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after withdrawing, left
  the young couple together.
  
  Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the
  gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the unbecoming
  modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often attempted to speak,
  and as often suppressed his words just at the very point of utterance.
  At last out they broke in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained
  compliments, which were answered on her side by downcast looks, half
  bows, and civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the
  ways of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour
  for a modest assent to his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene
  which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the room,
  he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself
  that he should soon have enough of her company.
  
  He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success;
  for as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart of his
  mistress which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it never
  entered his head. Her fortune and her person were the sole objects of
  his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to obtain the absolute
  property; as Mr Western's mind was so earnestly bent on the match; and
  as he well knew the strict obedience which Sophia was always ready to
  pay to her father's will, and the greater still which her father would
  exact, if there was occasion. This authority, therefore, together with
  the charms which he fancied in his own person and conversation, could
  not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a young lady, whose
  inclinations were, he doubted not, entirely disengaged.
  
  Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have
  often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the
  character which Jones bore all over the country (how justly, let the
  reader determine), of being one of the wildest fellows in England,
  might render him odious to a lady of the most exemplary modesty.
  Perhaps his suspicions might be laid asleep by the behaviour of
  Sophia, and of Jones himself, when they were all in company together.
  Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there was not
  another self in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones to the bottom,
  and had in reality a great contempt for his understanding, for not
  being more attached to his own interest. He had no apprehension that
  Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for any lucrative motives, he
  imagined they would sway very little with so silly a fellow. Blifil,
  moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still went on, and
  indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones really loved him
  from his childhood, and had kept no secret from him, till his
  behaviour on the sickness of Mr Allworthy had entirely alienated his
  heart; and it was by means of the quarrel which had ensued on this
  occasion, and which was not yet reconciled, that Mr Blifil knew
  nothing of the alteration which had happened in the affection which
  Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.
  
  From these reasons, therefore, Mr Blifil saw no bar to his success
  with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that of all other
  young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and it had indeed entirely
  answered his expectations.
  
  Mr Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his
  mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so enamoured with
  his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception of him, that the old
  gentleman began to caper and dance about his hall, and by many other
  antic actions to express the extravagance of his joy; for he had not
  the least command over any of his passions; and that which had at any
  time the ascendant in his mind hurried him to the wildest excesses.
  
  As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty
  kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went
  instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no sooner found than he
  poured forth the most extravagant raptures, bidding her chuse what
  clothes and jewels she pleased; and declaring that he had no other use
  for fortune but to make her happy. He then caressed her again and
  again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the most
  endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on earth.
  
  Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did
  not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not
  unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than ordinary),
  thought she should never have a better opportunity of disclosing
  herself than at present, as far at least as regarded Mr Blifil; and
  she too well foresaw the necessity which she should soon be under of
  coming to a full explanation. After having thanked the squire,
  therefore, for all his professions of kindness, she added, with a look
  full of inexpressible softness, “And is it possible my papa can be so
  good to place all his joy in his Sophy's happiness?” which Western
  having confirmed by a great oath, and a kiss; she then laid hold of
  his hand, and, falling on her knees, after many warm and passionate
  declarations of affection and duty, she begged him “not to make her
  the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to marry a man
  whom she detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir,” said she, “for
  your sake, as well as my own, since you are so very kind to tell me
  your happiness depends on mine.”--“How! what!” says Western, staring
  wildly. “Oh! sir,” continued she, “not only your poor Sophy's
  happiness; her very life, her being, depends upon your granting her
  request. I cannot live with Mr Blifil. To force me into this marriage
  would be killing me.”--“You can't live with Mr Blifil?” says Western.
  “No, upon my soul I can't,” answered Sophia. “Then die and be d--d,”
   cries he, spurning her from him. “Oh! sir,” cries Sophia, catching
  hold of the skirt of his coat, “take pity on me, I beseech you. Don't
  look and say such cruel--Can you be unmoved while you see your Sophy
  in this dreadful condition? Can the best of fathers break my heart?
  Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, lingering death?”--“Pooh!
  pooh!” cries the squire; “all stuff and nonsense; all maidenish
  tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill you?”--“Oh! sir,”
   answered Sophia, “such a marriage is worse than death. He is not even
  indifferent; I hate and detest him.”--“If you detest un never so
  much,” cries Western, “you shall ha'un.” This he bound by an oath too
  shocking to repeat; and after many violent asseverations, concluded in
  these words: “I am resolved upon the match, and unless you consent to
  it I will not give you a groat, not a single farthing; no, though I
  saw you expiring with famine in the street, I would not relieve you
  with a morsel of bread. This is my fixed resolution, and so I leave
  you to consider on it.” He then broke from her with such violence,
  that her face dashed against the floor; and he burst directly out of
  the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the ground.
  
  When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing his
  friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not forbear
  enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appearances. Upon which
  the squire immediately acquainted him with the whole matter,
  concluding with bitter denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic
  lamentations of the misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate to
  have daughters.
  
  Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of
  Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead with this
  relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, as he
  afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr Western, which
  seemed to require more impudence than a human forehead was ever gifted
  with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might endeavour to
  obtain her concurrence with her father's inclinations.
  
  If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for the
  contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded him. He
  thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and said, “Go, go,
  prithee, try what canst do;” and then swore many execrable oaths that
  he would turn her out of doors unless she consented to the match.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  The meeting between Jones and Sophia.
  
  
  Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just risen
  from the ground, where her father had left her, with the tears
  trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from her lips. He
  presently ran to her, and with a voice full at once of tenderness and
  terrour, cried, “O my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?” She
  looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and then said, “Mr
  Jones, for Heaven's sake how came you here?--Leave me, I beseech you,
  this moment.”--“Do not,” says he, “impose so harsh a command upon
  me--my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily could
  I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood.”--“I have
  too many obligations to you already,” answered she, “for sure you
  meant them such.” Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and
  then bursting into an agony, cried, “Oh, Mr Jones, why did you save my
  life? my death would have been happier for us both.”--“Happier for us
  both!” cried he. “Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as
  Sophia's--I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?”
   Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he
  spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her
  hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she
  hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in
  silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on
  Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground: at last she recovered
  strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain
  ruin would be the consequence of their being found together; adding,
  “Oh, Mr Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel
  afternoon.”--“I know all, my Sophia,” answered he; “your cruel father
  hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you.”--“My
  father sent you to me!” replied she: “sure you dream.”--“Would to
  Heaven,” cries he, “it was but a dream! Oh, Sophia, your father hath
  sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to solicit you
  in his favour. I took any means to get access to you. O speak to me,
  Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever doated
  like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle
  hand--one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me--nothing less
  than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered the
  respect and awe with which you have inspired me.” She stood a moment
  silent, and covered with confusion; then lifting up her eyes gently
  towards him, she cried, “What would Mr Jones have me say?”--“O do but
  promise,” cries he, “that you never will give yourself to
  Blifil.”--“Name not,” answered she, “the detested sound. Be assured I
  never will give him what is in my power to withhold from him.”--“Now
  then,” cries he, “while you are so perfectly kind, go a little
  farther, and add that I may hope.”--“Alas!” says she, “Mr Jones,
  whither will you drive me? What hope have I to bestow? You know my
  father's intentions.”--“But I know,” answered he, “your compliance
  with them cannot be compelled.”--“What,” says she, “must be the
  dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least
  concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my father's
  misery.”--“He is himself the cause,” cries Jones, “by exacting a power
  over you which Nature hath not given him. Think on the misery which I
  am to suffer if I am to lose you, and see on which side pity will turn
  the balance.”--“Think of it!” replied she: “can you imagine I do not
  feel the ruin which I must bring on you, should I comply with your
  desire? It is that thought which gives me resolution to bid you fly
  from me for ever, and avoid your own destruction.”--“I fear no
  destruction,” cries he, “but the loss of Sophia. If you would save me
  from the most bitter agonies, recall that cruel sentence. Indeed, I
  can never part with you, indeed I cannot.”
  
  The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being unable to
  withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to hold it; when
  the scene, which I believe some of my readers will think had lasted
  long enough, was interrupted by one of so different a nature, that we
  shall reserve the relation of it for a different chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.
  
  
  Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be
  proper to recount what had past in the hall during their tender
  interview.
  
  Soon after Jones had left Mr Western in the manner above mentioned,
  his sister came to him, and was presently informed of all that had
  passed between her brother and Sophia relating to Blifil.
  
  This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an absolute
  breach of the condition on which she had engaged to keep her love for
  Mr Jones a secret. She considered herself, therefore, at full liberty
  to reveal all she knew to the squire, which she immediately did in the
  most explicit terms, and without any ceremony or preface.
  
  The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never once
  entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest minutes of his
  affection towards that young man, or from suspicion, or on any other
  occasion. He did indeed consider a parity of fortune and circumstances
  to be physically as necessary an ingredient in marriage, as difference
  of sexes, or any other essential; and had no more apprehension of his
  daughter's falling in love with a poor man, than with any animal of a
  different species.
  
  He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister's relation.
  He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, having been almost
  deprived of his breath by the violence of the surprize. This, however,
  soon returned, and, as is usual in other cases after an intermission,
  with redoubled force and fury.
  
  The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery from
  the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a round
  volley of oaths and imprecations. After which he proceeded hastily to
  the apartment where he expected to find the lovers, and murmured, or
  rather indeed roared forth, intentions of revenge every step he went.
  
  As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and
  Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into some
  pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation of Love,
  that bashful boy, who cannot speak in public, and is never a good
  companion to more than two at a time; here, while every object is
  serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly through the shattered
  clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts
  from the mossy bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds
  the red regimentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear
  shakes her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling
  tottering limbs.
  
  Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the place,
  are cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at Salisbury, if
  the great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as well as some of his
  setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his chains, and dreadfully
  hum forth the grumbling catch along the gallery; the frighted
  strangers stand aghast; scared at the horrid sound, they seek some
  place of shelter from the approaching danger; and if the well-barred
  windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to escape the
  threatening fury now coming upon them.
  
  So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her
  father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing,
  cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I
  believe the youth himself would, from some prudent considerations,
  have preferred another place of abode at this time, had his terror on
  Sophia's account given him liberty to reflect a moment on what any
  otherways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake
  whatever affected her.
  
  And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object which
  instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the ghastly
  appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover's arms. This
  tragical sight Mr Western no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook
  him; he roared for help with his utmost violence; ran first to his
  daughter, then back to the door calling for water, and then back again
  to Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then was, nor perhaps
  once recollecting that there was such a person in the world as Jones;
  for indeed I believe the present circumstances of his daughter were
  now the sole consideration which employed his thoughts.
  
  Mrs Western and a great number of servants soon came to the assistance
  of Sophia with water, cordials, and everything necessary on those
  occasions. These were applied with such success, that Sophia in a very
  few minutes began to recover, and all the symptoms of life to return.
  Upon which she was presently led off by her own maid and Mrs Western:
  nor did that good lady depart without leaving some wholesome
  admonitions with her brother, on the dreadful effects of his passion,
  or, as she pleased to call it, madness.
  
  The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as it was
  delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration: at least,
  if he did understand it, he profited very little by it; for no sooner
  was he cured of his immediate fears for his daughter, than he relapsed
  into his former frenzy, which must have produced an immediate battle
  with Jones, had not parson Supple, who was a very strong man, been
  present, and by mere force restrained the squire from acts of
  hostility.
  
  The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very suppliant
  manner to Mr Western, whom the parson held in his arms, and begged him
  to be pacified; for that, while he continued in such a passion, it
  would be impossible to give him any satisfaction.
  
  “I wull have satisfaction o' thee,” answered the squire; “so doff thy
  clothes. _At unt_ half a man, and I'll lick thee as well as wast ever
  licked in thy life.” He then bespattered the youth with abundance of
  that language which passes between country gentlemen who embrace
  opposite sides of the question; with frequent applications to him to
  salute that part which is generally introduced into all controversies
  that arise among the lower orders of the English gentry at
  horse-races, cock-matches, and other public places. Allusions to this
  part are likewise often made for the sake of the jest. And here, I
  believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In reality, it lies in
  desiring another to kiss your a-- for having just before threatened to
  kick his; for I have observed very accurately, that no one ever
  desires you to kick that which belongs to himself, nor offers to kiss
  this part in another.
  
  It may likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand kind
  invitations of this sort, which every one who hath conversed with
  country gentlemen must have heard, no one, I believe, hath ever seen a
  single instance where the desire hath been complied with;--a great
  instance of their want of politeness; for in town nothing can be more
  common than for the finest gentlemen to perform this ceremony every
  day to their superiors, without having that favour once requested of
  them.
  
  To all such wit, Jones very calmly answered, “Sir, this usage may
  perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred on me; but
  there is one you can never cancel; nor will I be provoked by your
  abuse to lift my hand against the father of Sophia.”
  
  At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than before; so
  that the parson begged Jones to retire; saying, “You behold, sir, how
  he waxeth wrath at your abode here; therefore let me pray you not to
  tarry any longer. His anger is too much kindled for you to commune
  with him at present. You had better, therefore, conclude your visit,
  and refer what matters you have to urge in your behalf to some other
  opportunity.”
  
  Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately departed. The
  squire now regained the liberty of his hands, and so much temper as to
  express some satisfaction in the restraint which had been laid upon
  him; declaring that he should certainly have beat his brains out; and
  adding, “It would have vexed one confoundedly to have been hanged for
  such a rascal.”
  
  The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peace-making
  endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against anger, which might
  perhaps rather have tended to raise than to quiet that passion in some
  hasty minds. This lecture he enriched with many valuable quotations
  from the antients, particularly from Seneca; who hath indeed so well
  handled this passion, that none but a very angry man can read him
  without great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this harangue
  with the famous story of Alexander and Clitus; but as I find that
  entered in my common-place under title Drunkenness, I shall not insert
  it here.
  
  The squire took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything he
  said; for he interrupted him before he had finished, by calling for a
  tankard of beer; observing (which is perhaps as true as any
  observation on this fever of the mind) that anger makes a man dry.
  
  No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than he renewed the
  discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution of going the next
  morning early to acquaint Mr Allworthy. His friend would have
  dissuaded him from this, from the mere motive of good-nature; but his
  dissuasion had no other effect than to produce a large volley of oaths
  and curses, which greatly shocked the pious ears of Supple; but he did
  not dare to remonstrate against a privilege which the squire claimed
  as a freeborn Englishman. To say truth, the parson submitted to please
  his palate at the squire's table, at the expense of suffering now and
  then this violence to his ears. He contented himself with thinking he
  did not promote this evil practice, and that the squire would not
  swear an oath the less, if he never entered within his gates. However,
  though he was not guilty of ill manners by rebuking a gentleman in his
  own house, he paid him off obliquely in the pulpit: which had not,
  indeed, the good effect of working a reformation in the squire
  himself; yet it so far operated on his conscience, that he put the
  laws very severely in execution against others, and the magistrate was
  the only person in the parish who could swear with impunity.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.
  
  
  Mr Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his nephew, well
  satisfied with the report of the young gentleman's successful visit to
  Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, more on account of the young
  lady's character than of her riches), when Mr Western broke abruptly
  in upon them, and without any ceremony began as follows:--
  
  “There, you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have brought up
  your bastard to a fine purpose; not that I believe you have had any
  hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, designedly: but there
  is a fine kettle-of-fish made on't up at our house.” “What can be the
  matter, Mr Western?” said Allworthy. “O, matter enow of all
  conscience: my daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard, that's
  all; but I won't ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a brass
  varden. I always thought what would come o' breeding up a bastard like
  a gentleman, and letting un come about to vok's houses. It's well vor
  un I could not get at un: I'd a lick'd un; I'd a spoil'd his
  caterwauling; I'd a taught the son of a whore to meddle with meat for
  his master. He shan't ever have a morsel of meat of mine, or a varden
  to buy it: if she will ha un, one smock shall be her portion. I'd
  sooner ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it may be sent to
  Hanover to corrupt our nation with.” “I am heartily sorry,” cries
  Allworthy. “Pox o' your sorrow,” says Western; “it will do me
  abundance of good when I have lost my only child, my poor Sophy, that
  was the joy of my heart, and all the hope and comfort of my age; but I
  am resolved I will turn her out o' doors; she shall beg, and starve,
  and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny, not a hapeny shall she ever
  hae o' mine. The son of a bitch was always good at finding a hare
  sitting, an be rotted to'n: I little thought what puss he was looking
  after; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in his life. She shall
  be no better than carrion: the skin o'er is all he shall ha, and zu
  you may tell un.” “I am in amazement,” cries Allworthy, “at what you
  tell me, after what passed between my nephew and the young lady no
  longer ago than yesterday.” “Yes, sir,” answered Western, “it was
  after what passed between your nephew and she that the whole matter
  came out. Mr Blifil there was no sooner gone than the son of a whore
  came lurching about the house. Little did I think when I used to love
  him for a sportsman that he was all the while a poaching after my
  daughter.” “Why truly,” says Allworthy, “I could wish you had not
  given him so many opportunities with her; and you will do me the
  justice to acknowledge that I have always been averse to his staying
  so much at your house, though I own I had no suspicion of this kind.”
   “Why, zounds,” cries Western, “who could have thought it? What the
  devil had she to do wi'n? He did not come there a courting to her; he
  came there a hunting with me.” “But was it possible,” says Allworthy,
  “that you should never discern any symptoms of love between them, when
  you have seen them so often together?” “Never in my life, as I hope to
  be saved,” cries Western: “I never so much as zeed him kiss her in all
  my life; and so far from courting her, he used rather to be more
  silent when she was in company than at any other time; and as for the
  girl, she was always less civil to'n than to any young man that came
  to the house. As to that matter, I am not more easy to be deceived
  than another; I would not have you think I am, neighbour.” Allworthy
  could scarce refrain laughter at this; but he resolved to do a
  violence to himself; for he perfectly well knew mankind, and had too
  much good-breeding and good-nature to offend the squire in his present
  circumstances. He then asked Western what he would have him do upon
  this occasion. To which the other answered, “That he would have him
  keep the rascal away from his house, and that he would go and lock up
  the wench; for he was resolved to make her marry Mr Blifil in spite of
  her teeth.” He then shook Blifil by the hand, and swore he would have
  no other son-in-law. Presently after which he took his leave; saying
  his house was in such disorder that it was necessary for him to make
  haste home, to take care his daughter did not give him the slip; and
  as for Jones, he swore if he caught him at his house, he would qualify
  him to run for the geldings' plate.
  
  When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long silence
  ensued between them; all which interval the young gentleman filled up
  with sighs, which proceeded partly from disappointment, but more from
  hatred; for the success of Jones was much more grievous to him than
  the loss of Sophia.
  
  At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and he
  answered in the following words:--“Alas! sir, can it be a question
  what step a lover will take, when reason and passion point different
  ways? I am afraid it is too certain he will, in that dilemma, always
  follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit all thoughts of a
  woman who places her affections on another; my passion bids me hope
  she may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I
  conceive an objection may be raised, which, if it could not fully be
  answered, would totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean the
  injustice of endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of which he
  seems already in possession; but the determined resolution of Mr
  Western shows that, in this case, I shall, by so doing, promote the
  happiness of every party; not only that of the parent, who will thus
  be preserved from the highest degree of misery, but of both the
  others, who must be undone by this match. The lady, I am sure, will be
  undone in every sense; for, besides the loss of most part of her own
  fortune, she will be not only married to a beggar, but the little
  fortune which her father cannot withhold from her will be squandered
  on that wench with whom I know he yet converses. Nay, that is a
  trifle; for I know him to be one of the worst men in the world; for
  had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto endeavoured to conceal,
  he must have long since abandoned so profligate a wretch.” “How!” said
  Allworthy; “hath he done anything worse than I already know? Tell me,
  I beseech you?” “No,” replied Blifil; “it is now past, and perhaps he
  may have repented of it.” “I command you, on your duty,” said
  Allworthy, “to tell me what you mean.” “You know, sir,” says Blifil,
  “I never disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since it may
  now look like revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever
  entered my heart; and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his
  petitioner to you for your forgiveness.” “I will have no conditions,”
   answered Allworthy; “I think I have shown tenderness enough towards
  him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me for.” “More, indeed,
  I fear, than he deserved,” cries Blifil; “for in the very day of your
  utmost danger, when myself and all the family were in tears, he filled
  the house with riot and debauchery. He drank, and sung, and roared;
  and when I gave him a gentle hint of the indecency of his actions, he
  fell into a violent passion, swore many oaths, called me rascal, and
  struck me.” “How!” cries Allworthy; “did he dare to strike you?” “I am
  sure,” cries Blifil, “I have forgiven him that long ago. I wish I
  could so easily forget his ingratitude to the best of benefactors; and
  yet even that I hope you will forgive him, since he must have
  certainly been possessed with the devil: for that very evening, as Mr
  Thwackum and myself were taking the air in the fields, and exulting in
  the good symptoms which then first began to discover themselves, we
  unluckily saw him engaged with a wench in a manner not fit to be
  mentioned. Mr Thwackum, with more boldness than prudence, advanced to
  rebuke him, when (I am sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man,
  and beat him so outrageously that I wish he may have yet recovered the
  bruises. Nor was I without my share of the effects of his malice,
  while I endeavoured to protect my tutor; but that I have long
  forgiven; nay, I prevailed with Mr Thwackum to forgive him too, and
  not to inform you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him.
  And now, sir, since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this matter,
  and your commands have obliged me to discover the whole, let me
  intercede with you for him.” “O child!” said Allworthy, “I know not
  whether I should blame or applaud your goodness, in concealing such
  villany a moment: but where is Mr Thwackum? Not that I want any
  confirmation of what you say; but I will examine all the evidence of
  this matter, to justify to the world the example I am resolved to make
  of such a monster.”
  
  Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated
  every circumstance which the other had deposed; nay, he produced the
  record upon his breast, where the handwriting of Mr Jones remained
  very legible in black and blue. He concluded with declaring to Mr
  Allworthy, that he should have long since informed him of this matter,
  had not Mr Blifil, by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him.
  “He is,” says he, “an excellent youth: though such forgiveness of
  enemies is carrying the matter too far.”
  
  In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the parson,
  and to prevent the discovery at that time; for which he had many
  reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt to be softened and
  relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. Besides, he imagined
  that if the story was told when the fact was so recent, and the
  physician about the house, who might have unravelled the real truth,
  he should never be able to give it the malicious turn which he
  intended. Again, he resolved to hoard up this business, till the
  indiscretion of Jones should afford some additional complaints; for he
  thought the joint weight of many facts falling upon him together,
  would be the most likely to crush him; and he watched, therefore, some
  such opportunity as that with which fortune had now kindly presented
  him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the matter for a
  time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of his friendship to Jones,
  which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr Allworthy.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to affect the
  good-natured reader.
  
  
  It was Mr Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, not even to turn
  away a servant, in a passion. He resolved therefore to delay passing
  sentence on Jones till the afternoon.
  
  The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual; but his heart was too
  much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief too was a good deal
  aggravated by the unkind looks of Mr Allworthy; whence he concluded
  that Western had discovered the whole affair between him and Sophia;
  but as to Mr Blifil's story, he had not the least apprehension; for of
  much the greater part he was entirely innocent; and for the residue,
  as he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he suspected no
  remembrance on the other side. When dinner was over, and the servants
  departed, Mr Allworthy began to harangue. He set forth, in a long
  speech, the many iniquities of which Jones had been guilty,
  particularly those which this day had brought to light; and concluded
  by telling him, “That unless he could clear himself of the charge, he
  was resolved to banish him his sight for ever.”
  
  Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay,
  indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr Allworthy, in
  recounting the drunkenness, &c., while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk
  everything that related particularly to himself, which indeed
  principally constituted the crime; Jones could not deny the charge.
  His heart was, besides, almost broken already; and his spirits were so
  sunk, that he could say nothing for himself; but acknowledged the
  whole, and, like a criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy;
  concluding, “That though he must own himself guilty of many follies
  and inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what would
  be to him the greatest punishment in the world.”
  
  Allworthy answered, “That he had forgiven him too often already, in
  compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now
  found he was an abandoned reprobate, and such as it would be criminal
  in any one to support and encourage. Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him,
  “your audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls upon me to
  justify my own character in punishing you. The world who have already
  censured the regard I have shown for you may think, with some colour
  at least of justice, that I connive at so base and barbarous an
  action--an action of which you must have known my abhorrence: and
  which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour, as well as for
  my friendship, you would never have thought of undertaking. Fie upon
  it, young man! indeed there is scarce any punishment equal to your
  crimes, and I can scarce think myself justifiable in what I am now
  going to bestow on you. However, as I have educated you like a child
  of my own, I will not turn you naked into the world. When you open
  this paper, therefore, you will find something which may enable you,
  with industry, to get an honest livelihood; but if you employ it to
  worse purposes, I shall not think myself obliged to supply you
  farther, being resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more
  with you on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of
  your conduct which I resent more than your ill-treatment of that good
  young man (meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with so much tenderness
  and honour towards you.”
  
  These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A
  flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of
  speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before
  he was able to obey Allworthy's peremptory commands of departing;
  which he at length did, having first kissed his hands with a passion
  difficult to be affected, and as difficult to be described.
  
  The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in which
  Jones then appeared to Mr Allworthy, he should blame the rigour of his
  sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, either from this weakness, or
  from some worse motive, condemned this justice and severity as the
  highest cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had before censured the
  good man for the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard (his own,
  according to the general opinion), now cried out as loudly against
  turning his own child out of doors. The women especially were
  unanimous in taking the part of Jones, and raised more stories on the
  occasion than I have room, in this chapter, to set down.
  
  One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this
  occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper which
  Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds; but
  all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some said naked, from
  the house of his inhuman father.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  Containing love-letters, &c.
  
  
  Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that his
  clothes and everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he
  should order them.
  
  He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding, and
  indeed scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook
  obstructing his passage, he threw himself down by the side of it; nor
  could he help muttering with some little indignation, “Sure my father
  will not deny me this place to rest in!”
  
  Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his hair
  from his head, and using most other actions which generally accompany
  fits of madness, rage, and despair.
  
  When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion, he
  began to come a little to himself. His grief now took another turn,
  and discharged itself in a gentler way, till he became at last cool
  enough to reason with his passion, and to consider what steps were
  proper to be taken in his deplorable condition.
  
  And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The
  thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart asunder; but the
  consideration of reducing her to ruin and beggary still racked him, if
  possible, more; and if the violent desire of possessing her person
  could have induced him to listen one moment to this alternative, still
  he was by no means certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes at
  so high an expense. The resentment of Mr Allworthy, and the injury he
  must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and lastly,
  the apparent impossibility of his success, even if he would sacrifice
  all these considerations to it, came to his assistance; and thus
  honour at last backed with despair, with gratitude to his benefactor,
  and with real love to his mistress, got the better of burning desire,
  and he resolved rather to quit Sophia, than pursue her to her ruin.
  
  It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the glowing
  warmth which filled his breast on the first contemplation of this
  victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so agreeably, that his
  mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness; but this was only momentary:
  Sophia soon returned to his imagination, and allayed the joy of his
  triumph with no less bitter pangs than a good-natured general must
  feel, when he surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood
  he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender ideas lay
  murdered before our conqueror.
  
  Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour, as
  the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewel
  letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off,
  where, being furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:--
  
    “MADAM,
  
    “When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
    good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my
    letter contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full,
    that no language can express its dictates.
  
    “I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
    from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
    but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
    Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
    forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.
  
    “Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I
    imagined they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness
    and tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of
    those pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing,
    which you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment's concern;
    for, after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.
  
    “O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire you
    to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
    conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
    I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
    Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
    and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
    severely punished.--I am unable to say more.--May guardian angels
    protect you for ever!”
  
  He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor
  indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic
  disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his
  pocket-book, which he had received from Mr Allworthy, which he had
  never opened, and which now first occurred to his memory.
  
  The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with
  which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook
  side, in order to search for the things which he had there lost. In
  his way he met his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with
  him on his misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and
  indeed those of all the neighbourhood.
  
  Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily went
  back with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of grass in
  the meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he had been; but
  all to no purpose, for they found nothing; for, indeed, though the
  things were then in the meadow, they omitted to search the only place
  where they were deposited; to wit, in the pockets of the said George;
  for he had just before found them, and being luckily apprized of their
  value, had very carefully put them up for his own use.
  
  The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
  goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr Jones to recollect
  if he had been in no other place: “For sure,” said he, “if you had
  lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still; for
  this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by.” And indeed it
  was by great accident that he himself had passed through that field,
  in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
  poulterer at Bath the next morning.
  
  Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
  thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him
  earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?
  
  George answered with some hesitation, “Sir, you know you may command
  me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power to
  do you any service.” In fact, the question staggered him; for he had,
  by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr Western's
  service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small matter
  of him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, by being
  desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great pleasure he
  promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours which he
  would not have gladly conferred on Mr Jones; for he bore as much
  gratitude towards him as he could, and was as honest as men who love
  money better than any other thing in the universe, generally are.
  
  Mrs Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which this
  letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper
  returned home to Mr Western's, and Jones walked to an alehouse at half
  a mile's distance, to wait for his messenger's return.
  
  George no sooner came home to his master's house than he met with Mrs
  Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous
  questions, he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at
  the same time another from her, for Mr Jones; which Honour told him
  she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to despair of
  finding any means of delivering it.
  
  The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
  received Sophia's letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
  breaking it open, read as follows:--
  
    “SIR,
  
    “It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
    submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
    lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
    temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
    comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
    violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
    to see them bestowed.”
  
  Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred
  times as often. His passion now brought all tender desires back into
  his mind. He repented that he had writ to Sophia in the manner we have
  seen above; but he repented more that he had made use of the interval
  of his messenger's absence to write and dispatch a letter to Mr
  Allworthy, in which he had faithfully promised and bound himself to
  quit all thoughts of his love. However, when his cool reflections
  returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither mended nor
  altered by Sophia's billet, unless to give him some little glimpse of
  hope, from her constancy, of some favourable accident hereafter. He
  therefore resumed his resolution, and taking leave of Black George,
  set forward to a town about five miles distant, whither he had desired
  Mr Allworthy, unless he pleased to revoke his sentence, to send his
  things after him.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which none of her sex
  will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And the
  discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience.
  
  
  Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable
  manner. During a large part of them she had been entertained by her
  aunt with lectures of prudence, recommending to her the example of the
  polite world, where love (so the good lady said) is at present
  entirely laughed at, and where women consider matrimony, as men do
  offices of public trust, only as the means of making their fortunes,
  and of advancing themselves in the world. In commenting on which text
  Mrs Western had displayed her eloquence during several hours.
  
  These sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste or
  inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than her own
  thoughts, that formed the entertainment of the night, during which she
  never once closed her eyes.
  
  But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet, having no
  avocation from it, she was found there by her father at his return
  from Allworthy's, which was not till past ten o'clock in the morning.
  He went directly up to her apartment, opened the door, and seeing she
  was not up, cried, “Oh! you are safe then, and I am resolved to keep
  you so.” He then locked the door, and delivered the key to Honour,
  having first given her the strictest charge, with great promises of
  rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punishment in
  case she should betray her trust.
  
  Honour's orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of her
  room without the authority of the squire himself, and to admit none to
  her but him and her aunt; but she was herself to attend her with
  whatever Sophia pleased, except only pen, ink, and paper, of which she
  was forbidden the use.
  
  The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at
  dinner; which she obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again
  conducted to her prison.
  
  In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she
  received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or
  thrice over, and then threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a
  flood of tears. Mrs Honour expressed great astonishment at this
  behaviour in her mistress; nor could she forbear very eagerly begging
  to know the cause of this passion. Sophia made her no answer for some
  time, and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by the hand, and
  cried, “O Honour! I am undone.” “Marry forbid,” cries Honour: “I wish
  the letter had been burnt before I had brought it to your la'ship. I'm
  sure I thought it would have comforted your la'ship, or I would have
  seen it at the devil before I would have touched it.” “Honour,” says
  Sophia, “you are a good girl, and it is vain to attempt concealing
  longer my weakness from you; I have thrown away my heart on a man who
  hath forsaken me.” “And is Mr Jones,” answered the maid, “such a
  perfidy man?” “He hath taken his leave of me,” says Sophia, “for ever
  in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to forget him. Could he have
  desired that if he had loved me? Could he have borne such a thought?
  Could he have written such a word?” “No, certainly, ma'am,” cries
  Honour; “and to be sure, if the best man in England was to desire me
  to forget him, I'd take him at his word. Marry, come up! I am sure
  your la'ship hath done him too much honour ever to think on him;--a
  young lady who may take her choice of all the young men in the
  country. And to be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as to offer my
  poor opinion, there is young Mr Blifil, who, besides that he is come
  of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires all
  hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more handsomer and
  a more politer man by half; and besides, he is a young gentleman of a
  sober character, and who may defy any of the neighbours to say black
  is his eye; he follows no dirty trollops, nor can any bastards be laid
  at his door. Forget him, indeed! I thank Heaven I myself am not so
  much at my last prayers as to suffer any man to bid me forget him
  twice. If the best he that wears a head was for to go for to offer to
  say such an affronting word to me, I would never give him my company
  afterwards, if there was another young man in the kingdom. And as I
  was a saying, to be sure, there is young Mr Blifil.” “Name not his
  detested name,” cries Sophia. “Nay, ma'am,” says Honour, “if your
  la'ship doth not like him, there be more jolly handsome young men that
  would court your la'ship, if they had but the least encouragement. I
  don't believe there is arrow young gentleman in this county, or in the
  next to it, that if your la'ship was but to look as if you had a mind
  to him, would not come about to make his offers directly.” “What a
  wretch dost thou imagine me,” cries Sophia, “by affronting my ears
  with such stuff! I detest all mankind.” “Nay, to be sure, ma'am,”
   answered Honour, “your la'ship hath had enough to give you a surfeit
  of them. To be used ill by such a poor, beggarly, bastardly
  fellow.”--“Hold your blasphemous tongue,” cries Sophia: “how dare you
  mention his name with disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his
  poor bleeding heart suffered more when he writ the cruel words than
  mine from reading them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic
  goodness. I am ashamed of the weakness of my own passion, for blaming
  what I ought to admire. O, Honour! it is my good only which he
  consults. To my interest he sacrifices both himself and me. The
  apprehension of ruining me hath driven him to despair.” “I am very
  glad,” says Honour, “to hear your la'ship takes that into your
  consideration; for to be sure, it must be nothing less than ruin to
  give your mind to one that is turned out of doors, and is not worth a
  farthing in the world.” “Turned out of doors!” cries Sophia hastily:
  “how! what dost thou mean?” “Why, to be sure, ma'am, my master no
  sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr Jones having offered to make
  love to your la'ship than the squire stripped him stark naked, and
  turned him out of doors!” “Ha!” says Sophia, “I have been the cursed,
  wretched cause of his destruction! Turned naked out of doors! Here,
  Honour, take all the money I have; take the rings from my fingers.
  Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find him immediately.” “For Heaven's
  sake, ma'am,” answered Mrs Honour, “do but consider, if my master
  should miss any of these things, I should be made to answer for them.
  Therefore let me beg your la'ship not to part with your watch and
  jewels. Besides, the money, I think, is enough of all conscience; and
  as for that, my master can never know anything of the matter.” “Here,
  then,” cries Sophia, “take every farthing I am worth, find him out
  immediately, and give it him. Go, go, lose not a moment.”
  
  Mrs Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
  below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen
  guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her
  father was very liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.
  
  Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the
  alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he should
  not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however, immediately
  started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him with ingratitude
  to his benefactor. To this his avarice answered, That his conscience
  should have considered the matter before, when he deprived poor Jones
  of his £500. That having quietly acquiesced in what was of so much
  greater importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to
  affect any qualms at this trifle. In return to which, Conscience, like
  a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute breach of
  trust, as here, where the goods were delivered, and a bare concealment
  of what was found, as in the former case. Avarice presently treated
  this with ridicule, called it a distinction without a difference, and
  absolutely insisted that when once all pretensions of honour and
  virtue were given up in any one instance, that there was no precedent
  for resorting to them upon a second occasion. In short, poor
  Conscience had certainly been defeated in the argument, had not Fear
  stept in to her assistance, and very strenuously urged that the real
  distinction between the two actions, did not lie in the different
  degrees of honour but of safety: for that the secreting the £500 was a
  matter of very little hazard; whereas the detaining the sixteen
  guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery.
  
  By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory
  in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments
  on his honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiv.
  
  A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire Western
  and his sister.
  
  
  Mrs Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met her
  at her return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he acquainted
  her that he had secured her safe enough. “She is locked up in
  chamber,” cries he, “and Honour keeps the key.” As his looks were full
  of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister this
  information, it is probable he expected much applause from her for
  what he had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most
  disdainful aspect, she cried, “Sure, brother, you are the weakest of
  all men. Why will you not confide in me for the management of my
  niece? Why will you interpose? You have now undone all that I have
  been spending my breath in order to bring about. While I have been
  endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence, you have been
  provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank heaven,
  are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and Italian
  wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We are to be
  convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by force. I
  have seen the world, brother, and know what arguments to make use of;
  and if your folly had not prevented me, should have prevailed with her
  to form her conduct by those rules of prudence and discretion which I
  formerly taught her.” “To be sure,” said the squire, “I am always in
  the wrong.” “Brother,” answered the lady, “you are not in the wrong,
  unless when you meddle with matters beyond your knowledge. You must
  agree that I have seen most of the world; and happy had it been for my
  niece if she had not been taken from under my care. It is by living at
  home with you that she hath learnt romantic notions of love and
  nonsense.” “You don't imagine, I hope,” cries the squire, “that I have
  taught her any such things.” “Your ignorance, brother,” returned she,
  “as the great Milton says, almost subdues my patience.”[*] “D--n
  Milton!” answered the squire: “if he had the impudence to say so to my
  face, I'd lend him a douse, thof he was never so great a man.
  Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have more occasion of
  patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy, as I am by you. Do
  you think no one hath any understanding, unless he hath been about at
  court. Pox! the world is come to a fine pass indeed, if we are all
  fools, except a parcel of round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox! I hope
  the times are a coming when we shall make fools of them, and every man
  shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister; and every man shall enjoy his
  own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the Hanover rats have eat up all
  our corn, and left us nothing but turneps to feed upon.”--“I protest,
  brother,” cries she, “you are now got beyond my understanding. Your
  jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to me perfectly
  unintelligible.”--“I believe,” cries he, “you don't care to hear o'em;
  but the country interest may succeed one day or other for all
  that.”--“I wish,” answered the lady, “you would think a little of your
  daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in greater danger than
  the nation.”--“Just now,” said he, “you chid me for thinking on her,
  and would ha' her left to you.”--“And if you will promise to interpose
  no more,” answered she, “I will, out of my regard to my niece,
  undertake the charge.”--“Well, do then,” said the squire, “for you
  know I always agreed, that women are the properest to manage women.”
  
    [*] The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
    for this in Milton.]
  
  Mrs Western then departed, muttering something with an air of disdain,
  concerning women and management of the nation. She immediately
  repaired to Sophia's apartment, who was now, after a day's
  confinement, released again from her captivity.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK VII.
  
  CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  A comparison between the world and the stage.
  
  
  The world hath been often compared to the theatre; and many grave
  writers, as well as the poets, have considered human life as a great
  drama, resembling, in almost every particular, those scenical
  representations which Thespis is first reported to have invented, and
  which have been since received with so much approbation and delight in
  all polite countries.
  
  This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that
  some words proper to the theatre, and which were at first
  metaphorically applied to the world, are now indiscriminately and
  literally spoken of both; thus stage and scene are by common use grown
  as familiar to us, when we speak of life in general, as when we
  confine ourselves to dramatic performances: and when transactions
  behind the curtain are mentioned, St James's is more likely to occur
  to our thoughts than Drury-lane.
  
  It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that
  the theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, or, as
  Aristotle calls it, an imitation of what really exists; and hence,
  perhaps, we might fairly pay a very high compliment to those who by
  their writings or actions have been so capable of imitating life, as
  to have their pictures in a manner confounded with, or mistaken for,
  the originals.
  
  But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these
  people, whom we use as children frequently do the instruments of their
  amusement; and have much more pleasure in hissing and buffeting them,
  than in admiring their excellence. There are many other reasons which
  have induced us to see this analogy between the world and the stage.
  
  Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the light of
  actors, as personating characters no more their own, and to which in
  fact they have no better title, than the player hath to be in earnest
  thought the king or emperor whom he represents. Thus the hypocrite may
  be said to be a player; and indeed the Greeks called them both by one
  and the same name.
  
  The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison.
  So the immortal Shakespear--
  
        --Life's a poor player,
        That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
        And then is heard no more.
  
  For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a very
  noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a poem
  called the Deity, published about nine years ago, and long since
  buried in oblivion; a proof that good books, no more than good men, do
  always survive the bad.
  
        From Thee[*] all human actions take their springs,
        The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
        See the vast Theatre of Time display'd,
        While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
        With pomp the shining images succeed,
        What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
        Perform the parts thy providence assign'd,
        Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:
        Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
        Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
        No traces left of all the busy scene,
        But that remembrance says--_The things have been!_
  
    [*] The Deity.
  
  In all these, however, and in every other similitude of life to the
  theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from the stage only.
  None, as I remember, have at all considered the audience at this great
  drama.
  
  But as Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very
  full house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit the
  above-mentioned comparison than that of her actors. In this vast
  theatre of time are seated the friend and the critic; here are claps
  and shouts, hisses and groans; in short, everything which was ever
  seen or heard at the Theatre-Royal.
  
  Let us examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour of
  the great audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to exhibit
  in the twelfth chapter of the preceding book, where she introduced
  Black George running away with the £500 from his friend and
  benefactor.
  
  Those who sat in the world's upper gallery treated that incident, I am
  well convinced, with their usual vociferation; and every term of
  scurrilous reproach was most probably vented on that occasion.
  
  If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we should have
  found an equal degree of abhorrence, though less of noise and
  scurrility; yet here the good women gave Black George to the devil,
  and many of them expected every minute that the cloven-footed
  gentleman would fetch his own.
  
  The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic
  virtue and perfect character objected to the producing such instances
  of villany, without punishing them very severely for the sake of
  example. Some of the author's friends cryed, “Look'e, gentlemen, the
  man is a villain, but it is nature for all that.” And all the young
  critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices, &c., called it low, and
  fell a groaning.
  
  As for the boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness. Most
  of them were attending to something else. Some of those few who
  regarded the scene at all, declared he was a bad kind of man; while
  others refused to give their opinion, till they had heard that of the
  best judges.
  
  Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of
  Nature (and no author ought to write anything besides dictionaries and
  spelling-books who hath not this privilege), can censure the action,
  without conceiving any absolute detestation of the person, whom
  perhaps Nature may not have designed to act an ill part in all her
  dramas; for in this instance life most exactly resembles the stage,
  since it is often the same person who represents the villain and the
  heroe; and he who engages your admiration to-day will probably attract
  your contempt to-morrow. As Garrick, whom I regard in tragedy to be
  the greatest genius the world hath ever produced, sometimes
  condescends to play the fool; so did Scipio the Great, and Laelius the
  Wise, according to Horace, many years ago; nay, Cicero reports them to
  have been “incredibly childish.” These, it is true, played the fool,
  like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but several eminent characters
  have, in numberless instances of their lives, played the fool
  egregiously in earnest; so far as to render it a matter of some doubt
  whether their wisdom or folly was predominant; or whether they were
  better intitled to the applause or censure, the admiration or
  contempt, the love or hatred, of mankind.
  
  Those persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the scenes of
  this great theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted not only with the
  several disguises which are there put on, but also with the fantastic
  and capricious behaviour of the Passions, who are the managers and
  directors of this theatre (for as to Reason, the patentee, he is known
  to be a very idle fellow and seldom to exert himself), may most
  probably have learned to understand the famous _nil admirari_ of
  Horace, or in the English phrase, to stare at nothing.
  
  A single bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a single
  bad part on the stage. The passions, like the managers of a playhouse,
  often force men upon parts without consulting their judgment, and
  sometimes without any regard to their talents. Thus the man, as well
  as the player, may condemn what he himself acts; nay, it is common to
  see vice sit as awkwardly on some men, as the character of Iago would
  on the honest face of Mr William Mills.
  
  Upon the whole, then, the man of candour and of true understanding is
  never hasty to condemn. He can censure an imperfection, or even a
  vice, without rage against the guilty party. In a word, they are the
  same folly, the same childishness, the same ill-breeding, and the same
  ill-nature, which raise all the clamours and uproars both in life and
  on the stage. The worst of men generally have the words rogue and
  villain most in their mouths, as the lowest of all wretches are the
  aptest to cry out low in the pit.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with himself.
  
  
  Jones received his effects from Mr Allworthy's early in the morning,
  with the following answer to his letter:--
  
    “SIR,
  
    “I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as he did not
    proceed to those measures he had taken with you, without the
    greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence of your
    unworthiness, so will it be always out of your power to cause the
    least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great surprize at
    your presumption in saying you have resigned all pretensions to a
    young lady, to whom it is impossible you should ever have had any,
    her birth and fortune having made her so infinitely your superior.
    Lastly, I am commanded to tell you, that the only instance of your
    compliance with my uncle's inclinations which he requires, is, your
    immediately quitting this country. I cannot conclude this without
    offering you my advice, as a Christian, that you would seriously
    think of amending your life. That you may be assisted with grace so
    to do, will be always the prayer of
  
    “Your humble servant,
  
    “W. BLIFIL.”
  
  Many contending passions were raised in our heroe's mind by this
  letter; but the tender prevailed at last over the indignant and
  irascible, and a flood of tears came seasonably to his assistance, and
  possibly prevented his misfortunes from either turning his head, or
  bursting his heart.
  
  He grew, however, soon ashamed of indulging this remedy; and starting
  up, he cried, “Well, then, I will give Mr Allworthy the only instance
  he requires of my obedience. I will go this moment--but whither?--why,
  let Fortune direct; since there is no other who thinks it of any
  consequence what becomes of this wretched person, it shall be a matter
  of equal indifference to myself. Shall I alone regard what no
  other--Ha! have I not reason to think there is another?--one whose
  value is above that of the whole world!--I may, I must imagine my
  Sophia is not indifferent to what becomes of me. Shall I then leave
  this only friend--and such a friend? Shall I not stay with
  her?--Where--how can I stay with her? Have I any hopes of ever seeing
  her, though she was as desirous as myself, without exposing her to the
  wrath of her father, and to what purpose? Can I think of soliciting
  such a creature to consent to her own ruin? Shall I indulge any
  passion of mine at such a price? Shall I lurk about this country like
  a thief, with such intentions?--No, I disdain, I detest the thought.
  Farewel, Sophia; farewel, most lovely, most beloved--” Here passion
  stopped his mouth, and found a vent at his eyes.
  
  And now having taken a resolution to leave the country, he began to
  debate with himself whither he should go. The world, as Milton phrases
  it, lay all before him; and Jones, no more than Adam, had any man to
  whom he might resort for comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance
  were the acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and he had no reason to expect
  any countenance from them, as that gentleman had withdrawn his favour
  from him. Men of great and good characters should indeed be very
  cautious how they discard their dependents; for the consequence to the
  unhappy sufferer is being discarded by all others.
  
  What course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply himself,
  was a second consideration: and here the prospect was all a melancholy
  void. Every profession, and every trade, required length of time, and
  what was worse, money; for matters are so constituted, that “nothing
  out of nothing” is not a truer maxim in physics than in politics; and
  every man who is greatly destitute of money, is on that account
  entirely excluded from all means of acquiring it.
  
  At last the Ocean, that hospitable friend to the wretched, opened her
  capacious arms to receive him; and he instantly resolved to accept her
  kind invitation. To express myself less figuratively, he determined to
  go to sea.
  
  This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he eagerly
  embraced it; and having presently hired horses, he set out for Bristol
  to put it in execution.
  
  But before we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort awhile to
  Mr Western's, and see what further happened to the charming Sophia.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Containing several dialogues.
  
  
  The morning in which Mr Jones departed, Mrs Western summoned Sophia
  into her apartment; and having first acquainted her that she had
  obtained her liberty of her father, she proceeded to read her a long
  lecture on the subject of matrimony; which she treated not as a
  romantic scheme of happiness arising from love, as it hath been
  described by the poets; nor did she mention any of those purposes for
  which we are taught by divines to regard it as instituted by sacred
  authority; she considered it rather as a fund in which prudent women
  deposit their fortunes to the best advantage, in order to receive a
  larger interest for them than they could have elsewhere.
  
  When Mrs Western had finished, Sophia answered, “That she was very
  incapable of arguing with a lady of her aunt's superior knowledge and
  experience, especially on a subject which she had so very little
  considered, as this of matrimony.”
  
  “Argue with me, child!” replied the other; “I do not indeed expect it.
  I should have seen the world to very little purpose truly, if I am to
  argue with one of your years. I have taken this trouble, in order to
  instruct you. The antient philosophers, such as Socrates, Alcibiades,
  and others, did not use to argue with their scholars. You are to
  consider me, child, as Socrates, not asking your opinion, but only
  informing you of mine.” From which last words the reader may possibly
  imagine, that this lady had read no more of the philosophy of
  Socrates, than she had of that of Alcibiades; and indeed we cannot
  resolve his curiosity as to this point.
  
  “Madam,” cries Sophia, “I have never presumed to controvert any
  opinion of yours; and this subject, as I said, I have never yet
  thought of, and perhaps never may.”
  
  “Indeed, Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this dissimulation with me is very
  foolish. The French shall as soon persuade me that they take foreign
  towns in defence only of their own country, as you can impose on me to
  believe you have never yet thought seriously of matrimony. How can
  you, child, affect to deny that you have considered of contracting an
  alliance, when you so well know I am acquainted with the party with
  whom you desire to contract it?--an alliance as unnatural, and
  contrary to your interest, as a separate league with the French would
  be to the interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hitherto
  considered of this matter, I promise you it is now high time, for my
  brother is resolved immediately to conclude the treaty with Mr Blifil;
  and indeed I am a sort of guarantee in the affair, and have promised
  your concurrence.”
  
  “Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “this is the only instance in which I
  must disobey both yourself and my father. For this is a match which
  requires very little consideration in me to refuse.”
  
  “If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,” returned
  Mrs Western, “you would overcome my patience. What objection can you
  have to the young gentleman?”
  
  “A very solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia--“I hate him.”
  
  “Will you never learn a proper use of words?” answered the aunt.
  “Indeed, child, you should consult Bailey's Dictionary. It is
  impossible you should hate a man from whom you have received no
  injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean no more than dislike, which is
  no sufficient objection against your marrying of him. I have known
  many couples, who have entirely disliked each other, lead very
  comfortable genteel lives. Believe me, child, I know these things
  better than you. You will allow me, I think, to have seen the world,
  in which I have not an acquaintance who would not rather be thought to
  dislike her husband than to like him. The contrary is such
  out-of-fashion romantic nonsense, that the very imagination of it is
  shocking.”
  
  “Indeed, madam,” replied Sophia, “I shall never marry a man I dislike.
  If I promise my father never to consent to any marriage contrary to
  his inclinations, I think I may hope he will never force me into that
  state contrary to my own.”
  
  “Inclinations!” cries the aunt, with some warmth. “Inclinations! I am
  astonished at your assurance. A young woman of your age, and
  unmarried, to talk of inclinations! But whatever your inclinations may
  be, my brother is resolved; nay, since you talk of inclinations, I
  shall advise him to hasten the treaty. Inclinations!”
  
  Sophia then flung herself upon her knees, and tears began to trickle
  from her shining eyes. She entreated her aunt, “to have mercy upon
  her, and not to resent so cruelly her unwillingness to make herself
  miserable;” often urging, “that she alone was concerned, and that her
  happiness only was at stake.”
  
  As a bailiff, when well authorized by his writ, having possessed
  himself of the person of some unhappy debtor, views all his tears
  without concern; in vain the wretched captive attempts to raise
  compassion; in vain the tender wife bereft of her companion, the
  little prattling boy, or frighted girl, are mentioned as inducements
  to reluctance. The noble bumtrap, blind and deaf to every circumstance
  of distress, greatly rises above all the motives to humanity, and into
  the hands of the gaoler resolves to deliver his miserable prey.
  
  Not less blind to the tears, or less deaf to every entreaty of Sophia
  was the politic aunt, nor less determined was she to deliver over the
  trembling maid into the arms of the gaoler Blifil. She answered with
  great impetuosity, “So far, madam, from your being concerned alone,
  your concern is the least, or surely the least important. It is the
  honour of your family which is concerned in this alliance; you are
  only the instrument. Do you conceive, mistress, that in an
  intermarriage between kingdoms, as when a daughter of France is
  married into Spain, the princess herself is alone considered in the
  match? No! it is a match between two kingdoms, rather than between two
  persons. The same happens in great families such as ours. The alliance
  between the families is the principal matter. You ought to have a
  greater regard for the honour of your family than for your own person;
  and if the example of a princess cannot inspire you with these noble
  thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no worse than all
  princesses are used.”
  
  “I hope, madam,” cries Sophia, with a little elevation of voice, “I
  shall never do anything to dishonour my family; but as for Mr Blifil,
  whatever may be the consequence, I am resolved against him, and no
  force shall prevail in his favour.”
  
  Western, who had been within hearing during the greater part of the
  preceding dialogue, had now exhausted all his patience; he therefore
  entered the room in a violent passion, crying, “D--n me then if
  shatunt ha'un, d--n me if shatunt, that's all--that's all; d--n me if
  shatunt.”
  
  Mrs Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for the use
  of Sophia; but she now transferred it all to the squire. “Brother,”
   said she, “it is astonishing that you will interfere in a matter
  which you had totally left to my negotiation. Regard to my family
  hath made me take upon myself to be the mediating power, in order to
  rectify those mistakes in policy which you have committed in your
  daughter's education. For, brother, it is you--it is your
  preposterous conduct which hath eradicated all the seeds that I had
  formerly sown in her tender mind. It is you yourself who have taught
  her disobedience.”--“Blood!” cries the squire, foaming at the mouth,
  “you are enough to conquer the patience of the devil! Have I ever
  taught my daughter disobedience?--Here she stands; speak honestly,
  girl, did ever I bid you be disobedient to me? Have not I done
  everything to humour and to gratify you, and to make you obedient to
  me? And very obedient to me she was when a little child, before you
  took her in hand and spoiled her, by filling her head with a pack of
  court notions. Why--why--why--did I not overhear you telling her she
  must behave like a princess? You have made a Whig of the girl; and how
  should her father, or anybody else, expect any obedience from
  her?”--“Brother,” answered Mrs Western, with an air of great disdain,
  “I cannot express the contempt I have for your politics of all kinds;
  but I will appeal likewise to the young lady herself, whether I have
  ever taught her any principles of disobedience. On the contrary,
  niece, have I not endeavoured to inspire you with a true idea of the
  several relations in which a human creature stands in society? Have I
  not taken infinite pains to show you, that the law of nature hath
  enjoined a duty on children to their parents? Have I not told you what
  Plato says on that subject?--a subject on which you was so notoriously
  ignorant when you came first under my care, that I verily believe you
  did not know the relation between a daughter and a father.”--“'Tis a
  lie,” answered Western. “The girl is no such fool, as to live to
  eleven years old without knowing that she was her father's
  relation.”--“O! more than Gothic ignorance,” answered the lady. “And
  as for your manners, brother, I must tell you, they deserve a
  cane.”--“Why then you may gi' it me, if you think you are able,” cries
  the squire; “nay, I suppose your niece there will be ready enough to
  help you.”--“Brother,” said Mrs Western, “though I despise you beyond
  expression, yet I shall endure your insolence no longer; so I desire
  my coach may be got ready immediately, for I am resolved to leave your
  house this very morning.”--“And a good riddance too,” answered he; “I
  can bear your insolence no longer, an you come to that. Blood! it is
  almost enough of itself to make my daughter undervalue my sense, when
  she hears you telling me every minute you despise me.”--“It is
  impossible, it is impossible,” cries the aunt; “no one can undervalue
  such a boor.”--“Boar,” answered the squire, “I am no boar; no, nor
  ass; no, nor rat neither, madam. Remember that--I am no rat. I am a
  true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed, that have eat up the
  nation.”--“Thou art one of those wise men,” cries she, “whose
  nonsensical principles have undone the nation; by weakening the hands
  of our government at home, and by discouraging our friends and
  encouraging our enemies abroad.”--“Ho! are you come back to your
  politics?” cries the squire: “as for those I despise them as much as I
  do a f--t.” Which last words he accompanied and graced with the very
  action, which, of all others, was the most proper to it. And whether
  it was this word or the contempt exprest for her politics, which most
  affected Mrs Western, I will not determine; but she flew into the most
  violent rage, uttered phrases improper to be here related, and
  instantly burst out of the house. Nor did her brother or her niece
  think proper either to stop or to follow her; for the one was so much
  possessed by concern, and the other by anger, that they were rendered
  almost motionless.
  
  The squire, however, sent after his sister the same holloa which
  attends the departure of a hare, when she is first started before the
  hounds. He was indeed a great master of this kind of vociferation, and
  had a holla proper for most occasions in life.
  
  Women who, like Mrs Western, know the world, and have applied
  themselves to philosophy and politics, would have immediately availed
  themselves of the present disposition of Mr Western's mind, by
  throwing in a few artful compliments to his understanding at the
  expense of his absent adversary; but poor Sophia was all simplicity.
  By which word we do not intend to insinuate to the reader, that she
  was silly, which is generally understood as a synonymous term with
  simple; for she was indeed a most sensible girl, and her understanding
  was of the first rate; but she wanted all that useful art which
  females convert to so many good purposes in life, and which, as it
  rather arises from the heart than from the head, is often the property
  of the silliest of women.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
  
  
  Mr Western having finished his holla, and taken a little breath, began
  to lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition of men,
  who are, says he, “always whipt in by the humours of some d--n'd b--
  or other. I think I was hard run enough by your mother for one man;
  but after giving her a dodge, here's another b-- follows me upon the
  foil; but curse my jacket if I will be run down in this manner by any
  o'um.”
  
  Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this unlucky
  affair of Blifil, on any account, except in defence of her mother,
  whom she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her in the eleventh
  year of her age. The squire, to whom that poor woman had been a
  faithful upper-servant all the time of their marriage, had returned
  that behaviour by making what the world calls a good husband. He very
  seldom swore at her (perhaps not above once a week) and never beat
  her; she had not the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect
  mistress of her time; for she was never interrupted by her husband,
  who was engaged all the morning in his field exercises, and all the
  evening with bottle companions. She scarce indeed ever saw him but at
  meals; where she had the pleasure of carving those dishes which she
  had before attended at the dressing. From these meals she retired
  about five minutes after the other servants, having only stayed to
  drink “the king over the water.” Such were, it seems, Mr Western's
  orders; for it was a maxim with him, that women should come in with
  the first dish, and go out after the first glass. Obedience to these
  orders was perhaps no difficult task; for the conversation (if it may
  be called so) was seldom such as could entertain a lady. It consisted
  chiefly of hallowing, singing, relations of sporting adventures,
  b--d--y, and abuse of women, and of the government.
  
  These, however, were the only seasons when Mr Western saw his wife;
  for when he repaired to her bed, he was generally so drunk that he
  could not see; and in the sporting season he always rose from her
  before it was light. Thus was she perfect mistress of her time, and
  had besides a coach and four usually at her command; though unhappily,
  indeed, the badness of the neighbourhood, and of the roads, made this
  of little use; for none who had set much value on their necks would
  have passed through the one, or who had set any value on their hours,
  would have visited the other. Now to deal honestly with the reader,
  she did not make all the return expected to so much indulgence; for
  she had been married against her will by a fond father, the match
  having been rather advantageous on her side; for the squire's estate
  was upward of £3000 a year, and her fortune no more than a bare £8000.
  Hence perhaps she had contracted a little gloominess of temper, for
  she was rather a good servant than a good wife; nor had she always the
  gratitude to return the extraordinary degree of roaring mirth, with
  which the squire received her, even with a good-humoured smile. She
  would, moreover, sometimes interfere with matters which did not
  concern her, as the violent drinking of her husband, which in the
  gentlest terms she would take some of the few opportunities he gave
  her of remonstrating against. And once in her life she very earnestly
  entreated him to carry her for two months to London, which he
  peremptorily denied; nay, was angry with his wife for the request ever
  after, being well assured that all the husbands in London are
  cuckolds.
  
  For this last, and many other good reasons, Western at length heartily
  hated his wife; and as he never concealed this hatred before her
  death, so he never forgot it afterwards; but when anything in the
  least soured him, as a bad scenting day, or a distemper among his
  hounds, or any other such misfortune, he constantly vented his spleen
  by invectives against the deceased, saying, “If my wife was alive now,
  she would be glad of this.”
  
  These invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth before
  Sophia; for as he loved her more than he did any other, so he was
  really jealous that she had loved her mother better than him. And this
  jealousy Sophia seldom failed of heightening on these occasions; for
  he was not contented with violating her ears with the abuse of her
  mother, but endeavoured to force an explicit approbation of all this
  abuse; with which desire he never could prevail upon her by any
  promise or threats to comply.
  
  Hence some of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the squire had not
  hated Sophia as much as he had hated her mother; but I must inform
  them, that hatred is not the effect of love, even through the medium
  of jealousy. It is, indeed, very possible for jealous persons to kill
  the objects of their jealousy, but not to hate them. Which sentiment
  being a pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a
  paradox, we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end
  of the chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
  
  
  Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did
  she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none
  of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not
  satisfied without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he
  now demanded of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he
  expected she was ready to take the part of everybody against him, as
  she had always done that of the b-- her mother.” Sophia remaining
  still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was
  not thy mother a d--d b-- to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you
  despise your father too, and don't think him good enough to speak to?”
  
  “For Heaven's sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a
  turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any
  disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every
  word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest
  ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers;
  for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”
  
  “And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the
  squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b--? I may
  fairly insist upon that, I think?”
  
  “Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She
  hath been a second mother to me.”
  
  “And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her
  part too! You won't confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest
  sister in the world?”
  
  “Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if
  I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your ways of
  thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the greatest
  affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the worst
  sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”
  
  “The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the
  wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and
  the man in the wrong always.”
  
  “Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”
  
  “What don't you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to
  say she's in the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in
  the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian
  Hanoverian b-- to come into my house. She may 'dite me of a plot for
  anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”
  
  “So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my
  aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her
  whole fortune.”
  
  Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but
  certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of
  her father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had
  said before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man
  receives a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale.
  After which he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the
  following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her
  esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the
  year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody
  else, and perhaps out of the vamily.”--“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia,
  “hath very violent passions, and I can't answer what she may do under
  their influence.”
  
  “You can't!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion
  of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put
  her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the
  room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not
  quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now
  you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the
  occasion of her leaving the esteate out o' the vamily. I could have
  expected no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the
  rest of my fondness.”
  
  “I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I beseech you, if I
  have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, that you will
  endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not suffer her to leave your
  house in this violent rage of anger: she is a very good-natured woman,
  and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.”
  
  “So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered
  Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw every way to find
  her again? Indeed, if I was certain”--Here he stopt, and Sophia
  throwing in more entreaties, at length prevailed upon him; so that
  after venting two or three bitter sarcastical expressions against his
  daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover his sister,
  before her equipage could be gotten ready.
  
  Sophia then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged
  herself (if the phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender
  grief. She read over more than once the letter which she had received
  from Jones; her muff too was used on this occasion; and she bathed
  both these, as well as herself, with her tears. In this situation the
  friendly Mrs Honour exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her
  afflicted mistress. She ran over the names of many young gentlemen:
  and having greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia
  that she might take her choice of any. These methods must have
  certainly been used with some success in disorders of the like kind,
  or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs Honour would never have ventured
  to apply them; nay, I have heard that the college of chambermaids hold
  them to be as sovereign remedies as any in the female dispensary; but
  whether it was that Sophia's disease differed inwardly from those
  cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I will not assert;
  but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than good, and at
  last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an
  angry voice she dismissed her from her presence.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Containing great variety of matter.
  
  
  The squire overtook his sister just as she was stepping into the
  coach, and partly by force, and partly by solicitations, prevailed
  upon her to order her horses back into their quarters. He succeeded in
  this attempt without much difficulty; for the lady was, as we have
  already hinted, of a most placable disposition, and greatly loved her
  brother, though she despised his parts, or rather his little knowledge
  of the world.
  
  Poor Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, was now
  made the sacrifice to it. They both concurred in their censures on her
  conduct; jointly declared war against her, and directly proceeded to
  counsel, how to carry it on in the most vigorous manner. For this
  purpose, Mrs Western proposed not only an immediate conclusion of the
  treaty with Allworthy, but as immediately to carry it into execution;
  saying, “That there was no other way to succeed with her niece, but by
  violent methods, which she was convinced Sophia had not sufficient
  resolution to resist. By violent,” says she, “I mean rather, hasty
  measures; for as to confinement or absolute force, no such things must
  or can be attempted. Our plan must be concerted for a surprize, and
  not for a storm.”
  
  These matters were resolved on, when Mr Blifil came to pay a visit to
  his mistress. The squire no sooner heard of his arrival, than he stept
  aside, by his sister's advice, to give his daughter orders for the
  proper reception of her lover: which he did with the most bitter
  execrations and denunciations of judgment on her refusal.
  
  The impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him; and Sophia, as
  her aunt very wisely foresaw, was not able to resist him. She agreed,
  therefore, to see Blifil, though she had scarce spirits or strength
  sufficient to utter her assent. Indeed, to give a peremptory denial to
  a father whom she so tenderly loved, was no easy task. Had this
  circumstance been out of the case, much less resolution than what she
  was really mistress of, would, perhaps, have served her; but it is no
  unusual thing to ascribe those actions entirely to fear, which are in
  a great measure produced by love.
  
  In pursuance, therefore, of her father's peremptory command, Sophia
  now admitted Mr Blifil's visit. Scenes like this, when painted at
  large, afford, as we have observed, very little entertainment to the
  reader. Here, therefore, we shall strictly adhere to a rule of Horace;
  by which writers are directed to pass over all those matters which
  they despair of placing in a shining light;--a rule, we conceive, of
  excellent use as well to the historian as to the poet; and which, if
  followed, must at least have this good effect, that many a great evil
  (for so all great books are called) would thus be reduced to a small
  one.
  
  It is possible the great art used by Blifil at this interview would
  have prevailed on Sophia to have made another man in his circumstances
  her confident, and to have revealed the whole secret of her heart to
  him; but she had contracted so ill an opinion of this young gentleman,
  that she was resolved to place no confidence in him; for simplicity,
  when set on its guard, is often a match for cunning. Her behaviour to
  him, therefore, was entirely forced, and indeed such as is generally
  prescribed to virgins upon the second formal visit from one who is
  appointed for their husband.
  
  But though Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly satisfied
  with his reception; yet that gentleman, who, in company with his
  sister, had overheard all, was not so well pleased. He resolved, in
  pursuance of the advice of the sage lady, to push matters as forward
  as possible; and addressing himself to his intended son-in-law in the
  hunting phrase, he cried, after a loud holla, “Follow her, boy, follow
  her; run in, run in; that's it, honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be
  bashful, nor stand shall I, shall I? Allworthy and I can finish all
  matters between us this afternoon, and let us ha' the wedding
  to-morrow.”
  
  Blifil having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his countenance,
  answered, “As there is nothing, sir, in this world which I so eagerly
  desire as an alliance with your family, except my union with the most
  amiable and deserving Sophia, you may easily imagine how impatient I
  must be to see myself in possession of my two highest wishes. If I
  have not therefore importuned you on this head, you will impute it
  only to my fear of offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry on so
  blessed an event faster than a strict compliance with all the rules of
  decency and decorum will permit. But if, by your interest, sir, she
  might be induced to dispense with any formalities--”
  
  “Formalities! with a pox!” answered the squire. “Pooh, all stuff and
  nonsense! I tell thee, she shall ha' thee to-morrow: you will know the
  world better hereafter, when you come to my age. Women never gi' their
  consent, man, if they can help it, 'tis not the fashion. If I had
  stayed for her mother's consent, I might have been a batchelor to this
  day.--To her, to her, co to her, that's it, you jolly dog. I tell thee
  shat ha' her to-morrow morning.”
  
  Blifil suffered himself to be overpowered by the forcible rhetoric of
  the squire; and it being agreed that Western should close with
  Allworthy that very afternoon, the lover departed home, having first
  earnestly begged that no violence might be offered to the lady by this
  haste, in the same manner as a popish inquisitor begs the lay power to
  do no violence to the heretic delivered over to it, and against whom
  the church hath passed sentence.
  
  And, to say the truth, Blifil had passed sentence against Sophia; for,
  however pleased he had declared himself to Western with his reception,
  he was by no means satisfied, unless it was that he was convinced of
  the hatred and scorn of his mistress: and this had produced no less
  reciprocal hatred and scorn in him. It may, perhaps, be asked, Why
  then did he not put an immediate end to all further courtship? I
  answer, for that very reason, as well as for several others equally
  good, which we shall now proceed to open to the reader.
  
  Though Mr Blifil was not of the complexion of Jones, nor ready to eat
  every woman he saw; yet he was far from being destitute of that
  appetite which is said to be the common property of all animals. With
  this, he had likewise that distinguishing taste, which serves to
  direct men in their choice of the object or food of their several
  appetites; and this taught him to consider Sophia as a most delicious
  morsel, indeed to regard her with the same desires which an ortolan
  inspires into the soul of an epicure. Now the agonies which affected
  the mind of Sophia, rather augmented than impaired her beauty; for her
  tears added brightness to her eyes, and her breasts rose higher with
  her sighs. Indeed, no one hath seen beauty in its highest lustre who
  hath never seen it in distress. Blifil therefore looked on this human
  ortolan with greater desire than when he viewed her last; nor was his
  desire at all lessened by the aversion which he discovered in her to
  himself. On the contrary, this served rather to heighten the pleasure
  he proposed in rifling her charms, as it added triumph to lust; nay,
  he had some further views, from obtaining the absolute possession of
  her person, which we detest too much even to mention; and revenge
  itself was not without its share in the gratifications which he
  promised himself. The rivalling poor Jones, and supplanting him in her
  affections, added another spur to his pursuit, and promised another
  additional rapture to his enjoyment.
  
  Besides all these views, which to some scrupulous persons may seem to
  savour too much of malevolence, he had one prospect, which few readers
  will regard with any great abhorrence. And this was the estate of Mr
  Western; which was all to be settled on his daughter and her issue;
  for so extravagant was the affection of that fond parent, that,
  provided his child would but consent to be miserable with the husband
  he chose, he cared not at what price he purchased him.
  
  For these reasons Mr Blifil was so desirous of the match that he
  intended to deceive Sophia, by pretending love to her; and to deceive
  her father and his own uncle, by pretending he was beloved by her. In
  doing this he availed himself of the piety of Thwackum, who held, that
  if the end proposed was religious (as surely matrimony is), it
  mattered not how wicked were the means. As to other occasions, he used
  to apply the philosophy of Square, which taught, that the end was
  immaterial, so that the means were fair and consistent with moral
  rectitude. To say truth, there were few occurrences in life on which
  he could not draw advantage from the precepts of one or other of those
  great masters.
  
  Little deceit was indeed necessary to be practised on Mr Western; who
  thought the inclinations of his daughter of as little consequence as
  Blifil himself conceived them to be; but as the sentiments of Mr
  Allworthy were of a very different kind, so it was absolutely
  necessary to impose on him. In this, however, Blifil was so well
  assisted by Western, that he succeeded without difficulty; for as Mr
  Allworthy had been assured by her father that Sophia had a proper
  affection for Blifil, and that all which he had suspected concerning
  Jones was entirely false, Blifil had nothing more to do than to
  confirm these assertions; which he did with such equivocations, that
  he preserved a salvo for his conscience; and had the satisfaction of
  conveying a lie to his uncle, without the guilt of telling one. When
  he was examined touching the inclinations of Sophia by Allworthy, who
  said, “He would on no account be accessary to forcing a young lady
  into a marriage contrary to her own will;” he answered, “That the real
  sentiments of young ladies were very difficult to be understood; that
  her behaviour to him was full as forward as he wished it, and that if
  he could believe her father, she had all the affection for him which
  any lover could desire. As for Jones,” said he, “whom I am loth to
  call villain, though his behaviour to you, sir, sufficiently justifies
  the appellation, his own vanity, or perhaps some wicked views, might
  make him boast of a falsehood; for if there had been any reality in
  Miss Western's love to him, the greatness of her fortune would never
  have suffered him to desert her, as you are well informed he hath.
  Lastly, sir, I promise you I would not myself, for any consideration,
  no, not for the whole world, consent to marry this young lady, if I
  was not persuaded she had all the passion for me which I desire she
  should have.”
  
  This excellent method of conveying a falsehood with the heart only,
  without making the tongue guilty of an untruth, by the means of
  equivocation and imposture, hath quieted the conscience of many a
  notable deceiver; and yet, when we consider that it is Omniscience on
  which these endeavour to impose, it may possibly seem capable of
  affording only a very superficial comfort; and that this artful and
  refined distinction between communicating a lie, and telling one, is
  hardly worth the pains it costs them.
  
  Allworthy was pretty well satisfied with what Mr Western and Mr Blifil
  told him: and the treaty was now, at the end of two days, concluded.
  Nothing then remained previous to the office of the priest, but the
  office of the lawyers, which threatened to take up so much time, that
  Western offered to bind himself by all manner of covenants, rather
  than defer the happiness of the young couple. Indeed, he was so very
  earnest and pressing, that an indifferent person might have concluded
  he was more a principal in this match than he really was; but this
  eagerness was natural to him on all occasions: and he conducted every
  scheme he undertook in such a manner, as if the success of that alone
  was sufficient to constitute the whole happiness of his life.
  
  The joint importunities of both father and son-in-law would probably
  have prevailed on Mr Allworthy, who brooked but ill any delay of
  giving happiness to others, had not Sophia herself prevented it, and
  taken measures to put a final end to the whole treaty, and to rob both
  church and law of those taxes which these wise bodies have thought
  proper to receive from the propagation of the human species in a
  lawful manner. Of which in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange stratagem of Mrs
  Honour.
  
  
  Though Mrs Honour was principally attached to her own interest, she
  was not without some little attachment to Sophia. To say truth, it was
  very difficult for any one to know that young lady without loving her.
  She no sooner therefore heard a piece of news, which she imagined to
  be of great importance to her mistress, than, quite forgetting the
  anger which she had conceived two days before, at her unpleasant
  dismission from Sophia's presence, she ran hastily to inform her of
  the news.
  
  The beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as her entrance into the
  room. “O dear ma'am!” says she, “what doth your la'ship think? To be
  sure I am frightened out of my wits; and yet I thought it my duty to
  tell your la'ship, though perhaps it may make you angry, for we
  servants don't always know what will make our ladies angry; for, to be
  sure, everything is always laid to the charge of a servant. When our
  ladies are out of humour, to be sure we must be scolded; and to be
  sure I should not wonder if your la'ship should be out of humour; nay,
  it must surprize you certainly, ay, and shock you too.”--“Good Honour,
  let me know it without any longer preface,” says Sophia; “there are
  few things, I promise you, which will surprize, and fewer which will
  shock me.”--“Dear ma'am,” answered Honour, “to be sure, I overheard my
  master talking to parson Supple about getting a licence this very
  afternoon; and to be sure I heard him say, your la'ship should be
  married to-morrow morning.” Sophia turned pale at these words, and
  repeated eagerly, “To-morrow morning!”--“Yes, ma'am,” replied the
  trusty waiting-woman, “I will take my oath I heard my master say
  so.”--“Honour,” says Sophia, “you have both surprized and shocked me
  to such a degree that I have scarce any breath or spirits left. What
  is to be done in my dreadful situation?”--“I wish I was able to advise
  your la'ship,” says she. “Do advise me,” cries Sophia; “pray, dear
  Honour, advise me. Think what you would attempt if it was your own
  case.”--“Indeed, ma'am,” cries Honour, “I wish your la'ship and I
  could change situations; that is, I mean without hurting your la'ship;
  for to be sure I don't wish you so bad as to be a servant; but because
  that if so be it was my case, I should find no manner of difficulty in
  it; for, in my poor opinion, young Squire Blifil is a charming, sweet,
  handsome man.”--“Don't mention such stuff,” cries Sophia. “Such
  stuff!” repeated Honour; “why, there. Well, to be sure, what's one
  man's meat is another man's poison, and the same is altogether as true
  of women.”--“Honour,” says Sophia, “rather than submit to be the wife
  of that contemptible wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my
  heart.”--“O lud! ma'am!” answered the other, “I am sure you frighten
  me out of my wits now. Let me beseech your la'ship not to suffer such
  wicked thoughts to come into your head. O lud! to be sure I tremble
  every inch of me. Dear ma'am, consider, that to be denied Christian
  burial, and to have your corpse buried in the highway, and a stake
  drove through you, as farmer Halfpenny was served at Ox Cross; and, to
  be sure, his ghost hath walked there ever since, for several people
  have seen him. To be sure it can be nothing but the devil which can
  put such wicked thoughts into the head of anybody; for certainly it is
  less wicked to hurt all the world than one's own dear self; and so I
  have heard said by more parsons than one. If your la'ship hath such a
  violent aversion, and hates the young gentleman so very bad, that you
  can't bear to think of going into bed to him; for to be sure there may
  be such antipathies in nature, and one had lieverer touch a toad than
  the flesh of some people.”--
  
  Sophia had been too much wrapt in contemplation to pay any great
  attention to the foregoing excellent discourse of her maid;
  interrupting her therefore, without making any answer to it, she said,
  “Honour, I am come to a resolution. I am determined to leave my
  father's house this very night; and if you have the friendship for me
  which you have often professed, you will keep me company.”--“That I
  will, ma'am, to the world's end,” answered Honour; “but I beg your
  la'ship to consider the consequence before you undertake any rash
  action. Where can your la'ship possibly go?”--“There is,” replied
  Sophia, “a lady of quality in London, a relation of mine, who spent
  several months with my aunt in the country; during all which time she
  treated me with great kindness, and expressed so much pleasure in my
  company, that she earnestly desired my aunt to suffer me to go with
  her to London. As she is a woman of very great note, I shall easily
  find her out, and I make no doubt of being very well and kindly
  received by her.”--“I would not have your la'ship too confident of
  that,” cries Honour; “for the first lady I lived with used to invite
  people very earnestly to her house; but if she heard afterwards they
  were coming, she used to get out of the way. Besides, though this lady
  would be very glad to see your la'ship, as to be sure anybody would be
  glad to see your la'ship, yet when she hears your la'ship is run away
  from my master--” “You are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia: “she looks
  upon the authority of a father in a much lower light than I do; for
  she pressed me violently to go to London with her, and when I refused
  to go without my father's consent, she laughed me to scorn, called me
  silly country girl, and said, I should make a pure loving wife, since
  I could be so dutiful a daughter. So I have no doubt but she will both
  receive me and protect me too, till my father, finding me out of his
  power, can be brought to some reason.”
  
  “Well, but, ma'am,” answered Honour, “how doth your la'ship think of
  making your escape? Where will you get any horses or conveyance? For
  as for your own horse, as all the servants know a little how matters
  stand between my master and your la'ship, Robin will be hanged before
  he will suffer it to go out of the stable without my master's express
  orders.” “I intend to escape,” said Sophia, “by walking out of the
  doors when they are open. I thank Heaven my legs are very able to
  carry me. They have supported me many a long evening”--“Yes, to be
  sure,” cries Honour, “I will follow your la'ship through the world;
  but your la'ship had almost as good be alone: for I should not be able
  to defend you, if any robbers, or other villains, should meet with
  you. Nay, I should be in as horrible a fright as your la'ship; for to
  be certain, they would ravish us both. Besides, ma'am, consider how
  cold the nights are now; we shall be frozen to death.”--“A good brisk
  pace,” answered Sophia, “will preserve us from the cold; and if you
  cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, I will defend you; for I will
  take a pistol with me. There are two always charged in the
  hall.”--“Dear ma'am, you frighten me more and more,” cries Honour:
  “sure your la'ship would not venture to fire it off! I had rather run
  any chance than your la'ship should do that.”--“Why so?” says Sophia,
  smiling; “would not you, Honour, fire a pistol at any one who should
  attack your virtue?”--“To be sure, ma'am,” cries Honour, “one's virtue
  is a dear thing, especially to us poor servants; for it is our
  livelihood, as a body may say: yet I mortally hate fire-arms; for so
  many accidents happen by them.”--“Well, well,” says Sophia, “I believe
  I may ensure your virtue at a very cheap rate, without carrying any
  arms with us; for I intend to take horses at the very first town we
  come to, and we shall hardly be attacked in our way thither. Look'ee,
  Honour, I am resolved to go; and if you will attend me, I promise you
  I will reward you to the very utmost of my power.”
  
  This last argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all the
  preceding. And since she saw her mistress so determined, she desisted
  from any further dissuasions. They then entered into a debate on ways
  and means of executing their project. Here a very stubborn difficulty
  occurred, and this was the removal of their effects, which was much
  more easily got over by the mistress than by the maid; for when a lady
  hath once taken a resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him,
  all obstacles are considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired by no
  such motive; she had no raptures to expect, nor any terrors to shun;
  and besides the real value of her clothes, in which consisted a great
  part of her fortune, she had a capricious fondness for several gowns,
  and other things; either because they became her, or because they were
  given her by such a particular person; because she had bought them
  lately, or because she had had them long; or for some other reasons
  equally good; so that she could not endure the thoughts of leaving the
  poor things behind her exposed to the mercy of Western, who, she
  doubted not, would in his rage make them suffer martyrdom.
  
  The ingenious Mrs Honour having applied all her oratory to dissuade
  her mistress from her purpose, when she found her positively
  determined, at last started the following expedient to remove her
  clothes, viz., to get herself turned out of doors that very evening.
  Sophia highly approved this method, but doubted how it might be
  brought about. “O, ma'am,” cries Honour, “your la'ship may trust that
  to me; we servants very well know how to obtain this favour of our
  masters and mistresses; though sometimes, indeed, where they owe us
  more wages than they can readily pay, they will put up with all our
  affronts, and will hardly take any warning we can give them; but the
  squire is none of those; and since your la'ship is resolved upon
  setting out to-night, I warrant I get discharged this afternoon.” It
  was then resolved that she should pack up some linen and a night-gown
  for Sophia, with her own things; and as for all her other clothes, the
  young lady abandoned them with no more remorse than the sailor feels
  when he throws over the goods of others, in order to save his own
  life.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon kind.
  
  
  Mrs Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, than
  something (for I would not, like the old woman in Quevedo, injure the
  devil by any false accusation, and possibly he might have no hand in
  it)--but something, I say, suggested itself to her, that by
  sacrificing Sophia and all her secrets to Mr Western, she might
  probably make her fortune. Many considerations urged this discovery.
  The fair prospect of a handsome reward for so great and acceptable a
  service to the squire, tempted her avarice; and again, the danger of
  the enterprize she had undertaken; the uncertainty of its success;
  night, cold, robbers, ravishers, all alarmed her fears. So forcibly
  did all these operate upon her, that she was almost determined to go
  directly to the squire, and to lay open the whole affair. She was,
  however, too upright a judge to decree on one side, before she had
  heard the other. And here, first, a journey to London appeared very
  strongly in support of Sophia. She eagerly longed to see a place in
  which she fancied charms short only of those which a raptured saint
  imagines in heaven. In the next place, as she knew Sophia to have much
  more generosity than her master, so her fidelity promised her a
  greater reward than she could gain by treachery. She then
  cross-examined all the articles which had raised her fears on the
  other side, and found, on fairly sifting the matter, that there was
  very little in them. And now both scales being reduced to a pretty
  even balance, her love to her mistress being thrown into the scale of
  her integrity, made that rather preponderate, when a circumstance
  struck upon her imagination which might have had a dangerous effect,
  had its whole weight been fairly put into the other scale. This was
  the length of time which must intervene before Sophia would be able to
  fulfil her promises; for though she was intitled to her mother's
  fortune at the death of her father, and to the sum of £3000 left her
  by an uncle when she came of age; yet these were distant days, and
  many accidents might prevent the intended generosity of the young
  lady; whereas the rewards she might expect from Mr Western were
  immediate. But while she was pursuing this thought the good genius of
  Sophia, or that which presided over the integrity of Mrs Honour, or
  perhaps mere chance, sent an accident in her way, which at once
  preserved her fidelity, and even facilitated the intended business.
  
  Mrs Western's maid claimed great superiority over Mrs Honour on
  several accounts. First, her birth was higher; for her great-grandmother
  by the mother's side was a cousin, not far removed, to an Irish peer.
  Secondly, her wages were greater. And lastly, she had been at London,
  and had of consequence seen more of the world. She had always behaved,
  therefore, to Mrs Honour with that reserve, and had always exacted of
  her those marks of distinction, which every order of females preserves
  and requires in conversation with those of an inferior order. Now as
  Honour did not at all times agree with this doctrine, but would
  frequently break in upon the respect which the other demanded, Mrs
  Western's maid was not at all pleased with her company; indeed, she
  earnestly longed to return home to the house of her mistress, where
  she domineered at will over all the other servants. She had been
  greatly, therefore, disappointed in the morning, when Mrs Western had
  changed her mind on the very point of departure; and had been in what
  is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since.
  
  In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came into the room
  where Honour was debating with herself in the manner we have above
  related. Honour no sooner saw her, than she addressed her in the
  following obliging phrase: “Soh, madam, I find we are to have the
  pleasure of your company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel
  between my master and your lady would have robbed us of.”--“I don't
  know, madam,” answered the other, “what you mean by we and us. I
  assure you I do not look on any of the servants in this house to be
  proper company for me. I am company, I hope, for their betters every
  day in the week. I do not speak on your account, Mrs Honour; for you
  are a civilized young woman; and when you have seen a little more of
  the world, I should not be ashamed to walk with you in St James's
  Park.”--“Hoity toity!” cries Honour, “madam is in her airs, I protest.
  Mrs Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my sir-name;
  for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir-name as well as other
  folks. Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I
  hope.”--“Since you make such a return to my civility,” said the other,
  “I must acquaint you, Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as me. In
  the country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all kind of
  trumpery; but in town I visit none but the women of women of quality.
  Indeed, Mrs Honour, there is some difference, I hope, between you and
  me.”--“I hope so too,” answered Honour: “there is some difference in
  our ages, and--I think in our persons.” Upon speaking which last
  words, she strutted by Mrs Western's maid with the most provoking air
  of contempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently
  brushing the hoop of her competitor with her own. The other lady put
  on one of her most malicious sneers, and said, “Creature! you are
  below my anger; and it is beneath me to give ill words to such an
  audacious saucy trollop; but, hussy, I must tell you, your breeding
  shows the meanness of your birth as well as of your education; and
  both very properly qualify you to be the mean serving-woman of a
  country girl.”--“Don't abuse my lady,” cries Honour: “I won't take
  that of you; she's as much better than yours as she is younger, and
  ten thousand times more handsomer.”
  
  Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see her maid
  in tears, which began to flow plentifully at her approach; and of
  which being asked the reason by her mistress, she presently acquainted
  her that her tears were occasioned by the rude treatment of that
  creature there--meaning Honour. “And, madam,” continued she, “I could
  have despised all she said to me; but she hath had the audacity to
  affront your ladyship, and to call you ugly--Yes, madam, she called
  you ugly old cat to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship
  called ugly.”--“Why do you repeat her impudence so often?” said Mrs
  Western. And then turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her “How she had
  the assurance to mention her name with disrespect?”--“Disrespect,
  madam!” answered Honour; “I never mentioned your name at all: I said
  somebody was not as handsome as my mistress, and to be sure you know
  that as well as I.”--“Hussy,” replied the lady, “I will make such a
  saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper subject of your
  discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you this moment, I
  will never sleep in his house again. I will find him out, and have you
  discharged this moment.”--“Discharged!” cries Honour; “and suppose I
  am: there are more places in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good
  servants need not want places; and if you turn away all who do not
  think you handsome, you will want servants very soon; let me tell you
  that.”
  
  Mrs Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer; but as she was
  hardly articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical words;
  we shall therefore omit inserting a speech which at best would not
  greatly redound to her honour. She then departed in search of her
  brother, with a countenance so full of rage, that she resembled one of
  the furies rather than a human creature.
  
  The two chambermaids being again left alone, began a second bout at
  altercation, which soon produced a combat of a more active kind. In
  this the victory belonged to the lady of inferior rank, but not
  without some loss of blood, of hair, and of lawn and muslin.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a magistrate. A
  hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary qualifications of
  a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal madness and filial
  affection.
  
  
  Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and politicians
  often overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had it like to have
  happened to Mrs Honour, who, instead of recovering the rest of her
  clothes, had like to have stopped even those she had on her back from
  escaping; for the squire no sooner heard of her having abused his
  sister, than he swore twenty oaths he would send her to Bridewell.
  
  Mrs Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordinarily of a
  forgiving temper. She had lately remitted the trespass of a
  stage-coachman, who had overturned her post-chaise into a ditch; nay,
  she had even broken the law, in refusing to prosecute a highwayman who
  had robbed her, not only of a sum of money, but of her ear-rings; at
  the same time d--ning her, and saying, “Such handsome b--s as you
  don't want jewels to set them off, and be d--n'd to you.” But now, so
  uncertain are our tempers, and so much do we at different times differ
  from ourselves, she would hear of no mitigation; nor could all the
  affected penitence of Honour, nor all the entreaties of Sophia for her
  own servant, prevail with her to desist from earnestly desiring her
  brother to execute justiceship (for it was indeed a syllable more than
  justice) on the wench.
  
  But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a justice
  of peace ought ever to be without, namely, some understanding in the
  law of this realm. He therefore whispered in the ear of the justice
  that he would exceed his authority by committing the girl to
  Bridewell, as there had been no attempt to break the peace; “for I am
  afraid, sir,” says he, “you cannot legally commit any one to Bridewell
  only for ill-breeding.”
  
  In matters of high importance, particularly in cases relating to the
  game, the justice was not always attentive to these admonitions of his
  clerk; for, indeed, in executing the laws under that head, many
  justices of peace suppose they have a large discretionary power, by
  virtue of which, under the notion of searching for and taking away
  engines for the destruction of the game, they often commit trespasses,
  and sometimes felony, at their pleasure.
  
  But this offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so dangerous
  to the society. Here, therefore, the justice behaved with some
  attention to the advice of his clerk; for, in fact, he had already had
  two informations exhibited against him in the King's Bench, and had no
  curiosity to try a third.
  
  The squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant
  countenance, after a preface of several hums and hahs, told his
  sister, that upon more mature deliberation, he was of opinion, that
  “as there was no breaking up of the peace, such as the law,” says he,
  “calls breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a head,
  or any such sort of breaking, the matter did not amount to a felonious
  kind of a thing, nor trespasses, nor damages, and, therefore, there
  was no punishment in the law for it.”
  
  Mrs Western said, “she knew the law much better; that she had known
  servants very severely punished for affronting their masters;” and
  then named a certain justice of the peace in London, “who,” she said,
  “would commit a servant to Bridewell at any time when a master or
  mistress desired it.”
  
  “Like enough,” cries the squire; “it may be so in London; but the law
  is different in the country.” Here followed a very learned dispute
  between the brother and sister concerning the law, which we would
  insert, if we imagined many of our readers could understand it. This
  was, however, at length referred by both parties to the clerk, who
  decided it in favour of the magistrate; and Mrs Western was, in the
  end, obliged to content herself with the satisfaction of having Honour
  turned away; to which Sophia herself very readily and cheerfully
  consented.
  
  Thus Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to custom, with
  two or three frolicks, at last disposed all matters to the advantage
  of our heroine; who indeed succeeded admirably well in her deceit,
  considering it was the first she had ever practised. And, to say the
  truth, I have often concluded, that the honest part of mankind would
  be much too hard for the knavish, if they could bring themselves to
  incur the guilt, or thought it worth their while to take the trouble.
  
  Honour acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no sooner saw
  herself secure from all danger of Bridewell, a word which had raised
  most horrible ideas in her mind, than she resumed those airs which her
  terrors before had a little abated; and laid down her place, with as
  much affectation of content, and indeed of contempt, as was ever
  practised at the resignation of places of much greater importance. If
  the reader pleases, therefore, we chuse rather to say she
  resigned--which hath, indeed, been always held a synonymous expression
  with being turned out, or turned away.
  
  Mr Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; for his
  sister declared she would not sleep another night under the same roof
  with so impudent a slut. To work therefore she went, and that so
  earnestly, that everything was ready early in the evening; when,
  having received her wages, away packed bag and baggage, to the great
  satisfaction of every one, but of none more than of Sophia; who,
  having appointed her maid to meet her at a certain place not far from
  the house, exactly at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began
  to prepare for her own departure.
  
  But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the one to
  her aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs Western herself
  began to talk to her in a more peremptory stile than before: but her
  father treated her in so violent and outrageous a manner, that he
  frightened her into an affected compliance with his will; which so
  highly pleased the good squire, that he changed his frowns into
  smiles, and his menaces into promises: he vowed his whole soul was
  wrapt in hers; that her consent (for so he construed the words, “You
  know, sir, I must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of
  yours”) had made him the happiest of mankind. He then gave her a large
  bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she pleased, and kissed and
  embraced her in the fondest manner, while tears of joy trickled from
  those eyes which a few moments before had darted fire and rage against
  the dear object of all his affection.
  
  Instances of this behaviour in parents are so common, that the reader,
  I doubt not, will be very little astonished at the whole conduct of Mr
  Western. If he should, I own I am not able to account for it; since
  that he loved his daughter most tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute.
  So indeed have many others, who have rendered their children most
  completely miserable by the same conduct; which, though it is almost
  universal in parents, hath always appeared to me to be the most
  unaccountable of all the absurdities which ever entered into the brain
  of that strange prodigious creature man.
  
  The latter part of Mr Western's behaviour had so strong an effect on
  the tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a thought to her, which
  not all the sophistry of her politic aunt, nor all the menaces of her
  father, had ever once brought into her head. She reverenced her father
  so piously, and loved him so passionately, that she had scarce ever
  felt more pleasing sensations, than what arose from the share she
  frequently had of contributing to his amusement, and sometimes,
  perhaps, to higher gratifications; for he never could contain the
  delight of hearing her commended, which he had the satisfaction of
  hearing almost every day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the
  immense happiness she should convey to her father by her consent to
  this match, made a strong impression on her mind. Again, the extreme
  piety of such an act of obedience worked very forcibly, as she had a
  very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she reflected how much she
  herself was to suffer, being indeed to become little less than a
  sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and duty, she felt an agreeable
  tickling in a certain little passion, which though it bears no
  immediate affinity either to religion or virtue, is often so kind as
  to lend great assistance in executing the purposes of both.
  
  Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an action, and
  began to compliment herself with much premature flattery, when Cupid,
  who lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept out, and like Punchinello in a
  puppet-show, kicked all out before him. In truth (for we scorn to
  deceive our reader, or to vindicate the character of our heroine by
  ascribing her actions to supernatural impulse) the thoughts of her
  beloved Jones, and some hopes (however distant) in which he was very
  particularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love,
  piety, and pride had, with their joint endeavours, been labouring to
  bring about.
  
  But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back
  to Mr Jones.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.
  
  
  The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the
  beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to
  seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his
  fortune on shore.
  
  It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook
  to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road;
  so that having missed his right track, and being ashamed to ask
  information, he rambled about backwards and forwards till night came
  on, and it began to grow dark. Jones suspecting what had happened,
  acquainted the guide with his apprehensions; but he insisted on it,
  that they were in the right road, and added, it would be very strange
  if he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, it
  would have been much stranger if he had known it, having never past
  through it in his life before.
  
  Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their
  arrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether
  they were in the road to Bristol. “Whence did you come?” cries the
  fellow. “No matter,” says Jones, a little hastily; “I want to know if
  this be the road to Bristol?”--“The road to Bristol!” cries the
  fellow, scratching his head: “why, measter, I believe you will hardly
  get to Bristol this way to-night.”--“Prithee, friend, then,” answered
  Jones, “do tell us which is the way.”--“Why, measter,” cries the
  fellow, “you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; for
  thick way goeth to Glocester.”--“Well, and which way goes to Bristol?”
   said Jones. “Why, you be going away from Bristol,” answered the
  fellow. “Then,” said Jones, “we must go back again?”--“Ay, you must,”
   said the fellow. “Well, and when we come back to the top of the hill,
  which way must we take?”--“Why, you must keep the strait road.”--“But
  I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the other to the
  left.”--“Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait
  vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to your
  left again, and then to your right, and that brings you to the
  squire's; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to the
  left.”
  
  Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were
  going; of which being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head,
  and then leaning upon a pole he had in his hand, began to tell him,
  “That he must keep the right-hand road for about a mile, or a mile and
  a half, or such a matter, and then he must turn short to the left,
  which would bring him round by Measter Jin Bearnes's.”--“But which is
  Mr John Bearnes's?” says Jones. “O Lord!” cries the fellow, “why,
  don't you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?”
  
  These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a
  plain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus:
  “Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my
  advice, thou wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark,
  and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there have been several
  robberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very
  creditable good house just by, where thou may'st find good
  entertainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning.” Jones, after a
  little persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till the morning, and
  was conducted by his friend to the public-house.
  
  The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, “He hoped he
  would excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was
  gone from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried the
  keys along with her.” Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughter
  of hers was just married, and gone that morning home with her husband;
  and that she and her mother together had almost stript the poor man of
  all his goods, as well as money; for though he had several children,
  this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, was the object of
  her consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would with
  pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the
  bargain.
  
  Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have
  preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of
  the honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, from
  having remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenance
  and behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversation
  might in some measure relieve.
  
  After they had past some time together, in such a manner that my
  honest friend might have thought himself at one of his silent
  meetings, the Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other,
  probably that of curiosity, and said, “Friend, I perceive some sad
  disaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast
  lost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why
  shouldst thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend
  no good? We are all born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows as
  well as thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a clear
  estate of £100 a year, which is as much as I want, and I have a
  conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my constitution is
  sound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me, nor
  accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to think
  thee as miserable as myself.”
  
  Here the Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered,
  “I am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the occasion
  of it.”--“Ah! friend,” replied the Quaker, “one only daughter is the
  occasion; one who was my greatest delight upon earth, and who within
  this week is run away from me, and is married against my consent. I
  had provided her a proper match, a sober man and one of substance; but
  she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is gone with a
  young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thy
  friend is, I should have been happy.”--“That is very strange, sir,”
   said Jones. “Why, would it not be better for her to be dead, than to
  be a beggar?” replied the Quaker: “for, as I told you, the fellow is
  not worth a groat; and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever give
  her a shilling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on love
  if she can; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any one
  will change it into silver, or even into halfpence.”--“You know your
  own concerns best, sir,” said Jones. “It must have been,” continued
  the Quaker, “a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they have
  known one another from their infancy; and I always preached to her
  against love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly and
  wickedness. Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to
  despise all wantonness of the flesh; and yet at last broke out at a
  window two pair of stairs: for I began, indeed, a little to suspect
  her, and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morning
  to have married her up to my liking. But she disappointed me within a
  few hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own chusing; who lost
  no time, for they were married and bedded and all within an hour. But
  it shall be the worst hour's work for them both that ever they did;
  for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for me. I will never
  give either of them a farthing.” Here Jones starting up cried, “I
  really must be excused: I wish you would leave me.”--“Come, come,
  friend,” said the Quaker, “don't give way to concern. You see there
  are other people miserable besides yourself.”--“I see there are
  madmen, and fools, and villains in the world,” cries Jones. “But let
  me give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-law
  home, and don't be yourself the only cause of misery to one you
  pretend to love.”--“Send for her and her husband home!” cries the
  Quaker loudly; “I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I
  have in the world!”--“Well, go home yourself, or where you please,”
   said Jones, “for I will sit no longer in such company.”--“Nay,
  friend,” answered the Quaker, “I scorn to impose my company on any
  one.” He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushed
  him with some violence out of the room.
  
  The subject of the Quaker's discourse had so deeply affected Jones,
  that he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. This the
  Quaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour,
  inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was in
  reality out of his senses. Instead of resenting the affront,
  therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his unhappy
  circumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, he
  desired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with the
  highest civility.
  
  “Indeed,” says the landlord, “I shall use no such civility towards
  him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more a
  gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a great
  squire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not for
  any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as
  possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the
  best. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon.”
  
  “What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?” answered the Quaker.
  “Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man.”
  
  “Not at all,” replied Robin; “the guide, who knows him very well, told
  it me.” For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at the
  kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he knew or
  had ever heard concerning Jones.
  
  The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low
  fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest
  plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would
  have felt at receiving an affront from such a person.
  
  The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that
  when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted
  that he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition
  of his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions,
  which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity of
  robbing the house. In reality, he might have been very well eased of
  these apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife and
  daughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed to
  the freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been more
  particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread of
  being robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that he
  had nothing to lose.
  
  Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook
  himself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had
  lately shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paid
  him a visit in his humble cell.
  
  As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring to
  rest. He returned therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he could
  survey the only door which opened into the parlour, or rather hole,
  where Jones was seated; and as for the window to that room, it was
  impossible for any creature larger than a cat to have made his escape
  through it.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  The adventure of a company of soldiers.
  
  
  The landlord having taken his seat directly opposite to the door of
  the parlour, determined to keep guard there the whole night. The guide
  and another fellow remained long on duty with him, though they neither
  knew his suspicions, nor had any of their own. The true cause of their
  watching did, indeed, at length, put an end to it; for this was no
  other than the strength and goodness of the beer, of which having
  tippled a very large quantity, they grew at first very noisy and
  vociferous, and afterwards fell both asleep.
  
  But it was not in the power of liquor to compose the fears of Robin.
  He continued still waking in his chair, with his eyes fixed stedfastly
  on the door which led into the apartment of Mr Jones, till a violent
  thundering at his outward gate called him from his seat, and obliged
  him to open it; which he had no sooner done, than his kitchen was
  immediately full of gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed upon him in
  as tumultuous a manner as if they intended to take his little castle
  by storm.
  
  The landlord was now forced from his post to furnish his numerous
  guests with beer, which they called for with great eagerness; and upon
  his second or third return from the cellar, he saw Mr Jones standing
  before the fire in the midst of the soldiers; for it may easily be
  believed, that the arrival of so much good company should put an end
  to any sleep, unless that from which we are to be awakened only by the
  last trumpet.
  
  The company having now pretty well satisfied their thirst, nothing
  remained but to pay the reckoning, a circumstance often productive of
  much mischief and discontent among the inferior rank of gentry, who
  are apt to find great difficulty in assessing the sum, with exact
  regard to distributive justice, which directs that every man shall pay
  according to the quantity which he drinks. This difficulty occurred
  upon the present occasion; and it was the greater, as some gentlemen
  had, in their extreme hurry, marched off, after their first draught,
  and had entirely forgot to contribute anything towards the said
  reckoning.
  
  A violent dispute now arose, in which every word may be said to have
  been deposed upon oath; for the oaths were at least equal to all the
  other words spoken. In this controversy the whole company spoke
  together, and every man seemed wholly bent to extenuate the sum which
  fell to his share; so that the most probable conclusion which could be
  foreseen was, that a large portion of the reckoning would fall to the
  landlord's share to pay, or (what is much the same thing) would remain
  unpaid.
  
  All this while Mr Jones was engaged in conversation with the serjeant;
  for that officer was entirely unconcerned in the present dispute,
  being privileged by immemorial custom from all contribution.
  
  The dispute now grew so very warm that it seemed to draw towards a
  military decision, when Jones, stepping forward, silenced all their
  clamours at once, by declaring that he would pay the whole reckoning,
  which indeed amounted to no more than three shillings and fourpence.
  
  This declaration procured Jones the thanks and applause of the whole
  company. The terms honourable, noble, and worthy gentleman, resounded
  through the room; nay, my landlord himself began to have a better
  opinion of him, and almost to disbelieve the account which the guide
  had given.
  
  The serjeant had informed Mr Jones that they were marching against the
  rebels, and expected to be commanded by the glorious Duke of
  Cumberland. By which the reader may perceive (a circumstance which we
  have not thought necessary to communicate before) that this was the
  very time when the late rebellion was at the highest; and indeed the
  banditti were now marched into England, intending, as it was thought,
  to fight the king's forces, and to attempt pushing forward to the
  metropolis.
  
  Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and was a hearty
  well-wisher to the glorious cause of liberty, and of the Protestant
  religion. It is no wonder, therefore, that in circumstances which
  would have warranted a much more romantic and wild undertaking, it
  should occur to him to serve as a volunteer in this expedition.
  
  Our commanding officer had said all in his power to encourage and
  promote this good disposition, from the first moment he had been
  acquainted with it. He now proclaimed the noble resolution aloud,
  which was received with great pleasure by the whole company, who all
  cried out, “God bless King George and your honour;” and then added,
  with many oaths, “We will stand by you both to the last drops of our
  blood.”
  
  The gentleman who had been all night tippling at the alehouse, was
  prevailed on by some arguments which a corporal had put into his
  hands, to undertake the same expedition. And now the portmanteau
  belonging to Mr Jones being put up in the baggage-cart, the forces
  were about to move forwards; when the guide, stepping up to Jones,
  said, “Sir, I hope you will consider that the horses have been kept
  out all night, and we have travelled a great ways out of our way.”
   Jones was surprized at the impudence of this demand, and acquainted
  the soldiers with the merits of his cause, who were all unanimous in
  condemning the guide for his endeavours to put upon a gentleman. Some
  said, he ought to be tied neck and heels; others that he deserved to
  run the gantlope; and the serjeant shook his cane at him, and wished
  he had him under his command, swearing heartily he would make an
  example of him.
  
  Jones contented himself however with a negative punishment, and walked
  off with his new comrades, leaving the guide to the poor revenge of
  cursing and reviling him; in which latter the landlord joined, saying,
  “Ay, ay, he is a pure one, I warrant you. A pretty gentleman, indeed,
  to go for a soldier! He shall wear a laced wastecoat truly. It is an
  old proverb and a true one, all is not gold that glisters. I am glad
  my house is well rid of him.”
  
  All that day the serjeant and the young soldier marched together; and
  the former, who was an arch fellow, told the latter many entertaining
  stories of his campaigns, though in reality he had never made any; for
  he was but lately come into the service, and had, by his own
  dexterity, so well ingratiated himself with his officers, that he had
  promoted himself to a halberd; chiefly indeed by his merit in
  recruiting, in which he was most excellently well skilled.
  
  Much mirth and festivity passed among the soldiers during their march.
  In which the many occurrences that had passed at their last quarters
  were remembered, and every one, with great freedom, made what jokes he
  pleased on his officers, some of which were of the coarser kind, and
  very near bordering on scandal. This brought to our heroe's mind the
  custom which he had read of among the Greeks and Romans, of indulging,
  on certain festivals and solemn occasions, the liberty to slaves, of
  using an uncontrouled freedom of speech towards their masters.
  
  Our little army, which consisted of two companies of foot, were now
  arrived at the place where they were to halt that evening. The
  serjeant then acquainted his lieutenant, who was the commanding
  officer, that they had picked up two fellows in that day's march, one
  of which, he said, was as fine a man as ever he saw (meaning the
  tippler), for that he was near six feet, well proportioned, and
  strongly limbed; and the other (meaning Jones) would do well enough
  for the rear rank.
  
  The new soldiers were now produced before the officer, who having
  examined the six-feet man, he being first produced, came next to
  survey Jones: at the first sight of whom, the lieutenant could not
  help showing some surprize; for besides that he was very well dressed,
  and was naturally genteel, he had a remarkable air of dignity in his
  look, which is rarely seen among the vulgar, and is indeed not
  inseparably annexed to the features of their superiors.
  
  “Sir,” said the lieutenant, “my serjeant informed me that you are
  desirous of enlisting in the company I have at present under my
  command; if so, sir, we shall very gladly receive a gentleman who
  promises to do much honour to the company by bearing arms in it.”
  
  Jones answered: “That he had not mentioned anything of enlisting
  himself; that he was most zealously attached to the glorious cause for
  which they were going to fight, and was very desirous of serving as a
  volunteer;” concluding with some compliments to the lieutenant, and
  expressing the great satisfaction he should have in being under his
  command.
  
  The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolution, shook
  him by the hand, and invited him to dine with himself and the rest of
  the officers.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  The adventure of a company of officers.
  
  
  The lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding chapter, and who
  commanded this party, was now near sixty years of age. He had entered
  very young into the army, and had served in the capacity of an ensign
  at the battle of Tannieres; here he had received two wounds, and had
  so well distinguished himself, that he was by the Duke of Marlborough
  advanced to be a lieutenant, immediately after that battle.
  
  In this commission he had continued ever since, viz., near forty
  years; during which time he had seen vast numbers preferred over his
  head, and had now the mortification to be commanded by boys, whose
  fathers were at nurse when he first entered into the service.
  
  Nor was this ill success in his profession solely owing to his having
  no friends among the men in power. He had the misfortune to incur the
  displeasure of his colonel, who for many years continued in the
  command of this regiment. Nor did he owe the implacable ill-will which
  this man bore him to any neglect or deficiency as an officer, nor
  indeed to any fault in himself; but solely to the indiscretion of his
  wife, who was a very beautiful woman, and who, though she was
  remarkably fond of her husband, would not purchase his preferment at
  the expense of certain favours which the colonel required of her.
  
  The poor lieutenant was more peculiarly unhappy in this, that while he
  felt the effects of the enmity of his colonel, he neither knew, nor
  suspected, that he really bore him any; for he could not suspect an
  ill-will for which he was not conscious of giving any cause; and his
  wife, fearing what her husband's nice regard to his honour might have
  occasioned, contented herself with preserving her virtue without
  enjoying the triumphs of her conquest.
  
  This unfortunate officer (for so I think he may be called) had many
  good qualities besides his merit in his profession; for he was a
  religious, honest, good-natured man; and had behaved so well in his
  command, that he was highly esteemed and beloved not only by the
  soldiers of his own company, but by the whole regiment.
  
  The other officers who marched with him were a French lieutenant, who
  had been long enough out of France to forget his own language, but not
  long enough in England to learn ours, so that he really spoke no
  language at all, and could barely make himself understood on the most
  ordinary occasions. There were likewise two ensigns, both very young
  fellows; one of whom had been bred under an attorney, and the other
  was son to the wife of a nobleman's butler.
  
  As soon as dinner was ended, Jones informed the company of the
  merriment which had passed among the soldiers upon their march; “and
  yet,” says he, “notwithstanding all their vociferation, I dare swear
  they will behave more like Grecians than Trojans when they come to the
  enemy.”--“Grecians and Trojans!” says one of the ensigns, “who the
  devil are they? I have heard of all the troops in Europe, but never of
  any such as these.”
  
  “Don't pretend to more ignorance than you have, Mr Northerton,” said
  the worthy lieutenant. “I suppose you have heard of the Greeks and
  Trojans, though perhaps you never read Pope's Homer; who, I remember,
  now the gentleman mentions it, compares the march of the Trojans to
  the cackling of geese, and greatly commends the silence of the
  Grecians. And upon my honour there is great justice in the cadet's
  observation.”
  
  “Begar, me remember dem ver well,” said the French lieutenant: “me ave
  read them at school in dans Madam Daciere, des Greek, des Trojan, dey
  fight for von woman--ouy, ouy, me ave read all dat.”
  
  “D--n Homo with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I have the marks of
  him on my a-- yet. There's Thomas, of our regiment, always carries a
  Homo in his pocket; d--n me, if ever I come at it, if I don't burn it.
  And there's Corderius, another d--n'd son of a whore, that hath got me
  many a flogging.”
  
  “Then you have been at school, Mr Northerton?” said the lieutenant.
  
  “Ay, d--n me, have I,” answered he; “the devil take my father for
  sending me thither! The old put wanted to make a parson of me, but
  d--n me, thinks I to myself, I'll nick you there, old cull; the devil
  a smack of your nonsense shall you ever get into me. There's Jemmy
  Oliver, of our regiment, he narrowly escaped being a pimp too, and
  that would have been a thousand pities; for d--n me if he is not one
  of the prettiest fellows in the whole world; but he went farther than
  I with the old cull, for Jimmey can neither write nor read.”
  
  “You give your friend a very good character,” said the lieutenant,
  “and a very deserved one, I dare say. But prithee, Northerton, leave
  off that foolish as well as wicked custom of swearing; for you are
  deceived, I promise you, if you think there is wit or politeness in
  it. I wish, too, you would take my advice, and desist from abusing the
  clergy. Scandalous names, and reflections cast on any body of men,
  must be always unjustifiable; but especially so, when thrown on so
  sacred a function; for to abuse the body is to abuse the function
  itself; and I leave to you to judge how inconsistent such behaviour is
  in men who are going to fight in defence of the Protestant religion.”
  
  Mr Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had sat hitherto
  kicking his heels and humming a tune, without seeming to listen to the
  discourse; he now answered, “_O, Monsieur, on ne parle pas de la
  religion dans la guerre_.”--“Well said, Jack,” cries Northerton: “if
  _la religion_ was the only matter, the parsons should fight their own
  battles for me.”
  
  “I don't know, gentlemen,” said Jones, “what may be your opinion; but
  I think no man can engage in a nobler cause than that of his religion;
  and I have observed, in the little I have read of history, that no
  soldiers have fought so bravely as those who have been inspired with a
  religious zeal: for my own part, though I love my king and country, I
  hope, as well as any man in it, yet the Protestant interest is no
  small motive to my becoming a volunteer in the cause.”
  
  Northerton now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him slily, “Smoke
  the prig, Adderly, smoke him.” Then turning to Jones, said to him, “I
  am very glad, sir, you have chosen our regiment to be a volunteer in;
  for if our parson should at any time take a cup too much, I find you
  can supply his place. I presume, sir, you have been at the university;
  may I crave the favour to know what college?”
  
  “Sir,” answered Jones, “so far from having been at the university, I
  have even had the advantage of yourself, for I was never at school.”
  
  “I presumed,” cries the ensign, “only upon the information of your
  great learning.”--“Oh! sir,” answered Jones, “it is as possible for a
  man to know something without having been at school, as it is to have
  been at school and to know nothing.”
  
  “Well said, young volunteer,” cries the lieutenant. “Upon my word,
  Northerton, you had better let him alone; for he will be too hard for
  you.”
  
  Northerton did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones; but he
  thought the provocation was scarce sufficient to justify a blow, or a
  rascal, or scoundrel, which were the only repartees that suggested
  themselves. He was, therefore, silent at present; but resolved to take
  the first opportunity of returning the jest by abuse.
  
  It now came to the turn of Mr Jones to give a toast, as it is called;
  who could not refrain from mentioning his dear Sophia. This he did the
  more readily, as he imagined it utterly impossible that any one
  present should guess the person he meant.
  
  But the lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not contented with
  Sophia only. He said, he must have her sir-name; upon which Jones
  hesitated a little, and presently after named Miss Sophia Western.
  Ensign Northerton declared he would not drink her health in the same
  round with his own toast, unless somebody would vouch for her. “I knew
  one Sophy Western,” says he, “that was lain with by half the young
  fellows at Bath; and perhaps this is the same woman.” Jones very
  solemnly assured him of the contrary; asserting that the young lady he
  named was one of great fashion and fortune. “Ay, ay,” says the ensign,
  “and so she is: d--n me, it is the same woman; and I'll hold half a
  dozen of Burgundy, Tom French of our regiment brings her into company
  with us at any tavern in Bridges-street.” He then proceeded to
  describe her person exactly (for he had seen her with her aunt), and
  concluded with saying, “that her father had a great estate in
  Somersetshire.”
  
  The tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with the
  names of their mistresses. However, Jones, though he had enough of the
  lover and of the heroe too in his disposition, did not resent these
  slanders as hastily as, perhaps, he ought to have done. To say the
  truth, having seen but little of this kind of wit, he did not readily
  understand it, and for a long time imagined Mr Northerton had really
  mistaken his charmer for some other. But now, turning to the ensign
  with a stern aspect, he said, “Pray, sir, chuse some other subject for
  your wit; for I promise you I will bear no jesting with this lady's
  character.” “Jesting!” cries the other, “d--n me if ever I was more in
  earnest in my life. Tom French of our regiment had both her and her
  aunt at Bath.” “Then I must tell you in earnest,” cries Jones, “that
  you are one of the most impudent rascals upon earth.”
  
  He had no sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, together with a
  volley of curses, discharged a bottle full at the head of Jones, which
  hitting him a little above the right temple, brought him instantly to
  the ground.
  
  The conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before him, and
  blood beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his wound, began now
  to think of quitting the field of battle, where no more honour was to
  be gotten; but the lieutenant interposed, by stepping before the door,
  and thus cut off his retreat.
  
  Northerton was very importunate with the lieutenant for his liberty;
  urging the ill consequences of his stay, asking him, what he could
  have done less? “Zounds!” says he, “I was but in jest with the fellow.
  I never heard any harm of Miss Western in my life.” “Have not you?”
   said the lieutenant; “then you richly deserve to be hanged, as well
  for making such jests, as for using such a weapon: you are my
  prisoner, sir; nor shall you stir from hence till a proper guard comes
  to secure you.”
  
  Such an ascendant had our lieutenant over this ensign, that all that
  fervency of courage which had levelled our poor heroe with the floor,
  would scarce have animated the said ensign to have drawn his sword
  against the lieutenant, had he then had one dangling at his side: but
  all the swords being hung up in the room, were, at the very beginning
  of the fray, secured by the French officer. So that Mr Northerton was
  obliged to attend the final issue of this affair.
  
  The French gentleman and Mr Adderly, at the desire of their commanding
  officer, had raised up the body of Jones, but as they could perceive
  but little (if any) sign of life in him, they again let him fall,
  Adderly damning him for having blooded his wastecoat; and the
  Frenchman declaring, “Begar, me no tush the Engliseman de mort: me
  have heard de Englise ley, law, what you call, hang up de man dat tush
  him last.”
  
  When the good lieutenant applied himself to the door, he applied
  himself likewise to the bell; and the drawer immediately attending, he
  dispatched him for a file of musqueteers and a surgeon. These
  commands, together with the drawer's report of what he had himself
  seen, not only produced the soldiers, but presently drew up the
  landlord of the house, his wife, and servants, and, indeed, every one
  else who happened at that time to be in the inn.
  
  To describe every particular, and to relate the whole conversation of
  the ensuing scene, is not within my power, unless I had forty pens,
  and could, at once, write with them all together, as the company now
  spoke. The reader must, therefore, content himself with the most
  remarkable incidents, and perhaps he may very well excuse the rest.
  
  The first thing done was securing the body of Northerton, who being
  delivered into the custody of six men with a corporal at their head,
  was by them conducted from a place which he was very willing to leave,
  but it was unluckily to a place whither he was very unwilling to go.
  To say the truth, so whimsical are the desires of ambition, the very
  moment this youth had attained the above-mentioned honour, he would
  have been well contented to have retired to some corner of the world,
  where the fame of it should never have reached his ears.
  
  It surprizes us, and so perhaps, it may the reader, that the
  lieutenant, a worthy and good man, should have applied his chief care,
  rather to secure the offender, than to preserve the life of the
  wounded person. We mention this observation, not with any view of
  pretending to account for so odd a behaviour, but lest some critic
  should hereafter plume himself on discovering it. We would have these
  gentlemen know we can see what is odd in characters as well as
  themselves, but it is our business to relate facts as they are; which,
  when we have done, it is the part of the learned and sagacious reader
  to consult that original book of nature, whence every passage in our
  work is transcribed, though we quote not always the particular page
  for its authority.
  
  The company which now arrived were of a different disposition. They
  suspended their curiosity concerning the person of the ensign, till
  they should see him hereafter in a more engaging attitude. At present,
  their whole concern and attention were employed about the bloody
  object on the floor; which being placed upright in a chair, soon began
  to discover some symptoms of life and motion. These were no sooner
  perceived by the company (for Jones was at first generally concluded
  to be dead) than they all fell at once to prescribing for him (for as
  none of the physical order was present, every one there took that
  office upon him).
  
  Bleeding was the unanimous voice of the whole room; but unluckily
  there was no operator at hand; every one then cried, “Call the
  barber;” but none stirred a step. Several cordials was likewise
  prescribed in the same ineffective manner; till the landlord ordered
  up a tankard of strong beer, with a toast, which he said was the best
  cordial in England.
  
  The person principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the only one
  who did any service, or seemed likely to do any, was the landlady: she
  cut off some of her hair, and applied it to the wound to stop the
  blood; she fell to chafing the youth's temples with her hand; and
  having exprest great contempt for her husband's prescription of beer,
  she despatched one of her maids to her own closet for a bottle of
  brandy, of which, as soon as it was brought, she prevailed on Jones,
  who was just returned to his senses, to drink a very large and
  plentiful draught.
  
  Soon afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed the wound,
  having shaken his head, and blamed everything which was done, ordered
  his patient instantly to bed; in which place we think proper to leave
  him some time to his repose, and shall here, therefore, put an end to
  this chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  Containing the great address of the landlady, the great learning of a
  surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the worthy lieutenant.
  
  
  When the wounded man was carried to his bed, and the house began again
  to clear up from the hurry which this accident had occasioned, the
  landlady thus addressed the commanding officer: “I am afraid, sir,”
   said she, “this young man did not behave himself as well as he should
  do to your honours; and if he had been killed, I suppose he had but
  his desarts: to be sure, when gentlemen admit inferior parsons into
  their company, they oft to keep their distance; but, as my first
  husband used to say, few of 'em know how to do it. For my own part, I
  am sure I should not have suffered any fellows to _include_ themselves
  into gentlemen's company; but I thoft he had been an officer himself,
  till the serjeant told me he was but a recruit.”
  
  “Landlady,” answered the lieutenant, “you mistake the whole matter.
  The young man behaved himself extremely well, and is, I believe, a
  much better gentleman than the ensign who abused him. If the young
  fellow dies, the man who struck him will have most reason to be sorry
  for it: for the regiment will get rid of a very troublesome fellow,
  who is a scandal to the army; and if he escapes from the hands of
  justice, blame me, madam, that's all.”
  
  “Ay! ay! good lack-a-day!” said the landlady; “who could have thoft
  it? Ay, ay, ay, I am satisfied your honour will see justice done; and
  to be sure it oft to be to every one. Gentlemen oft not to kill poor
  folks without answering for it. A poor man hath a soul to be saved, as
  well as his betters.”
  
  “Indeed, madam,” said the lieutenant, “you do the volunteer wrong: I
  dare swear he is more of a gentleman than the officer.”
  
  “Ay!” cries the landlady; “why, look you there, now: well, my first
  husband was a wise man; he used to say, you can't always know the
  inside by the outside. Nay, that might have been well enough too; for
  I never _saw'd_ him till he was all over blood. Who would have thoft
  it? mayhap, some young gentleman crossed in love. Good lack-a-day, if
  he should die, what a concern it will be to his parents! why, sure the
  devil must possess the wicked wretch to do such an act. To be sure, he
  is a scandal to the army, as your honour says; for most of the
  gentlemen of the army that ever I saw, are quite different sort of
  people, and look as if they would scorn to spill any Christian blood
  as much as any men: I mean, that is, in a civil way, as my first
  husband used to say. To be sure, when they come into the wars, there
  must be bloodshed: but that they are not to be blamed for. The more of
  our enemies they kill there, the better: and I wish, with all my
  heart, they could kill every mother's son of them.”
  
  “O fie, madam!” said the lieutenant, smiling; “_all_ is rather too
  bloody-minded a wish.”
  
  “Not at all, sir,” answered she; “I am not at all bloody-minded, only
  to our enemies; and there is no harm in that. To be sure it is natural
  for us to wish our enemies dead, that the wars may be at an end, and
  our taxes be lowered; for it is a dreadful thing to pay as we do. Why
  now, there is above forty shillings for window-lights, and yet we have
  stopt up all we could; we have almost blinded the house, I am sure.
  Says I to the exciseman, says I, I think you oft to favour us; I am
  sure we are very good friends to the government: and so we are for
  sartain, for we pay a mint of money to 'um. And yet I often think to
  myself the government doth not imagine itself more obliged to us, than
  to those that don't pay 'um a farthing. Ay, ay, it is the way of the
  world.”
  
  She was proceeding in this manner when the surgeon entered the room.
  The lieutenant immediately asked how his patient did. But he resolved
  him only by saying, “Better, I believe, than he would have been by
  this time, if I had not been called; and even as it is, perhaps it
  would have been lucky if I could have been called sooner.”--“I hope,
  sir,” said the lieutenant, “the skull is not fractured.”--“Hum,” cries
  the surgeon: “fractures are not always the most dangerous symptoms.
  Contusions and lacerations are often attended with worse phaenomena,
  and with more fatal consequences, than fractures. People who know
  nothing of the matter conclude, if the skull is not fractured, all is
  well; whereas, I had rather see a man's skull broke all to pieces,
  than some contusions I have met with.”--“I hope,” says the lieutenant,
  “there are no such symptoms here.”--“Symptoms,” answered the surgeon,
  “are not always regular nor constant. I have known very unfavourable
  symptoms in the morning change to favourable ones at noon, and return
  to unfavourable again at night. Of wounds, indeed, it is rightly and
  truly said, _Nemo repente fuit turpissimus_. I was once, I remember,
  called to a patient who had received a violent contusion in his tibia,
  by which the exterior cutis was lacerated, so that there was a profuse
  sanguinary discharge; and the interior membranes were so divellicated,
  that the os or bone very plainly appeared through the aperture of the
  vulnus or wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening at the same time
  (for the pulse was exuberant and indicated much phlebotomy), I
  apprehended an immediate mortification. To prevent which, I presently
  made a large orifice in the vein of the left arm, whence I drew twenty
  ounces of blood; which I expected to have found extremely sizy and
  glutinous, or indeed coagulated, as it is in pleuretic complaints;
  but, to my surprize, it appeared rosy and florid, and its consistency
  differed little from the blood of those in perfect health. I then
  applied a fomentation to the part, which highly answered the
  intention; and after three or four times dressing, the wound began to
  discharge a thick pus or matter, by which means the cohesion--But
  perhaps I do not make myself perfectly well understood?”--“No,
  really,” answered the lieutenant, “I cannot say I understand a
  syllable.”--“Well, sir,” said the surgeon, “then I shall not tire your
  patience; in short, within six weeks my patient was able to walk upon
  his legs as perfectly as he could have done before he received the
  contusion.”--“I wish, sir,” said the lieutenant, “you would be so kind
  only to inform me, whether the wound this young gentleman hath had the
  misfortune to receive, is likely to prove mortal.”--“Sir,” answered
  the surgeon, “to say whether a wound will prove mortal or not at first
  dressing, would be very weak and foolish presumption: we are all
  mortal, and symptoms often occur in a cure which the greatest of our
  profession could never foresee.”--“But do you think him in danger?”
   says the other.--“In danger! ay, surely,” cries the doctor: “who is
  there among us, who, in the most perfect health, can be said not to be
  in danger? Can a man, therefore, with so bad a wound as this be said
  to be out of danger? All I can say at present is, that it is well I
  was called as I was, and perhaps it would have been better if I had
  been called sooner. I will see him again early in the morning; and in
  the meantime let him be kept extremely quiet, and drink liberally of
  water-gruel.”--“Won't you allow him sack-whey?” said the
  landlady.--“Ay, ay, sack-whey,” cries the doctor, “if you will,
  provided it be very small.”--“And a little chicken broth too?” added
  she.--“Yes, yes, chicken broth,” said the doctor, “is very
  good.”--“Mayn't I make him some jellies too?” said the landlady.--“Ay,
  ay,” answered the doctor, “jellies are very good for wounds, for they
  promote cohesion.” And indeed it was lucky she had not named soup or
  high sauces, for the doctor would have complied, rather than have lost
  the custom of the house.
  
  The doctor was no sooner gone, than the landlady began to trumpet
  forth his fame to the lieutenant, who had not, from their short
  acquaintance, conceived quite so favourable an opinion of his physical
  abilities as the good woman, and all the neighbourhood, entertained
  (and perhaps very rightly); for though I am afraid the doctor was a
  little of a coxcomb, he might be nevertheless very much of a surgeon.
  
  The lieutenant having collected from the learned discourse of the
  surgeon that Mr Jones was in great danger, gave orders for keeping Mr
  Northerton under a very strict guard, designing in the morning to
  attend him to a justice of peace, and to commit the conducting the
  troops to Gloucester to the French lieutenant, who, though he could
  neither read, write, nor speak any language, was, however, a good
  officer.
  
  In the evening, our commander sent a message to Mr Jones, that if a
  visit would not be troublesome, he would wait on him. This civility
  was very kindly and thankfully received by Jones, and the lieutenant
  accordingly went up to his room, where he found the wounded man much
  better than he expected; nay, Jones assured his friend, that if he had
  not received express orders to the contrary from the surgeon, he
  should have got up long ago; for he appeared to himself to be as well
  as ever, and felt no other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme
  soreness on that side of his head.
  
  “I should be very glad,” quoth the lieutenant, “if you was as well as
  you fancy yourself, for then you could be able to do yourself justice
  immediately; for when a matter can't be made up, as in case of a blow,
  the sooner you take him out the better; but I am afraid you think
  yourself better than you are, and he would have too much advantage
  over you.”
  
  “I'll try, however,” answered Jones, “if you please, and will be so
  kind to lend me a sword, for I have none here of my own.”
  
  “My sword is heartily at your service, my dear boy,” cries the
  lieutenant, kissing him; “you are a brave lad, and I love your spirit;
  but I fear your strength; for such a blow, and so much loss of blood,
  must have very much weakened you; and though you feel no want of
  strength in your bed, yet you most probably would after a thrust or
  two. I can't consent to your taking him out tonight; but I hope you
  will be able to come up with us before we get many days' march
  advance; and I give you my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the
  man who hath injured you shan't stay in our regiment.”
  
  “I wish,” said Jones, “it was possible to decide this matter to-night:
  now you have mentioned it to me, I shall not be able to rest.”
  
  “Oh, never think of it,” returned the other: “a few days will make no
  difference. The wounds of honour are not like those in your body: they
  suffer nothing by the delay of cure. It will be altogether as well for
  you to receive satisfaction a week hence as now.”
  
  “But suppose,” says Jones, “I should grow worse, and die of the
  consequences of my present wound?”
  
  “Then your honour,” answered the lieutenant, “will require no
  reparation at all. I myself will do justice to your character, and
  testify to the world your intention to have acted properly, if you had
  recovered.”
  
  “Still,” replied Jones, “I am concerned at the delay. I am almost
  afraid to mention it to you who are a soldier; but though I have been
  a very wild young fellow, still in my most serious moments, and at the
  bottom, I am really a Christian.”
  
  “So am I too, I assure you,” said the officer; “and so zealous a one,
  that I was pleased with you at dinner for taking up the cause of your
  religion; and I am a little offended with you now, young gentleman,
  that you should express a fear of declaring your faith before any
  one.”
  
  “But how terrible must it be,” cries Jones, “to any one who is really
  a Christian, to cherish malice in his breast, in opposition to the
  command of Him who hath expressly forbid it? How can I bear to do this
  on a sick-bed? Or how shall I make up my account, with such an article
  as this in my bosom against me?”
  
  “Why, I believe there is such a command,” cries the lieutenant; “but a
  man of honour can't keep it. And you must be a man of honour, if you
  will be in the army. I remember I once put the case to our chaplain
  over a bowl of punch, and he confessed there was much difficulty in
  it; but he said, he hoped there might be a latitude granted to
  soldiers in this one instance; and to be sure it is our duty to hope
  so; for who would bear to live without his honour? No, no, my dear
  boy, be a good Christian as long as you live; but be a man of honour
  too, and never put up an affront; not all the books, nor all the
  parsons in the world, shall ever persuade me to that. I love my
  religion very well, but I love my honour more. There must be some
  mistake in the wording the text, or in the translation, or in the
  understanding it, or somewhere or other. But however that be, a man
  must run the risque, for he must preserve his honour. So compose
  yourself to-night, and I promise you you shall have an opportunity of
  doing yourself justice.” Here he gave Jones a hearty buss, shook him
  by the hand, and took his leave.
  
  But though the lieutenant's reasoning was very satisfactory to
  himself, it was not entirely so to his friend. Jones therefore, having
  revolved this matter much in his thoughts, at last came to a
  resolution, which the reader will find in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiv.
  
  A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers ought to venture
  upon in an evening, especially when alone.
  
  
  Jones swallowed a large mess of chicken, or rather cock, broth, with a
  very good appetite, as indeed he would have done the cock it was made
  of, with a pound of bacon into the bargain; and now, finding in
  himself no deficiency of either health or spirit, he resolved to get
  up and seek his enemy.
  
  But first he sent for the serjeant, who was his first acquaintance
  among these military gentlemen. Unluckily that worthy officer having,
  in a literal sense, taken his fill of liquor, had been some time
  retired to his bolster, where he was snoring so loud that it was not
  easy to convey a noise in at his ears capable of drowning that which
  issued from his nostrils.
  
  However, as Jones persisted in his desire of seeing him, a vociferous
  drawer at length found means to disturb his slumbers, and to acquaint
  him with the message. Of which the serjeant was no sooner made
  sensible, than he arose from his bed, and having his clothes already
  on, immediately attended. Jones did not think fit to acquaint the
  serjeant with his design; though he might have done it with great
  safety, for the halberdier was himself a man of honour, and had killed
  his man. He would therefore have faithfully kept this secret, or
  indeed any other which no reward was published for discovering. But as
  Jones knew not those virtues in so short an acquaintance, his caution
  was perhaps prudent and commendable enough.
  
  He began therefore by acquainting the serjeant, that as he was now
  entered into the army, he was ashamed of being without what was
  perhaps the most necessary implement of a soldier; namely, a sword;
  adding, that he should be infinitely obliged to him, if he could
  procure one. “For which,” says he, “I will give you any reasonable
  price; nor do I insist upon its being silver-hilted; only a good
  blade, and such as may become a soldier's thigh.”
  
  The serjeant, who well knew what had happened, and had heard that
  Jones was in a very dangerous condition, immediately concluded, from
  such a message, at such a time of night, and from a man in such a
  situation, that he was light-headed. Now as he had his wit (to use
  that word in its common signification) always ready, he bethought
  himself of making his advantage of this humour in the sick man. “Sir,”
   says he, “I believe I can fit you. I have a most excellent piece of
  stuff by me. It is not indeed silver-hilted, which, as you say, doth
  not become a soldier; but the handle is decent enough, and the blade
  one of the best in Europe. It is a blade that--a blade that--in short,
  I will fetch it you this instant, and you shall see it and handle it.
  I am glad to see your honour so well with all my heart.”
  
  Being instantly returned with the sword, he delivered it to Jones, who
  took it and drew it; and then told the serjeant it would do very well,
  and bid him name his price.
  
  The serjeant now began to harangue in praise of his goods. He said
  (nay he swore very heartily), “that the blade was taken from a French
  officer, of very high rank, at the battle of Dettingen. I took it
  myself,” says he, “from his side, after I had knocked him o' the head.
  The hilt was a golden one. That I sold to one of our fine gentlemen;
  for there are some of them, an't please your honour, who value the
  hilt of a sword more than the blade.”
  
  Here the other stopped him, and begged him to name a price. The
  serjeant, who thought Jones absolutely out of his senses, and very
  near his end, was afraid lest he should injure his family by asking
  too little. However, after a moment's hesitation, he contented himself
  with naming twenty guineas, and swore he would not sell it for less to
  his own brother.
  
  “Twenty guineas!” says Jones, in the utmost surprize: “sure you think
  I am mad, or that I never saw a sword in my life. Twenty guineas,
  indeed! I did not imagine you would endeavour to impose upon me. Here,
  take the sword--No, now I think on't, I will keep it myself, and show
  it your officer in the morning, acquainting him, at the same time,
  what a price you asked me for it.”
  
  The serjeant, as we have said, had always his wit (_in sensu
  praedicto_) about him, and now plainly saw that Jones was not in the
  condition he had apprehended him to be; he now, therefore,
  counterfeited as great surprize as the other had shown, and said, “I
  am certain, sir, I have not asked you so much out of the way. Besides,
  you are to consider, it is the only sword I have, and I must run the
  risque of my officer's displeasure, by going without one myself. And
  truly, putting all this together, I don't think twenty shillings was
  so much out of the way.”
  
  “Twenty shillings!” cries Jones; “why, you just now asked me twenty
  guineas.”--“How!” cries the serjeant, “sure your honour must have
  mistaken me: or else I mistook myself--and indeed I am but half awake.
  Twenty guineas, indeed! no wonder your honour flew into such a
  passion. I say twenty guineas too. No, no, I mean twenty shillings, I
  assure you. And when your honour comes to consider everything, I hope
  you will not think that so extravagant a price. It is indeed true, you
  may buy a weapon which looks as well for less money. But----”
  
  Here Jones interrupted him, saying, “I will be so far from making any
  words with you, that I will give you a shilling more than your
  demand.” He then gave him a guinea, bid him return to his bed, and
  wished him a good march; adding, he hoped to overtake them before the
  division reached Worcester.
  
  The serjeant very civilly took his leave, fully satisfied with his
  merchandize, and not a little pleased with his dexterous recovery from
  that false step into which his opinion of the sick man's
  light-headedness had betrayed him.
  
  As soon as the serjeant was departed, Jones rose from his bed, and
  dressed himself entirely, putting on even his coat, which, as its
  colour was white, showed very visibly the streams of blood which had
  flowed down it; and now, having grasped his new-purchased sword in his
  hand, he was going to issue forth, when the thought of what he was
  about to undertake laid suddenly hold of him, and he began to reflect
  that in a few minutes he might possibly deprive a human being of life,
  or might lose his own. “Very well,” said he, “and in what cause do I
  venture my life? Why, in that of my honour. And who is this human
  being? A rascal who hath injured and insulted me without provocation.
  But is not revenge forbidden by Heaven? Yes, but it is enjoined by the
  world. Well, but shall I obey the world in opposition to the express
  commands of Heaven? Shall I incur the Divine displeasure rather than
  be called--ha--coward--scoundrel?--I'll think no more; I am resolved,
  and must fight him.”
  
  The clock had now struck twelve, and every one in the house were in
  their beds, except the centinel who stood to guard Northerton, when
  Jones softly opening his door, issued forth in pursuit of his enemy,
  of whose place of confinement he had received a perfect description
  from the drawer. It is not easy to conceive a much more tremendous
  figure than he now exhibited. He had on, as we have said, a
  light-coloured coat, covered with streams of blood. His face, which
  missed that very blood, as well as twenty ounces more drawn from him
  by the surgeon, was pallid. Round his head was a quantity of bandage,
  not unlike a turban. In the right hand he carried a sword, and in the
  left a candle. So that the bloody Banquo was not worthy to be compared
  to him. In fact, I believe a more dreadful apparition was never raised
  in a church-yard, nor in the imagination of any good people met in a
  winter evening over a Christmas fire in Somersetshire.
  
  When the centinel first saw our heroe approach, his hair began gently
  to lift up his grenadier cap; and in the same instant his knees fell
  to blows with each other. Presently his whole body was seized with
  worse than an ague fit. He then fired his piece, and fell flat on his
  face.
  
  Whether fear or courage was the occasion of his firing, or whether he
  took aim at the object of his terror, I cannot say. If he did,
  however, he had the good fortune to miss his man.
  
  Jones seeing the fellow fall, guessed the cause of his fright, at
  which he could not forbear smiling, not in the least reflecting on the
  danger from which he had just escaped. He then passed by the fellow,
  who still continued in the posture in which he fell, and entered the
  room where Northerton, as he had heard, was confined. Here, in a
  solitary situation, he found--an empty quart pot standing on the
  table, on which some beer being spilt, it looked as if the room had
  lately been inhabited; but at present it was entirely vacant.
  
  Jones then apprehended it might lead to some other apartment; but upon
  searching all round it, he could perceive no other door than that at
  which he entered, and where the centinel had been posted. He then
  proceeded to call Northerton several times by his name; but no one
  answered; nor did this serve to any other purpose than to confirm the
  centinel in his terrors, who was now convinced that the volunteer was
  dead of his wounds, and that his ghost was come in search of the
  murderer: he now lay in all the agonies of horror; and I wish, with
  all my heart, some of those actors who are hereafter to represent a
  man frighted out of his wits had seen him, that they might be taught
  to copy nature, instead of performing several antic tricks and
  gestures, for the entertainment and applause of the galleries.
  
  Perceiving the bird was flown, at least despairing to find him, and
  rightly apprehending that the report of the firelock would alarm the
  whole house, our heroe now blew out his candle, and gently stole back
  again to his chamber, and to his bed; whither he would not have been
  able to have gotten undiscovered, had any other person been on the
  same staircase, save only one gentleman who was confined to his bed by
  the gout; for before he could reach the door to his chamber, the hall
  where the centinel had been posted was half full of people, some in
  their shirts, and others not half drest, all very earnestly enquiring
  of each other what was the matter.
  
  The soldier was now found lying in the same place and posture in which
  we just now left him. Several immediately applied themselves to raise
  him, and some concluded him dead; but they presently saw their
  mistake, for he not only struggled with those who laid their hands on
  him, but fell a roaring like a bull. In reality, he imagined so many
  spirits or devils were handling him; for his imagination being
  possessed with the horror of an apparition, converted every object he
  saw or felt into nothing but ghosts and spectres.
  
  At length he was overpowered by numbers, and got upon his legs; when
  candles being brought, and seeing two or three of his comrades
  present, he came a little to himself; but when they asked him what was
  the matter? he answered, “I am a dead man, that's all, I am a dead
  man, I can't recover it, I have seen him.” “What hast thou seen,
  Jack?” says one of the soldiers. “Why, I have seen the young volunteer
  that was killed yesterday.” He then imprecated the most heavy curses
  on himself, if he had not seen the volunteer, all over blood, vomiting
  fire out of his mouth and nostrils, pass by him into the chamber where
  Ensign Northerton was, and then seizing the ensign by the throat, fly
  away with him in a clap of thunder.
  
  This relation met with a gracious reception from the audience. All the
  women present believed it firmly, and prayed Heaven to defend them
  from murder. Amongst the men too, many had faith in the story; but
  others turned it into derision and ridicule; and a serjeant who was
  present answered very coolly, “Young man, you will hear more of this,
  for going to sleep and dreaming on your post.”
  
  The soldier replied, “You may punish me if you please; but I was as
  broad awake as I am now; and the devil carry me away, as he hath the
  ensign, if I did not see the dead man, as I tell you, with eyes as big
  and as fiery as two large flambeaux.”
  
  The commander of the forces, and the commander of the house, were now
  both arrived; for the former being awake at the time, and hearing the
  centinel fire his piece, thought it his duty to rise immediately,
  though he had no great apprehensions of any mischief; whereas the
  apprehensions of the latter were much greater, lest her spoons and
  tankards should be upon the march, without having received any such
  orders from her.
  
  Our poor centinel, to whom the sight of this officer was not much more
  welcome than the apparition, as he thought it, which he had seen
  before, again related the dreadful story, and with many additions of
  blood and fire; but he had the misfortune to gain no credit with
  either of the last-mentioned persons: for the officer, though a very
  religious man, was free from all terrors of this kind; besides, having
  so lately left Jones in the condition we have seen, he had no
  suspicion of his being dead. As for the landlady, though not over
  religious, she had no kind of aversion to the doctrine of spirits; but
  there was a circumstance in the tale which she well knew to be false,
  as we shall inform the reader presently.
  
  But whether Northerton was carried away in thunder or fire, or in
  whatever other manner he was gone, it was now certain that his body
  was no longer in custody. Upon this occasion the lieutenant formed a
  conclusion not very different from what the serjeant is just mentioned
  to have made before, and immediately ordered the centinel to be taken
  prisoner. So that, by a strange reverse of fortune (though not very
  uncommon in a military life), the guard became the guarded.
  
  
  
  Chapter xv.
  
  The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.
  
  
  Besides the suspicion of sleep, the lieutenant harboured another and
  worse doubt against the poor centinel, and this was, that of
  treachery; for as he believed not one syllable of the apparition, so
  he imagined the whole to be an invention formed only to impose upon
  him, and that the fellow had in reality been bribed by Northerton to
  let him escape. And this he imagined the rather, as the fright
  appeared to him the more unnatural in one who had the character of as
  brave and bold a man as any in the regiment, having been in several
  actions, having received several wounds, and, in a word, having
  behaved himself always like a good and valiant soldier.
  
  That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of
  such a person, we shall not delay a moment in rescuing his character
  from the imputation of this guilt.
  
  Mr Northerton then, as we have before observed, was fully satisfied
  with the glory which he had obtained from this action. He had perhaps
  seen, or heard, or guessed, that envy is apt to attend fame. Not that
  I would here insinuate that he was heathenishly inclined to believe in
  or to worship the goddess Nemesis; for, in fact, I am convinced he
  never heard of her name. He was, besides, of an active disposition,
  and had a great antipathy to those close quarters in the castle of
  Gloucester, for which a justice of peace might possibly give him a
  billet. Nor was he moreover free from some uneasy meditations on a
  certain wooden edifice, which I forbear to name, in conformity to the
  opinion of mankind, who, I think, rather ought to honour than to be
  ashamed of this building, as it is, or at least might be made, of more
  benefit to society than almost any other public erection. In a word,
  to hint at no more reasons for his conduct, Mr Northerton was desirous
  of departing that evening, and nothing remained for him but to
  contrive the quomodo, which appeared to be a matter of some
  difficulty.
  
  Now this young gentleman, though somewhat crooked in his morals, was
  perfectly straight in his person, which was extremely strong and well
  made. His face too was accounted handsome by the generality of women,
  for it was broad and ruddy, with tolerably good teeth. Such charms did
  not fail making an impression on my landlady, who had no little relish
  for this kind of beauty. She had, indeed, a real compassion for the
  young man; and hearing from the surgeon that affairs were like to go
  ill with the volunteer, she suspected they might hereafter wear no
  benign aspect with the ensign. Having obtained, therefore, leave to
  make him a visit, and finding him in a very melancholy mood, which she
  considerably heightened by telling him there were scarce any hopes of
  the volunteer's life, she proceeded to throw forth some hints, which
  the other readily and eagerly taking up, they soon came to a right
  understanding; and it was at length agreed that the ensign should, at
  a certain signal, ascend the chimney, which communicating very soon
  with that of the kitchen, he might there again let himself down; for
  which she would give him an opportunity by keeping the coast clear.
  
  But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take this
  occasion of too hastily condemning all compassion as a folly, and
  pernicious to society, we think proper to mention another particular
  which might possibly have some little share in this action. The ensign
  happened to be at this time possessed of the sum of fifty pounds,
  which did indeed belong to the whole company; for the captain having
  quarrelled with his lieutenant, had entrusted the payment of his
  company to the ensign. This money, however, he thought proper to
  deposit in my landlady's hand, possibly by way of bail or security
  that he would hereafter appear and answer to the charge against him;
  but whatever were the conditions, certain it is, that she had the
  money and the ensign his liberty.
  
  The reader may perhaps expect, from the compassionate temper of this
  good woman, that when she saw the poor centinel taken prisoner for a
  fact of which she knew him innocent, she should immediately have
  interposed in his behalf; but whether it was that she had already
  exhausted all her compassion in the above-mentioned instance, or that
  the features of this fellow, though not very different from those of
  the ensign, could not raise it, I will not determine; but, far from
  being an advocate for the present prisoner, she urged his guilt to his
  officer, declaring, with uplifted eyes and hands, that she would not
  have had any concern in the escape of a murderer for all the world.
  
  Everything was now once more quiet, and most of the company returned
  again to their beds; but the landlady, either from the natural
  activity of her disposition, or from her fear for her plate, having no
  propensity to sleep, prevailed with the officers, as they were to
  march within little more than an hour, to spend that time with her
  over a bowl of punch.
  
  Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard great part of the
  hurry and bustle that had passed, of which he had now some curiosity
  to know the particulars. He therefore applied to his bell, which he
  rung at least twenty times without any effect: for my landlady was in
  such high mirth with her company, that no clapper could be heard there
  but her own; and the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting together
  in the kitchen (for neither durst he sit up nor she lie in bed alone),
  the more they heard the bell ring the more they were frightened, and
  as it were nailed down in their places.
  
  At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the ears of
  our good landlady, who presently sent forth her summons, which both
  her servants instantly obeyed. “Joe,” says the mistress, “don't you
  hear the gentleman's bell ring? Why don't you go up?”--“It is not my
  business,” answered the drawer, “to wait upon the chambers--it is
  Betty Chambermaid's.”--“If you come to that,” answered the maid, “it
  is not my business to wait upon gentlemen. I have done it indeed
  sometimes; but the devil fetch me if ever I do again, since you make
  your preambles about it.” The bell still ringing violently, their
  mistress fell into a passion, and swore, if the drawer did not go up
  immediately, she would turn him away that very morning. “If you do,
  madam,” says he, “I can't help it. I won't do another servant's
  business.” She then applied herself to the maid, and endeavoured to
  prevail by gentle means; but all in vain: Betty was as inflexible as
  Joe. Both insisted it was not their business, and they would not do
  it.
  
  The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, “Come, I will put an
  end to this contention;” and then turning to the servants, commended
  them for their resolution in not giving up the point; but added, he
  was sure, if one would consent to go the other would. To which
  proposal they both agreed in an instant, and accordingly went up very
  lovingly and close together. When they were gone, the lieutenant
  appeased the wrath of the landlady, by satisfying her why they were
  both so unwilling to go alone.
  
  They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that the sick
  gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily as if
  he was well; and that he gave his service to the captain, and should
  be very glad of the favour of seeing him before he marched.
  
  The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and sitting
  down by his bed-side, acquainted him with the scene which had happened
  below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of the
  centinel.
  
  Upon this Jones related to him the whole truth, and earnestly begged
  him not to punish the poor soldier, “who, I am confident,” says he,
  “is as innocent of the ensign's escape, as he is of forging any lie,
  or of endeavouring to impose on you.”
  
  The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered: “Why, as
  you have cleared the fellow of one part of the charge, so it will be
  impossible to prove the other, because he was not the only centinel.
  But I have a good mind to punish the rascal for being a coward. Yet
  who knows what effect the terror of such an apprehension may have?
  and, to say the truth, he hath always behaved well against an enemy.
  Come, it is a good thing to see any sign of religion in these fellows;
  so I promise you he shall be set at liberty when we march. But hark,
  the general beats. My dear boy, give me another buss. Don't discompose
  nor hurry yourself; but remember the Christian doctrine of patience,
  and I warrant you will soon be able to do yourself justice, and to
  take an honourable revenge on the fellow who hath injured you.” The
  lieutenant then departed, and Jones endeavoured to compose himself to
  rest.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK VIII.
  
  CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the
  longest of all our introductory chapters.
  
  
  As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history
  will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing
  kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in
  the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that
  species of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall,
  as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some
  certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, as
  critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very
  different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to
  allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet
  probable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that they
  believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to which
  hath not occurred to their own observation.
  
    [*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
    every reader in the world.
    [**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
  
  First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every
  writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still
  remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is
  scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction
  perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for
  most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to
  indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that
  power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather
  which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be
  shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged
  in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as
  Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to
  the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poet
  himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of
  faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper,
  I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved
  his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when
  his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,
  afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable of
  converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that
  Homer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce
  supernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have
  seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves
  so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become the
  objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked the
  credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have
  been defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have
  been sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he
  certainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of
  his own age and country.
  
  But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a
  Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of
  that heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid
  puerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities who
  have been long since dethroned from their immortality. Lord
  Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of
  a muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more
  absurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as some
  have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras;
  which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry, as well as
  prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
  
  The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us
  moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be
  extremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous
  drugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I
  advise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by those
  authors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be
  any great prejudice or mortification.
  
  As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the
  mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any
  bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity the
  limits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be
  considered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right to
  do what they will with their own.
  
  Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary
  occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian,
  or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be
  taken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.
  
  Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep
  likewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion
  of Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whose
  authority will be as weighty when it is as old, “That it is no excuse
  for a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related is
  really matter of fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true with regard
  to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the
  historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them,
  though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no
  small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was the
  successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or the
  successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later
  years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or
  that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which
  instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more
  astonishing.
  
  Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,
  indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is
  not only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed
  would be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are
  other facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though
  ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in
  complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable
  story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more propriety
  have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost
  of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than
  have been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the
  Rebellion.
  
  To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really
  happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so
  well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes
  fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often
  raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that
  incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction,
  therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting
  probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he
  forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this,
  however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the
  advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The
  credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time;
  and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors,
  bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an
  Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of
  posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very
  bad, were once the masters of mankind.
  
  But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired
  recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and
  corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no
  public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and
  corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits
  not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more
  especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and
  folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent;
  for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.
  
  Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of
  Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby,
  and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands,
  yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's
  scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through
  which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard
  Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he
  that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited.
  During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to
  restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company
  out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place,
  and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a
  pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of
  Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited,
  that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to
  the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the
  ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out,
  “Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!”
   manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even
  Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the
  consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became
  immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the
  congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay
  the horrors of his conscience.”
  
  But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known
  a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large
  fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he
  had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and
  not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual
  person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase
  of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of
  this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where
  the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another
  part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts
  of charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or
  their wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit in
  distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too
  careful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture,
  his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his public
  beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all
  intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation;
  that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue;
  that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously
  loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind
  relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a
  chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his
  neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind.
  Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed
  every other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,
  
        _--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
        Vel duo, vel nemo;_
  
  and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single
  instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to
  justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the
  person, nor of anything like him. Such _rarae aves_ should be remitted
  to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him
  in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness
  and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
  
  In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be
  within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may
  probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very
  actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be
  only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or
  indeed impossible, when related of another.
  
  This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of
  character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment,
  and a most exact knowledge of human nature.
  
  It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no
  more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid
  stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to
  say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of
  his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as
  anything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of the
  story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst
  incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more
  shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being
  related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
  
  Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the
  error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and
  their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the
  fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women
  of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give
  himself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous
  change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be
  assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as
  if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a
  play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally
  the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some
  comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly
  eminent for those very talents which not only bring men to the
  gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.
  
  Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted
  to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps
  within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader
  the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him.
  As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the
  Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in
  order to join the credible with the surprizing.”
  
  For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of
  probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his
  incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every
  street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home
  articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many
  persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within the
  knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly
  observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and
  is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty
  of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
  
  For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a
  young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being
  unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks
  and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies
  of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding,
  declared it was the picture of half the young people of her
  acquaintance.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
  
  
  When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he
  endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too
  lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather
  tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open
  daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady
  herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.
  
  This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken
  any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was
  certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show
  him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of
  those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements,
  meet with civil treatment for their money.
  
  She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to
  discourse:--“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is great pity that such a
  pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about
  with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant
  you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should remember it is
  we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged
  to pay them, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans are. I had twenty of
  'um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o' that, I had
  rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good
  enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills;
  la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a
  good squire's family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a
  night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of
  those officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a
  squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men
  run about after 'um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come
  up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then
  there's such swearing among 'um, to be sure it frightens me out o' my
  wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And
  here one of 'um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought
  indeed how well the rest would secure him; they all hang together; for
  if you had been in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are
  not, it would have been all as one to such wicked people. They would
  have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon 'um; I would not have
  such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though you are
  likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and
  if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the
  fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he'll have fled the
  country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such
  chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and
  return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your
  loss; and if they was but to know what had happened--La, my seeming! I
  would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well
  what all the matter is; but if one won't, another will; so pretty a
  gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see
  the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a
  soldier for her.--Nay, don't blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent
  degree). “Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I
  warrant you, about Madam Sophia.”--“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do
  you know my Sophia?”--“Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many's
  the time hath she lain in this house.”--“With her aunt, I suppose,”
   says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I
  know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam
  Sophia, that's the truth on't.”--“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O
  heavens!”
  
    Angels are painted fair to look like her.
    There's in her all that we believe of heav'n,
    Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
    Eternal joy and everlasting love.
  
  “And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”--“I
  wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would
  you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she
  hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you
  now lie in.”--“Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?”--“Ay,
  ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish
  you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know
  to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.”--“Ha!” cries
  he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can
  never believe so much.”--“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be
  saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the
  truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest
  way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more
  than she said.”--“O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I
  shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness,
  goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom
  a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the
  plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to
  procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me,
  did I but know that she was happy.”--“Why, look you there now,” says
  the landlady; “I told her you was a constant lovier.”--“But pray,
  madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was
  here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.”--“Nor is it
  possible you should,” answered she; “for you was a little thing when I
  had you in my lap at the squire's.”--“How, the squire's?” says Jones:
  “what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?”--“Yes,
  marry, do I,” says she: “who in the country doth not?”--“The fame of
  his goodness indeed,” answered Jones, “must have extended farther than
  this; but heaven only can know him--can know that benevolence which it
  copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind
  are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it;
  but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such
  a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born child,
  adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my follies to
  disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all;
  for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act
  of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am.
  And now, madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for turning
  soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket.” At
  which words he shook a purse, which had but very little in it, and
  which still appeared to the landlady to have less.
  
  My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap
  by this relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were
  the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But
  hark,” says she, “I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the
  devil's in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs;
  if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” At
  which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for
  the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though
  they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they
  never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be
  well paid for their pains.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
  
  
  Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in
  imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she
  knew so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant
  had acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of
  the quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious
  reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great
  curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly
  suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as much
  as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.
  
  She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her
  behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed
  had held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender
  thoughts, which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that
  such kind of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our
  readers. In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to
  dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his
  pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that
  he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on,
  which he would have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit,
  declaring he would lose no more blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you
  will be so kind only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well
  in a day or two.”
  
  “I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being well in a
  month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of
  such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be
  instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a
  revulsion before I dress you.”
  
  Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last
  yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable
  for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to
  acknowledge that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient
  promised he would.
  
  The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the
  landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his
  patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.
  
  “It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath devoured
  two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”
  
  “Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in a fever;
  and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by
  the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and
  thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily distinguishable
  from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be concreted, nor
  assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and
  thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the
  gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am
  afraid will die.”
  
  “Every man must die some time or other,” answered the good woman; “it
  is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him
  while you bleed him. But, hark'ee, a word in your ear; I would advise
  you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be your
  paymaster.”
  
  “Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I've a gentleman under my
  hands, have I not?”
  
  “I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first
  husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an
  arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned
  anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft
  always to let one another know such things.”
  
  “And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, in a
  passion, “to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who
  will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I will
  see now whether he will be blooded or no.” He then immediately went
  upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much
  violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was
  fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning
  Sophia.
  
  “Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. “I have told
  you my resolution already,” answered Jones, “and I wish with all my
  heart you had taken my answer; for you have awaked me out of the
  sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life.”
  
  “Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away his life.
  Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of
  you for the last time, will you be blooded?”--“I answer you for the
  last time,” said Jones, “I will not.”--“Then I wash my hands of you,”
   cries the doctor; “and I desire you to pay me for the trouble I have
  had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, and
  half a crown for phlebotomy.”--“I hope,” said Jones, “you don't intend
  to leave me in this condition.”--“Indeed but I shall,” said the other.
  “Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you
  a farthing.”--“Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the
  best. What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such
  vagabonds!” At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient
  turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream was
  unfortunately gone.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever
  recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not
  excepted.
  
  
  The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven
  hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that
  he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked
  his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but
  first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak
  something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his
  stomach.
  
  Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked,
  “What he could have for dinner?”--“For dinner!” says she; “it is an
  odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the
  house, and the fire is almost out.”--“Well, but,” says he, “I must
  have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for,
  to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life.”--“Then,”
   says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot,
  which will fit you.”--“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should
  be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the
  landlady consented, and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so
  well recovered;” for the sweetness of our heroe's temper was almost
  irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the
  bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which
  had the semblance of poverty.
  
  Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was
  preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.
  
  This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of
  great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small
  inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech,
  broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those
  who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it.
  This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often
  smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be
  delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.
  
  He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I
  shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive
  them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.
  
  Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily
  imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds,
  and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much
  gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account,
  “_Festina lente_, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever
  touched a razor.”--“I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones.
  “A poor one,” said the barber, “_non omnia possumus omnes._”--“Again!”
   said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.”--“Excuse me,
  sir,” said the barber, “_non tanto me dignor honore_.” And then
  proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in
  suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the
  one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture,
  sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these
  motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of
  your beard, that it is _tondenti gravior_.”--“I conjecture,” says
  Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”--“You mistake me widely,
  sir,” said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of
  philosophy; _hinc illae lacrymae_, sir; that's my misfortune. Too much
  learning hath been my ruin.”--“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess,
  friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade;
  but I can't see how it can have injured you.”--“Alas! sir,” answered
  the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He was a
  dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took
  an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other
  children.--Will you please to have your temples--O la! I ask your
  pardon, I fancy there is _hiatus in manuscriptis_. I heard you was
  going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.”--“Why do you conclude
  so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a
  man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals
  to Newcastle.”
  
  “Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like
  thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me
  after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better
  acquainted with thee.”
  
  “O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a
  favour, if you will accept of it.”--“What is that, my friend?” cries
  Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I
  dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical
  fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the
  best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked downstairs
  neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure;
  and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did
  not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her
  taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen
  with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in
  love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her
  many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy;
  for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the
  neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in
  a moment.
  
  When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor
  indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining _in
  statu quo_, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment
  might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had
  no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke,
  saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the
  beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by
  shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her
  servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never
  given, and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set
  about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.
  
  This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as
  _lucus a non lucendo_; for it was an apartment into which the sun had
  scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and
  happy was it for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry
  to find any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered
  the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed
  some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.
  
  The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time,
  attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait
  so long for his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to
  the landlady, who was entertaining a circle that she had gathered
  round her with the history of poor Jones, part of which she had
  extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious
  composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the
  house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and
  now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love
  to his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how
  else should he come by the little money he hath; and this,” says she,
  “is your gentleman, forsooth!”--“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says
  the barber; “what's his name?”--“Why he told me his name was Jones,”
   says she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too,
  that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had
  quarrelled with him now.”--“And if his name be Jones, he told you the
  truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that
  country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”--“Why doth he not go
  by the name of his father?”--“I can't tell that,” said the barber;
  “many people's sons don't go by the name of their father.”--“Nay,”
   said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman's son, thof he was
  a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many
  of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband
  used to say, never affront any customer that's a gentleman.”
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.
  
  
  This conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner in his
  dungeon, and partly while he was expecting the barber in the parlour.
  And, as soon as it was ended, Mr Benjamin, as we have said, attended
  him, and was very kindly desired to sit down. Jones then filling out a
  glass of wine, drank his health by the appellation of _doctissime
  tonsorum_. “_Ago tibi gratias, domine_” said the barber; and then
  looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, and
  with a seeming surprize, as if he had recollected a face he had seen
  before, “Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your name is not
  Jones?” To which the other answered, “That it was.”--“_Proh deum atque
  hominum fidem_!” says the barber; “how strangely things come to pass!
  Mr Jones, I am your most obedient servant. I find you do not know me,
  which indeed is no wonder, since you never saw me but once, and then
  you was very young. Pray, sir, how doth the good Squire Allworthy? how
  doth _ille optimus omnium patronus_?”--“I find,” said Jones, “you do
  indeed know me; but I have not the like happiness of recollecting
  you.”--“I do not wonder at that,” cries Benjamin; “but I am surprized
  I did not know you sooner, for you are not in the least altered. And
  pray, sir, may I, without offence, enquire whither you are travelling
  this way?”--“Fill the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more
  questions.”--“Nay, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be
  troublesome; and I hope you don't think me a man of an impertinent
  curiosity, for that is a vice which nobody can lay to my charge; but I
  ask pardon; for when a gentleman of your figure travels without his
  servants, we may suppose him to be, as we say, _in casu incognito_,
  and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your name.”--“I own,” says
  Jones, “I did not expect to have been so well known in this country as
  I find I am; yet, for particular reasons, I shall be obliged to you if
  you will not mention my name to any other person till I am gone from
  hence.”--“_Pauca verba_,” answered the barber;” and I wish no other
  here knew you but myself; for some people have tongues; but I promise
  you I can keep a secret. My enemies will allow me that virtue.”--“And
  yet that is not the characteristic of your profession, Mr Barber,”
   answered Jones. “Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “_Non si male nunc et
  olim sic erit_. I was not born nor bred a barber, I assure you. I have
  spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, I
  understand something of gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy
  of your confidence as you have some other people, I should have shown
  you I could have kept a secret better. I should not have degraded your
  name in a public kitchen; for indeed, sir, some people have not used
  you well; for besides making a public proclamation of what you told
  them of a quarrel between yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added
  lies of their own, things which I knew to be lies.”--“You surprize me
  greatly,” cries Jones. “Upon my word, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I tell
  the truth, and I need not tell you my landlady was the person. I am
  sure it moved me to hear the story, and I hope it is all false; for I
  have a great respect for you, I do assure you I have, and have had
  ever since the good-nature you showed to Black George, which was
  talked of all over the country, and I received more than one letter
  about it. Indeed, it made you beloved by everybody. You will pardon
  me, therefore; for it was real concern at what I heard made me ask
  many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity about me: but I
  love good-nature and thence became _amoris abundantia erga te_.”
  
  Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the miserable;
  it is no wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable,
  was extremely open-hearted, very readily believed all the professions
  of Benjamin, and received him into his bosom. The scraps of Latin,
  some of which Benjamin applied properly enough, though it did not
  savour of profound literature, seemed yet to indicate something
  superior to a common barber; and so indeed did his whole behaviour.
  Jones therefore believed the truth of what he had said, as to his
  original and education; and at length, after much entreaty, he said,
  “Since you have heard, my friend, so much of my affairs, and seem so
  desirous to know the truth, if you will have patience to hear it, I
  will inform you of the whole.”--“Patience!” cries Benjamin, “that I
  will, if the chapter was never so long; and I am very much obliged to
  you for the honour you do me.”
  
  Jones now began, and related the whole history, forgetting only a
  circumstance or two, namely, everything which passed on that day in
  which he had fought with Thwackum; and ended with his resolution to go
  to sea, till the rebellion in the North had made him change his
  purpose, and had brought him to the place where he then was.
  
  Little Benjamin, who had been all attention, never once interrupted
  the narrative; but when it was ended he could not help observing, that
  there must be surely something more invented by his enemies, and told
  Mr Allworthy against him, or so good a man would never have dismissed
  one he had loved so tenderly, in such a manner. To which Jones
  answered, “He doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use of
  to destroy him.”
  
  And surely it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided making
  the same remark with the barber, who had not indeed heard from Jones
  one single circumstance upon which he was condemned; for his actions
  were not now placed in those injurious lights in which they had been
  misrepresented to Allworthy; nor could he mention those many false
  accusations which had been from time to time preferred against him to
  Allworthy: for with none of these he was himself acquainted. He had
  likewise, as we have observed, omitted many material facts in his
  present relation. Upon the whole, indeed, everything now appeared in
  such favourable colours to Jones, that malice itself would have found
  it no easy matter to fix any blame upon him.
  
  Not that Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the truth; nay, he
  would have been more unwilling to have suffered any censure to fall on
  Mr Allworthy for punishing him, than on his own actions for deserving
  it; but, in reality, so it happened, and so it always will happen; for
  let a man be never so honest, the account of his own conduct will, in
  spite of himself, be so very favourable, that his vices will come
  purified through his lips, and, like foul liquors well strained, will
  leave all their foulness behind. For though the facts themselves may
  appear, yet so different will be the motives, circumstances, and
  consequences, when a man tells his own story, and when his enemy tells
  it, that we scarce can recognise the facts to be one and the same.
  
  Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy ears, he was
  not yet satisfied. There was a circumstance behind which his
  curiosity, cold as it was, most eagerly longed for. Jones had
  mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his being the rival of Blifil,
  but had cautiously concealed the name of the young lady. The barber,
  therefore, after some hesitation, and many hums and hahs, at last
  begged leave to crave the name of the lady, who appeared to be the
  principal cause of all this mischief. Jones paused a moment, and then
  said, “Since I have trusted you with so much, and since, I am afraid,
  her name is become too publick already on this occasion, I will not
  conceal it from you. Her name is Sophia Western.”
  
  “_Proh deum atque hominum fidem_! Squire Western hath a daughter grown
  a woman!”--“Ay, and such a woman,” cries Jones, “that the world cannot
  match. No eye ever saw anything so beautiful; but that is her least
  excellence. Such sense! such goodness! Oh, I could praise her for
  ever, and yet should omit half her virtues!”--“Mr Western a daughter
  grown up!” cries the barber: “I remember the father a boy; well,
  _Tempus edax rerum_.”
  
  The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very eagerly to be
  his bottle; but Jones absolutely refused, saying, “He had already
  drank more than he ought: and that he now chose to retire to his room,
  where he wished he could procure himself a book.”--“A book!” cries
  Benjamin; “what book would you have? Latin or English? I have some
  curious books in both languages; such as _Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de
  Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum;_ and in English I have several of the
  best books, though some of them are a little torn; but I have a great
  part of Stowe's Chronicle; the sixth volume of Pope's Homer; the third
  volume of the Spectator; the second volume of Echard's Roman History;
  the Craftsman; Robinson Crusoe; Thomas a Kempis; and two volumes of
  Tom Brown's Works.”
  
  “Those last,” cries Jones, “are books I never saw, so if you please
  lend me one of those volumes.” The barber assured him he would be
  highly entertained, for he looked upon the author to have been one of
  the greatest wits that ever the nation produced. He then stepped to
  his house, which was hard by, and immediately returned; after which,
  the barber having received very strict injunctions of secrecy from
  Jones, and having sworn inviolably to maintain it, they separated; the
  barber went home, and Jones retired to his chamber.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear, as well as
  who this extraordinary person was.
  
  
  In the morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion of his
  surgeon, as he apprehended some inconvenience, or even danger, might
  attend the not dressing his wound; he enquired of the drawer, what
  other surgeons were to be met with in that neighbourhood. The drawer
  told him, there was one not far off; but he had known him often refuse
  to be concerned after another had been sent before him; “but, sir,”
   says he, “if you will take my advice, there is not a man in the
  kingdom can do your business better than the barber who was with you
  last night. We look upon him to be one of the ablest men at a cut in
  all this neighbourhood. For though he hath not been her above three
  months, he hath done several great cures.”
  
  The drawer was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, who being
  acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, prepared himself
  accordingly, and attended; but with so different an air and aspect
  from that which he wore when his basin was under his arm, that he
  could scarce be known to be the same person.
  
  “So, tonsor,” says Jones, “I find you have more trades than one; how
  came you not to inform me of this last night?”--“A surgeon,” answered
  Benjamin, with great gravity, “is a profession, not a trade. The
  reason why I did not acquaint you last night that I professed this
  art, was, that I then concluded you was under the hands of another
  gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my brethren in their
  business. _Ars omnibus communis_. But now, sir, if you please, I will
  inspect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give my
  opinion of your case.”
  
  Jones had no great faith in this new professor; however, he suffered
  him to open the bandage and to look at his wound; which as soon as he
  had done, Benjamin began to groan and shake his head violently. Upon
  which Jones, in a peevish manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell
  him in what condition he found him. “Shall I answer you as a surgeon,
  or a friend?” said Benjamin. “As a friend, and seriously,” said Jones.
  “Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it would require a great
  deal of art to keep you from being well after a very few dressings;
  and if you will suffer me to apply some salve of mine, I will answer
  for the success.” Jones gave his consent, and the plaister was applied
  accordingly.
  
  “There, sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you please, resume my
  former self; but a man is obliged to keep up some dignity in his
  countenance whilst he is performing these operations, or the world
  will not submit to be handled by him. You can't imagine, sir, of how
  much consequence a grave aspect is to a grave character. A barber may
  make you laugh, but a surgeon ought rather to make you cry.”
  
  “Mr Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said Jones. “O dear
  sir!” answered Benjamin, interrupting him, “_Infandum, regina, jubes
  renovare dolorem_. You recall to my mind that cruel separation of the
  united fraternities, so much to the prejudice of both bodies, as all
  separations must be, according to the old adage, _Vis unita fortior_;
  which to be sure there are not wanting some of one or of the other
  fraternity who are able to construe. What a blow was this to me, who
  unite both in my own person!” “Well, by whatever name you please to be
  called,” continued Jones, “you certainly are one of the oddest, most
  comical fellows I ever met with, and must have something very
  surprizing in your story, which you must confess I have a right to
  hear.”--“I do confess it,” answered Benjamin, “and will very readily
  acquaint you with it, when you have sufficient leisure, for I promise
  you it will require a good deal of time.” Jones told him, he could
  never be more at leisure than at present. “Well, then,” said Benjamin,
  “I will obey you; but first I will fasten the door, that none may
  interrupt us.” He did so, and then advancing with a solemn air to
  Jones, said: “I must begin by telling you, sir, that you yourself have
  been the greatest enemy I ever had.” Jones was a little startled at
  this sudden declaration. “I your enemy, sir!” says he, with much
  amazement, and some sternness in his look. “Nay, be not angry,” said
  Benjamin, “for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of
  having intended me any wrong; for you was then an infant: but I shall,
  I believe, unriddle all this the moment I mention my name. Did you
  never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who had the honour of being reputed
  your father, and the misfortune of being ruined by that honour?” “I
  have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” says Jones, “and have always
  believed myself to be his son.” “Well, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I am
  that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all filial duty, for I do
  assure you, you are no son of mine.” “How!” replied Jones, “and is it
  possible that a false suspicion should have drawn all the ill
  consequences upon you, with which I am too well acquainted?” “It is
  possible,” cries Benjamin, “for it is so: but though it is natural
  enough for men to hate even the innocent causes of their sufferings,
  yet I am of a different temper. I have loved you ever since I heard of
  your behaviour to Black George, as I told you; and I am convinced,
  from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make me amends
  for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I dreamt, the night
  before I saw you, that I stumbled over a stool without hurting myself;
  which plainly showed me something good was towards me: and last night
  I dreamt again, that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which is
  a very excellent dream, and betokens much good fortune, which I am
  resolved to pursue unless you have the cruelty to deny me.”
  
  “I should be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to have it in
  my power to make you amends for your sufferings on my account, though
  at present I see no likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will
  deny you nothing which is in my power to grant.”
  
  “It is in your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for I desire
  nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedition. Nay, I have
  so entirely set my heart upon it, that if you should refuse me, you
  will kill both a barber and a surgeon in one breath.”
  
  Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be the
  occasion of so much mischief to the public. He then advanced many
  prudential reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall
  hereafter call Partridge) from his purpose; but all were in vain.
  Partridge relied strongly on his dream of the milk-white mare.
  “Besides, sir,” says he, “I promise you I have as good an inclination
  to the cause as any man can possibly have; and go I will, whether you
  admit me to go in your company or not.”
  
  Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge could be
  with him, and who had not consulted his own inclination but the good
  of the other in desiring him to stay behind, when he found his friend
  so resolute, at last gave his consent; but then recollecting himself,
  he said, “Perhaps, Mr Partridge, you think I shall be able to support
  you, but I really am not;” and then taking out his purse, he told out
  nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune.
  
  Partridge answered, “That his dependence was only on his future
  favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough
  in his power. At present, sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather the
  richer man of the two; but all I have is at your service, and at your
  disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole, and I beg only to
  attend you in the quality of your servant; _Nil desperandum est Teucro
  duce et auspice Teucro_”: but to this generous proposal concerning the
  money, Jones would by no means submit.
  
  It was resolved to set out the next morning, when a difficulty arose
  concerning the baggage; for the portmanteau of Mr Jones was too large
  to be carried without a horse.
  
  “If I may presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this
  portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, should be
  left behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry for you, and the
  rest of your cloaths will remain very safe locked up in my house.”
  
  This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber
  departed, in order to prepare everything for his intended expedition.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Containing better reasons than any which have yet appeared for the
  conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of Jones; and some
  further anecdotes concerning my landlady.
  
  
  Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, he would
  hardly perhaps have desired to accompany Jones on his expedition
  merely from the omens of the joint-stool and white mare, if his
  prospect had been no better than to have shared the plunder gained in
  the field of battle. In fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the
  relation he had heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to himself
  that Mr Allworthy should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed
  him to be) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned.
  He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that Jones,
  of whom he had often from his correspondents heard the wildest
  character, had in reality run away from his father. It came into his
  head, therefore, that if he could prevail with the young gentleman to
  return back to his father, he should by that means render a service to
  Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former anger; nay, indeed,
  he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that Allworthy had
  sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this suspicion indeed he
  well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that excellent man to
  the foundling child; from his great severity to Partridge, who,
  knowing himself to be innocent, could not conceive that any other
  should think him guilty; lastly, from the allowance which he had
  privately received long after the annuity had been publickly taken
  from him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or rather
  by way of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I believe,
  for men to ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when
  they can possibly impute them to any other motive. If he could by any
  means therefore persuade the young gentleman to return home, he
  doubted not but that he should again be received into the favour of
  Allworthy, and well rewarded for his pains; nay, and should be again
  restored to his native country; a restoration which Ulysses himself
  never wished more heartily than poor Partridge.
  
  As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the other
  had asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other inducements but
  love to him, and zeal for the cause; a blameable want of caution and
  diffidence in the veracity of others, in which he was highly worthy of
  censure. To say the truth, there are but two ways by which men become
  possessed of this excellent quality. The one is from long experience,
  and the other is from nature; which last, I presume, is often meant by
  genius, or great natural parts; and it is infinitely the better of the
  two, not only as we are masters of it much earlier in life, but as it
  is much more infallible and conclusive; for a man who hath been
  imposed on by ever so many, may still hope to find others more honest;
  whereas he who receives certain necessary admonitions from within,
  that this is impossible, must have very little understanding indeed,
  if he ever renders himself liable to be once deceived. As Jones had
  not this gift from nature, he was too young to have gained it by
  experience; for at the diffident wisdom which is to be acquired this
  way, we seldom arrive till very late in life; which is perhaps the
  reason why some old men are apt to despise the understandings of all
  those who are a little younger than themselves.
  
  Jones spent most part of the day in the company of a new acquaintance.
  This was no other than the landlord of the house, or rather the
  husband of the landlady. He had but lately made his descent
  downstairs, after a long fit of the gout, in which distemper he was
  generally confined to his room during one half of the year; and during
  the rest, he walked about the house, smoaked his pipe, and drank his
  bottle with his friends, without concerning himself in the least with
  any kind of business. He had been bred, as they call it, a gentleman;
  that is, bred up to do nothing; and had spent a very small fortune,
  which he inherited from an industrious farmer his uncle, in hunting,
  horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and had been married by my landlady
  for certain purposes, which he had long since desisted from answering;
  for which she hated him heartily. But as he was a surly kind of
  fellow, so she contented herself with frequently upbraiding him by
  disadvantageous comparisons with her first husband, whose praise she
  had eternally in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress
  of the profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and
  government of the family, and, after a long successless struggle, to
  suffer her husband to be master of himself.
  
  In the evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dispute arose
  between this fond couple concerning him:--“What,” says the wife, “you
  have been tippling with the gentleman, I see?”--“Yes,” answered the
  husband, “we have cracked a bottle together, and a very gentlemanlike
  man he is, and hath a very pretty notion of horse-flesh. Indeed, he is
  young, and hath not seen much of the world; for I believe he hath been
  at very few horse-races.”--“Oho! he is one of your order, is he?”
   replies the landlady: “he must be a gentleman to be sure, if he is a
  horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry! I am sure I wish I had never
  seen any of them. I have reason to love horse-racers truly!”--“That
  you have,” says the husband; “for I was one, you know.”--“Yes,”
   answered she, “you are a pure one indeed. As my first husband used to
  say, I may put all the good I have ever got by you in my eyes, and see
  never the worse.”--“D--n your first husband!” cries he. “Don't d--n a
  better man than yourself,” answered the wife: “if he had been alive,
  you durst not have done it.”--“Then you think,” says he, “I have not
  so much courage as yourself; for you have d--n'd him often in my
  hearing.”--“If I did,” says she, “I have repented of it many's the
  good time and oft. And if he was so good to forgive me a word spoken
  in haste or so, it doth not become such a one as you to twitter me. He
  was a husband to me, he was; and if ever I did make use of an ill word
  or so in a passion, I never called him rascal; I should have told a
  lie, if I had called him rascal.” Much more she said, but not in his
  hearing; for having lighted his pipe, he staggered off as fast as he
  could. We shall therefore transcribe no more of her speech, as it
  approached still nearer and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find
  any place in this history.
  
  Early in the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready
  equipped for the journey, with his knapsack at his back. This was his
  own workmanship; for besides his other trades, he was no indifferent
  taylor. He had already put up his whole stock of linen in it,
  consisting of four shirts, to which he now added eight for Mr Jones;
  and then packing up the portmanteau, he was departing with it towards
  his own house, but was stopt in his way by the landlady, who refused
  to suffer any removals till after the payment of the reckoning.
  
  The landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess in these
  regions; it was therefore necessary to comply with her rules; so the
  bill was presently writ out, which amounted to a much larger sum than
  might have been expected, from the entertainment which Jones had met
  with. But here we are obliged to disclose some maxims, which publicans
  hold to be the grand mysteries of their trade. The first is, If they
  have anything good in their house (which indeed very seldom happens)
  to produce it only to persons who travel with great equipages. 2dly,
  To charge the same for the very worst provisions, as if they were the
  best. And lastly, If any of their guests call but for little, to make
  them pay a double price for everything they have; so that the amount
  by the head may be much the same.
  
  The bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge,
  carrying his knapsack; nor did the landlady condescend to wish him a
  good journey; for this was, it seems, an inn frequented by people of
  fashion; and I know not whence it is, but all those who get their
  livelihood by people of fashion, contract as much insolence to the
  rest of mankind, as if they really belonged to that rank themselves.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the character of
  that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets with.
  
  
  Mr Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (which epithet of Little
  was perhaps given him ironically, he being in reality near six feet
  high), having left their last quarters in the manner before described,
  travelled on to Gloucester without meeting any adventure worth
  relating.
  
  Being arrived here, they chose for their house of entertainment the
  sign of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which I do most
  seriously recommend to every reader who shall visit this antient city.
  The master of it is brother to the great preacher Whitefield; but is
  absolutely untainted with the pernicious principles of Methodism, or
  of any other heretical sect. He is indeed a very honest plain man,
  and, in my opinion, not likely to create any disturbance either in
  church or state. His wife hath, I believe, had much pretension to
  beauty, and is still a very fine woman. Her person and deportment
  might have made a shining figure in the politest assemblies; but
  though she must be conscious of this and many other perfections, she
  seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to, that state of life to
  which she is called; and this resignation is entirely owing to the
  prudence and wisdom of her temper; for she is at present as free from
  any Methodistical notions as her husband: I say at present; for she
  freely confesses that her brother's documents made at first some
  impression upon her, and that she had put herself to the expense of a
  long hood, in order to attend the extraordinary emotions of the
  Spirit; but having found, during an experiment of three weeks, no
  emotions, she says, worth a farthing, she very wisely laid by her
  hood, and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly
  good-natured woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must
  be of a very morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied
  in her house.
  
  Mrs Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his attendant
  marched in. Her sagacity soon discovered in the air of our heroe
  something which distinguished him from the vulgar. She ordered her
  servants, therefore, immediately to show him into a room, and
  presently afterwards invited him to dinner with herself; which
  invitation he very thankfully accepted; for indeed much less agreeable
  company than that of Mrs Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment
  than she had provided, would have been welcome after so long fasting
  and so long a walk.
  
  Besides Mr Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down
  at table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had
  brought the news of Mrs Blifil's death to Mr Allworthy, and whose
  name, which I think we did not before mention, was Dowling: there was
  likewise present another person, who stiled himself a lawyer, and who
  lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This fellow, I say,
  stiled himself a lawyer, but was indeed a most vile petty-fogger,
  without sense or knowledge of any kind; one of those who may be termed
  train-bearers to the law; a sort of supernumeraries in the profession,
  who are the hackneys of attorneys, and will ride more miles for
  half-a-crown than a postboy.
  
  During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recollected the
  face of Jones, which he had seen at Mr Allworthy's; for he had often
  visited in that gentleman's kitchen. He therefore took occasion to
  enquire after the good family there with that familiarity which would
  have become an intimate friend or acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and
  indeed he did all in his power to insinuate himself to be such, though
  he had never had the honour of speaking to any person in that family
  higher than the butler. Jones answered all his questions with much
  civility, though he never remembered to have seen the petty-fogger
  before; and though he concluded, from the outward appearance and
  behaviour of the man, that he usurped a freedom with his betters, to
  which he was by no means intitled.
  
  As the conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most
  detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed than
  Mr Jones withdrew, and a little barbarously left poor Mrs Whitefield
  to do a penance, which I have often heard Mr Timothy Harris, and other
  publicans of good taste, lament, as the severest lot annexed to their
  calling, namely, that of being obliged to keep company with their
  guests.
  
  Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, in a
  whispering tone, asked Mrs Whitefield, “If she knew who that fine
  spark was?” She answered, “She had never seen the gentleman
  before.”--“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the petty-fogger; “a pretty
  gentleman, truly! Why, he's the bastard of a fellow who was hanged for
  horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire Allworthy's door, where one of
  the servants found him in a box so full of rain-water, that he would
  certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for another
  fate.”--“Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest: we understand
  what that fate is very well,” cries Dowling, with a most facetious
  grin.--“Well,” continued the other, “the squire ordered him to be
  taken in; for he is a timbersome man everybody knows, and was afraid
  of drawing himself into a scrape; and there the bastard was bred up,
  and fed, and cloathified all to the world like any gentleman; and
  there he got one of the servant-maids with child, and persuaded her to
  swear it to the squire himself; and afterwards he broke the arm of one
  Mr Thwackum a clergyman, only because he reprimanded him for following
  whores; and afterwards he snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind his back;
  and once, when Squire Allworthy was sick, he got a drum, and beat it
  all over the house to prevent him from sleeping; and twenty other
  pranks he hath played, for all which, about four or five days ago,
  just before I left the country, the squire stripped him stark naked,
  and turned him out of doors.”
  
  “And very justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I would turn my own
  son out of doors, if he was guilty of half as much. And pray what is
  the name of this pretty gentleman?”
  
  “The name o' un?” answered Petty-fogger; “why, he is called Thomas
  Jones.”
  
  “Jones!” answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr Jones that lived
  at Mr Allworthy's? was that the gentleman that dined with us?”--“The
  very same,” said the other. “I have heard of the gentleman,” cries
  Dowling, “often; but I never heard any ill character of him.”--“And I
  am sure,” says Mrs Whitefield, “if half what this gentleman hath said
  be true, Mr Jones hath the most deceitful countenance I ever saw; for
  sure his looks promise something very different; and I must say, for
  the little I have seen of him, he is as civil a well-bred man as you
  would wish to converse with.”
  
  Petty-fogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as he usually
  was, before he gave his evidence, now bound what he had declared with
  so many oaths and imprecations that the landlady's ears were shocked,
  and she put a stop to his swearing, by assuring him of her belief.
  Upon which he said, “I hope, madam, you imagine I would scorn to tell
  such things of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What interest
  have I in taking away the reputation of a man who never injured me? I
  promise you every syllable of what I have said is fact, and the whole
  country knows it.”
  
  As Mrs Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petty-fogger had
  any motive or temptation to abuse Jones, the reader cannot blame her
  for believing what he so confidently affirmed with many oaths. She
  accordingly gave up her skill in physiognomy, and hence-forwards
  conceived so ill an opinion of her guest, that she heartily wished him
  out of her house.
  
  This dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr Whitefield
  made from the kitchen, where Partridge had informed the company, “That
  though he carried the knapsack, and contented himself with staying
  among servants, while Tom Jones (as he called him) was regaling in the
  parlour, he was not his servant, but only a friend and companion, and
  as good a gentleman as Mr Jones himself.”
  
  Dowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making faces,
  grinning, and looking wonderfully arch; at last he opened his lips,
  and protested that the gentleman looked like another sort of man. He
  then called for his bill with the utmost haste, declared he must be at
  Hereford that evening, lamented his great hurry of business, and
  wished he could divide himself into twenty pieces, in order to be at
  once in twenty places.
  
  The petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones desired the
  favour of Mrs Whitefield's company to drink tea with him; but she
  refused, and with a manner so different from that with which she had
  received him at dinner, that it a little surprized him. And now he
  soon perceived her behaviour totally changed; for instead of that
  natural affability which we have before celebrated, she wore a
  constrained severity on her countenance, which was so disagreeable to
  Mr Jones, that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that
  evening.
  
  He did indeed account somewhat unfairly for this sudden change; for
  besides some hard and unjust surmises concerning female fickleness and
  mutability, he began to suspect that he owed this want of civility to
  his want of horses; a sort of animals which, as they dirty no sheets,
  are thought in inns to pay better for their beds than their riders,
  and are therefore considered as the more desirable company; but Mrs
  Whitefield, to do her justice, had a much more liberal way of
  thinking. She was perfectly well-bred, and could be very civil to a
  gentleman, though he walked on foot. In reality, she looked on our
  heroe as a sorry scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such, for
  which not even Jones himself, had he known as much as the reader,
  could have blamed her; nay, on the contrary, he must have approved her
  conduct, and have esteemed her the more for the disrespect shown
  towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating circumstance, which
  attends depriving men unjustly of their reputation; for a man who is
  conscious of having an ill character, cannot justly be angry with
  those who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise such as
  affect his conversation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have
  convinced them that their friend's character hath been falsely and
  injuriously aspersed.
  
  This was not, however, the case of Jones; for as he was a perfect
  stranger to the truth, so he was with good reason offended at the
  treatment he received. He therefore paid his reckoning and departed,
  highly against the will of Mr Partridge, who having remonstrated much
  against it to no purpose, at last condescended to take up his knapsack
  and to attend his friend.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning
  love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the lucky and narrow
  escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal
  discovery to his friend.
  
  
  The shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the
  feathered creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the
  highest order of mortals were sitting down to their dinners, and the
  lowest order to their suppers. In a word, the clock struck five just
  as Mr Jones took his leave of Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was
  now mid-winter) the dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable
  curtain over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with
  a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like
  her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had
  slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all night. Jones had not
  travelled far before he paid his compliments to that beautiful planet,
  and, turning to his companion, asked him if he had ever beheld so
  delicious an evening? Partridge making no ready answer to his
  question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty of the moon, and
  repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all
  other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then
  told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had
  agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from
  each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the
  moon; thus pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both
  employed in contemplating the same object at the same time. “Those
  lovers,” added he, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling all
  the tenderness of the sublimest of all human passions.”--“Very
  probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had bodies
  incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am
  very much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to
  another house of entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some
  judgment should happen to us for our folly in running away so by night
  from one of the most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure
  I never saw more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the
  land cannot live better in his own house than he may there. And to
  forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, the Lord
  knows whither, _per devia rura viarum_, I say nothing for my part; but
  some people might not have charity enough to conclude we were in our
  sober senses.”--“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a
  better heart; consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you
  afraid of facing a little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to
  advise which of these roads we should take.”--“May I be so bold,” says
  Partridge, “to offer my advice? _Interdum stultus opportuna
  loquitur_”--“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you
  recommend?”--“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only
  road we can be certain of finding, is the road we came. A good hearty
  pace will bring us back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go
  forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive at any place; for I
  see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in all the
  way.”--“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones, “which
  receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the moon.
  However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems to lead
  directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not far from
  Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, you may, and
  return back again; but for my part, I am resolved to go forward.”
  
  “It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of any such
  intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your account as on
  my own: but since you are determined to go on, I am as much determined
  to follow. _I prae sequar te_.”
  
  They now travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during
  which suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned
  as bitterly, though from a very different reason. At length Jones made
  a full stop, and turning about, cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the
  loveliest creature in the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that
  very moon which I behold at this instant?” “Very likely, sir,”
   answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good surloin of
  roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the
  bargain.” “Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones.
  “Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life,
  or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy memory?”
   “Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge, “well would it have been for me if I
  had never known what love was. _Infandum regina jubes renovare
  dolorem_. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and sublimities,
  and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your mistress unkind, then?”
   says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she
  married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the world.
  However, heaven be praised, she's gone; and if I believed she was in
  the moon, according to a book I once read, which teaches that to be
  the receptacle of departed spirits, I would never look at it for fear
  of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a looking-glass for
  your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now placed before it.” “My
  dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was there! A thought
  which I am certain could never have entered into any mind but that of
  a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to see that face; but,
  alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only
  refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my former
  happiness.” “And do you really despair of ever seeing Miss Western
  again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow my advice I will
  engage you shall not only see her but have her in your arms.” “Ha! do
  not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: “I have struggled
  sufficiently to conquer all such wishes already.” “Nay,” answered
  Partridge, “if you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you
  are a most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones, “let
  us avoid this subject; but pray what is your advice?” “To give it you
  in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge, “as we are soldiers,
  `To the right about.' Let us return the way we came; we may yet reach
  Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if we proceed, we are
  likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without coming
  either to house or home.” “I have already told you my resolution is to
  go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged to
  you for your company hither; and I beg you to accept a guinea as a
  small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be cruel in me to suffer
  you to go any farther; for, to deal plainly with you, my chief end and
  desire is a glorious death in the service of my king and country.” “As
  for your money,” replied Partridge, “I beg, sir, you will put it up; I
  will receive none of you at this time; for at present I am, I believe,
  the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is to go on, so mine
  is to follow you if you do. Nay, now my presence appears absolutely
  necessary to take care of you, since your intentions are so desperate;
  for I promise you my views are much more prudent; as you are resolved
  to fall in battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no
  hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there
  will be but little danger; for a popish priest told me the other day
  the business would soon be over, and he believed without a battle.” “A
  popish priest!” cries Jones, “I have heard is not always to be
  believed when he speaks in behalf of his religion.” “Yes, but so far,”
   answered the other, “from speaking in behalf of his religion, he
  assured me the Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers by the
  change; for that Prince Charles was as good a Protestant as any in
  England; and that nothing but regard to right made him and the rest of
  the popish party to be Jacobites.”--“I believe him to be as much a
  Protestant as I believe he hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no
  doubt of our success, but not without a battle. So that I am not so
  sanguine as your friend the popish priest.” “Nay, to be sure, sir,”
   answered Partridge, “all the prophecies I have ever read speak of a
  great deal of blood to be spilt in the quarrel, and the miller with
  three thumbs, who is now alive, is to hold the horses of three kings,
  up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send
  better times!” “With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy
  head!” answered Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish
  priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper arguments to support
  monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King George is the cause
  of liberty and true religion. In other words, it is the cause of
  common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed, though Briarius
  himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn
  miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast into
  the utmost confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the
  reader of a secret, which he had no proper opportunity of revealing
  before, Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had concluded that
  Jones was of the same party, and was now proceeding to join the
  rebels. An opinion which was not without foundation. For the tall,
  long-sided dame, mentioned by Hudibras--that many-eyed, many-tongued,
  many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of
  the quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to
  truth. She had, indeed, changed the name of Sophia into that of the
  Pretender, and had reported, that drinking his health was the cause
  for which Jones was knocked down. This Partridge had heard, and most
  firmly believed. 'Tis no wonder, therefore, that he had thence
  entertained the above-mentioned opinion of Jones; and which he had
  almost discovered to him before he found out his own mistake. And at
  this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to
  recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his
  resolution to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words been less
  ambiguous, Partridge might very well have construed them as he did;
  being persuaded as he was that the whole nation were of the same
  inclination in their hearts; nor did it stagger him that Jones had
  travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the same opinion of
  the army which he had of the rest of the people.
  
  But however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was
  still much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which
  reason he no sooner discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller
  than he thought proper to conceal and outwardly give up his own to the
  man on whom he depended for the making his fortune, since he by no
  means believed the affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really
  were with Mr Allworthy; for as he had kept a constant correspondence
  with some of his neighbours since he left that country, he had heard
  much, indeed more than was true, of the great affection Mr Allworthy
  bore this young man, who, as Partridge had been instructed, was to be
  that gentleman's heir, and whom, as we have said, he did not in the
  least doubt to be his son.
  
  He imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would
  be certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he
  promised great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of
  ingratiating himself with that young gentleman; and if he could by any
  means be instrumental in procuring his return, he doubted not, as we
  have before said, but it would as highly advance him in the favour of
  Mr Allworthy.
  
  We have already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and
  he hath himself declared the violent attachment he had to the person
  and character of Jones; but possibly the views which I have just
  before mentioned, might likewise have some little share in prompting
  him to undertake this expedition, at least in urging him to continue
  it, after he had discovered that his master and himself, like some
  prudent fathers and sons, though they travelled together in great
  friendship, had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this
  conjecture, by having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem,
  and such like, have very powerful operations in the human mind;
  interest, however, is an ingredient seldom omitted by wise men, when
  they would work others to their own purposes. This is indeed a most
  excellent medicine, and, like Ward's pill, flies at once to the
  particular part of the body on which you desire to operate, whether it
  be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce ever
  fails of immediately producing the desired effect.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary adventure.
  
  
  Just as Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the
  preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill.
  Here Jones stopt short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a
  while silent. At length he called to his companion, and said,
  “Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must certainly
  afford a most charming prospect, especially by this light; for the
  solemn gloom which the moon casts on all objects, is beyond expression
  beautiful, especially to an imagination which is desirous of
  cultivating melancholy ideas.”--“Very probably,” answered Partridge;
  “but if the top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy
  thoughts, I suppose the bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones,
  and these I take to be much the better of the two. I protest you have
  made my blood run cold with the very mentioning the top of that
  mountain; which seems to me to be one of the highest in the world. No,
  no, if we look for anything, let it be for a place under ground, to
  screen ourselves from the frost.”--“Do so,” said Jones; “let it be but
  within hearing of this place, and I will hallow to you at my return
  back.”--“Surely, sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.--“Indeed, I
  am,” answered Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you
  complain so much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I
  will certainly return to you within an hour.”--“Pardon me, sir,” cries
  Partridge; “I have determined to follow you wherever you go.” Indeed
  he was now afraid to stay behind; for though he was coward enough in
  all respects, yet his chief fear was that of ghosts, with which the
  present time of night, and the wildness of the place, extremely well
  suited.
  
  At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some
  trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a
  rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard my prayers, and hath
  brought us to a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let me beseech you,
  sir, if you have any compassion either for me or yourself, do not
  despise the goodness of Providence, but let us go directly to yon
  light. Whether it be a public-house or no, I am sure if they be
  Christians that dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room
  to persons in our miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the
  earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly
  towards the place whence the light issued.
  
  They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might
  be called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several
  times without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge,
  whose head was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and
  such like, began to tremble, crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely
  the people must be all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I
  am certain I saw a candle burning but a moment before.--Well! I have
  heard of such things.”--“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones. “The
  people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely place,
  are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate pretty
  loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked,
  Who they were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were
  travellers who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the
  window, had been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm
  themselves. “Whoever you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business
  here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time of night.”
   Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his
  fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be admitted for a
  few minutes to the fire, saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to
  which fear had indeed contributed equally with the frost. He assured
  her that the gentleman who spoke to her was one of the greatest
  squires in the country; and made use of every argument, save one,
  which Jones afterwards effectually added; and this was, the promise of
  half-a-crown;--a bribe too great to be resisted by such a person,
  especially as the genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the
  moon plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour,
  had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she had at
  first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let them in; where
  Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire ready for his
  reception.
  
  The poor fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those
  thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, began a little to
  disturb his brain. There was no article of his creed in which he had a
  stronger faith than he had in witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive
  a figure more adapted to inspire this idea, than the old woman who now
  stood before him. She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway
  in his Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of James
  the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost without
  any evidence.
  
  Many circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his
  opinion. Her living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a
  place; and in a house, the outside of which seemed much too good for
  her, but its inside was furnished in the most neat and elegant manner.
  To say the truth, Jones himself was not a little surprized at what he
  saw; for, besides the extraordinary neatness of the room, it was
  adorned with a great number of nicknacks and curiosities, which might
  have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.
  
  While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat trembling
  with the firm belief that he was in the house of a witch, the old
  woman said, “I hope, gentlemen, you will make what haste you can; for
  I expect my master presently, and I would not for double the money he
  should find you here.”--“Then you have a master?” cried Jones.
  “Indeed, you will excuse me, good woman, but I was surprized to see
  all those fine things in your house.”--“Ah, sir,” said she, “if the
  twentieth part of these things were mine, I should think myself a rich
  woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I look for him in
  every minute.”--“Why, sure he would not be angry with you,” said
  Jones, “for doing a common act of charity?”--“Alack-a-day, sir!” said
  she, “he is a strange man, not at all like other people. He keeps no
  company with anybody, and seldom walks out but by night, for he doth
  not care to be seen; and all the country people are as much afraid of
  meeting him; for his dress is enough to frighten those who are not
  used to it. They call him, the Man of the Hill (for there he walks by
  night), and the country people are not, I believe, more afraid of the
  devil himself. He would be terribly angry if he found you
  here.”--“Pray, sir,” says Partridge, “don't let us offend the
  gentleman; I am ready to walk, and was never warmer in my life. Do
  pray, sir, let us go. Here are pistols over the chimney: who knows
  whether they be charged or no, or what he may do with them?”--“Fear
  nothing, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I will secure thee from
  danger.”--“Nay, for matter o' that, he never doth any mischief,” said
  the woman; “but to be sure it is necessary he should keep some arms
  for his own safety; for his house hath been beset more than once; and
  it is not many nights ago that we thought we heard thieves about it:
  for my own part, I have often wondered that he is not murdered by some
  villain or other, as he walks out by himself at such hours; but then,
  as I said, the people are afraid of him; and besides, they think, I
  suppose, he hath nothing about him worth taking.”--“I should imagine,
  by this collection of rarities,” cries Jones, “that your master had
  been a traveller.”--“Yes, sir,” answered she, “he hath been a very
  great one: there be few gentlemen that know more of all matters than
  he. I fancy he hath been crost in love, or whatever it is I know not;
  but I have lived with him above these thirty years, and in all that
  time he hath hardly spoke to six living people.” She then again
  solicited their departure, in which she was backed by Partridge; but
  Jones purposely protracted the time, for his curiosity was greatly
  raised to see this extraordinary person. Though the old woman,
  therefore, concluded every one of her answers with desiring him to be
  gone, and Partridge proceeded so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he
  still continued to invent new questions, till the old woman, with an
  affrighted countenance, declared she heard her master's signal; and at
  the same instant more than one voice was heard without the door,
  crying, “D--n your blood, show us your money this instant. Your money,
  you villain, or we will blow your brains about your ears.”
  
  “O, good heaven!” cries the old woman, “some villains, to be sure,
  have attacked my master. O la! what shall I do? what shall I
  do?”--“How!” cries Jones, “how!--Are these pistols loaded?”--“O, good
  sir, there is nothing in them, indeed. O pray don't murder us,
  gentlemen!” (for in reality she now had the same opinion of those
  within as she had of those without). Jones made her no answer; but
  snatching an old broad sword which hung in the room, he instantly
  sallied out, where he found the old gentleman struggling with two
  ruffians, and begging for mercy. Jones asked no questions, but fell so
  briskly to work with his broad sword, that the fellows immediately
  quitted their hold; and without offering to attack our heroe, betook
  themselves to their heels and made their escape; for he did not
  attempt to pursue them, being contented with having delivered the old
  gentleman; and indeed he concluded he had pretty well done their
  business, for both of them, as they ran off, cried out with bitter
  oaths that they were dead men.
  
  Jones presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had been thrown
  down in the scuffle, expressing at the same time great concern lest he
  should have received any harm from the villains. The old man stared a
  moment at Jones, and then cried, “No, sir, no, I have very little
  harm, I thank you. Lord have mercy upon me!”--“I see, sir,” said
  Jones, “you are not free from apprehensions even of those who have had
  the happiness to be your deliverers; nor can I blame any suspicions
  which you may have; but indeed you have no real occasion for any; here
  are none but your friends present. Having mist our way this cold
  night, we took the liberty of warming ourselves at your fire, whence
  we were just departing when we heard you call for assistance, which, I
  must say, Providence alone seems to have sent you.”--“Providence,
  indeed,” cries the old gentleman, “if it be so.”--“So it is, I assure
  you,” cries Jones. “Here is your own sword, sir; I have used it in
  your defence, and I now return it into your hand.” The old man having
  received the sword, which was stained with the blood of his enemies,
  looked stedfastly at Jones during some moments, and then with a sigh
  cried out, “You will pardon me, young gentleman; I was not always of a
  suspicious temper, nor am I a friend to ingratitude.”
  
  “Be thankful then,” cries Jones, “to that Providence to which you owe
  your deliverance: as to my part, I have only discharged the common
  duties of humanity, and what I would have done for any fellow-creature
  in your situation.”--“Let me look at you a little longer,” cries the
  old gentleman. “You are a human creature then? Well, perhaps you are.
  Come pray walk into my little hutt. You have been my deliverer
  indeed.”
  
  The old woman was distracted between the fears which she had of her
  master, and for him; and Partridge was, if possible, in a greater
  fright. The former of these, however, when she heard her master speak
  kindly to Jones, and perceived what had happened, came again to
  herself; but Partridge no sooner saw the gentleman, than the
  strangeness of his dress infused greater terrors into that poor fellow
  than he had before felt, either from the strange description which he
  had heard, or from the uproar which had happened at the door.
  
  To say the truth, it was an appearance which might have affected a
  more constant mind than that of Mr Partridge. This person was of the
  tallest size, with a long beard as white as snow. His body was
  cloathed with the skin of an ass, made something into the form of a
  coat. He wore likewise boots on his legs, and a cap on his head, both
  composed of the skin of some other animals.
  
  As soon as the old gentleman came into his house, the old woman began
  her congratulations on his happy escape from the ruffians. “Yes,”
   cried he, “I have escaped, indeed, thanks to my preserver.”--“O the
  blessing on him!” answered she: “he is a good gentleman, I warrant
  him. I was afraid your worship would have been angry with me for
  letting him in; and to be certain I should not have done it, had not I
  seen by the moon-light, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to
  death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel that sent
  him hither, and tempted me to do it.”
  
  “I am afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that I have
  nothing in this house which you can either eat or drink, unless you
  will accept a dram of brandy; of which I can give you some most
  excellent, and which I have had by me these thirty years.” Jones
  declined this offer in a very civil and proper speech, and then the
  other asked him, “Whither he was travelling when he mist his way?”
   saying, “I must own myself surprized to see such a person as you
  appear to be, journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose,
  sir, you are a gentleman of these parts; for you do not look like one
  who is used to travel far without horses?”
  
  “Appearances,” cried Jones, “are often deceitful; men sometimes look
  what they are not. I assure you I am not of this country; and whither
  I am travelling, in reality I scarce know myself.”
  
  “Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going,” answered the old
  man, “I have obligations to you which I can never return.”
  
  “I once more,” replied Jones, “affirm that you have none; for there
  can be no merit in having hazarded that in your service on which I set
  no value; and nothing is so contemptible in my eyes as life.”
  
  “I am sorry, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “that you have
  any reason to be so unhappy at your years.”
  
  “Indeed I am, sir,” answered Jones, “the most unhappy of
  mankind.”--“Perhaps you have had a friend, or a mistress?” replied the
  other. “How could you,” cries Jones, “mention two words sufficient to
  drive me to distraction?”--“Either of them are enough to drive any man
  to distraction,” answered the old man. “I enquire no farther, sir;
  perhaps my curiosity hath led me too far already.”
  
  “Indeed, sir,” cries Jones, “I cannot censure a passion which I feel
  at this instant in the highest degree. You will pardon me when I
  assure you, that everything which I have seen or heard since I first
  entered this house hath conspired to raise the greatest curiosity in
  me. Something very extraordinary must have determined you to this
  course of life, and I have reason to fear your own history is not
  without misfortunes.”
  
  Here the old gentleman again sighed, and remained silent for some
  minutes: at last, looking earnestly on Jones, he said, “I have read
  that a good countenance is a letter of recommendation; if so, none
  ever can be more strongly recommended than yourself. If I did not feel
  some yearnings towards you from another consideration, I must be the
  most ungrateful monster upon earth; and I am really concerned it is no
  otherwise in my power than by words to convince you of my gratitude.”
  
  Jones, after a moment's hesitation, answered, “That it was in his
  power by words to gratify him extremely. I have confest a curiosity,”
   said he, “sir; need I say how much obliged I should be to you, if you
  would condescend to gratify it? Will you suffer me therefore to beg,
  unless any consideration restrains you, that you would be pleased to
  acquaint me what motives have induced you thus to withdraw from the
  society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of life to
  which it sufficiently appears you were not born?”
  
  “I scarce think myself at liberty to refuse you anything after what
  hath happened,” replied the old man. “If you desire therefore to hear
  the story of an unhappy man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you judge
  rightly, in thinking there is commonly something extraordinary in the
  fortunes of those who fly from society; for however it may seem a
  paradox, or even a contradiction, certain it is, that great
  philanthropy chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind; not on
  account so much of their private and selfish vices, but for those of a
  relative kind; such as envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with every
  other species of malevolence. These are the vices which true
  philanthropy abhors, and which rather than see and converse with, she
  avoids society itself. However, without a compliment to you, you do
  not appear to me one of those whom I should shun or detest; nay, I
  must say, in what little hath dropt from you, there appears some
  parity in our fortunes: I hope, however, yours will conclude more
  successfully.”
  
  Here some compliments passed between our heroe and his host, and then
  the latter was going to begin his history, when Partridge interrupted
  him. His apprehensions had now pretty well left him, but some effects
  of his terrors remained; he therefore reminded the gentleman of that
  excellent brandy which he had mentioned. This was presently brought,
  and Partridge swallowed a large bumper.
  
  The gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may read
  in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his history.
  
  
  “I was born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year
  1657. My father was one of those whom they call gentlemen farmers. He
  had a little estate of about £300 a year of his own, and rented
  another estate of near the same value. He was prudent and industrious,
  and so good a husbandman, that he might have led a very easy and
  comfortable life, had not an arrant vixen of a wife soured his
  domestic quiet. But though this circumstance perhaps made him
  miserable, it did not make him poor; for he confined her almost
  entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal upbraidings in his
  own house, than to injure his fortune by indulging her in the
  extravagancies she desired abroad.
  
  “By this Xanthippe” (so was the wife of Socrates called, said
  Partridge)--“by this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was the
  younger. He designed to give us both good education; but my elder
  brother, who, unhappily for him, was the favourite of my mother,
  utterly neglected his learning; insomuch that, after having been five
  or six years at school with little or no improvement, my father, being
  told by his master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer
  there, at last complied with my mother in taking him home from the
  hands of that tyrant, as she called his master; though indeed he gave
  the lad much less correction than his idleness deserved, but much
  more, it seems, than the young gentleman liked, who constantly
  complained to his mother of his severe treatment, and she as
  constantly gave him a hearing.”
  
  “Yes, yes,” cries Partridge, “I have seen such mothers; I have been
  abused myself by them, and very unjustly; such parents deserve
  correction as much as their children.”
  
  Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger
  proceeded.
  
  “My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all learning,
  and to everything else but to his dog and gun; with which latter he
  became so expert, that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he
  could not only hit a standing mark with great certainty, but hath
  actually shot a crow as it was flying in the air. He was likewise
  excellent at finding a hare sitting, and was soon reputed one of the
  best sportsmen in the country; a reputation which both he and his
  mother enjoyed as much as if he had been thought the finest scholar.
  
  “The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the harder,
  in being continued at school: but I soon changed my opinion; for as I
  advanced pretty fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my
  exercise so delightful, that holidays were my most unpleasant time;
  for my mother, who never loved me, now apprehending that I had the
  greater share of my father's affection, and finding, or at least
  thinking, that I was more taken notice of by some gentlemen of
  learning, and particularly by the parson of the parish, than my
  brother, she now hated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me,
  that what is called by school-boys Black Monday, was to me the whitest
  in the whole year.
  
  “Having at length gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence
  removed to Exeter College in Oxford, where I remained four years; at
  the end of which an accident took me off entirely from my studies; and
  hence, I may truly date the rise of all which happened to me
  afterwards in life.
  
  “There was at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a
  young fellow who was intitled to a very considerable fortune, which he
  was not, by the will of his father, to come into full possession of
  till he arrived at the age of twenty-five. However, the liberality of
  his guardians gave him little cause to regret the abundant caution of
  his father; for they allowed him five hundred pounds a year while he
  remained at the university, where he kept his horses and his whore,
  and lived as wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done had
  he been never so entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five
  hundred a year which he received from his guardians, he found means to
  spend a thousand more. He was above the age of twenty-one, and had no
  difficulty in gaining what credit he pleased.
  
  “This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, had one
  very diabolical. He had a great delight in destroying and ruining the
  youth of inferior fortune, by drawing them into expenses which they
  could not afford so well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and
  soberer any young man was, the greater pleasure and triumph had he in
  his destruction. Thus acting the character which is recorded of the
  devil, and going about seeking whom he might devour.
  
  “It was my misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy with
  this gentleman. My reputation of diligence in my studies made me a
  desirable object of his mischievous intention; and my own inclination
  made it sufficiently easy for him to effect his purpose; for though I
  had applied myself with much industry to books, in which I took great
  delight, there were other pleasures in which I was capable of taking
  much greater; for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of animal
  spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely amorous.
  
  “I had not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George before I became
  a partaker of all his pleasures; and when I was once entered on that
  scene, neither my inclination nor my spirit would suffer me to play an
  under part. I was second to none of the company in any acts of
  debauchery; nay, I soon distinguished myself so notably in all riots
  and disorders, that my name generally stood first in the roll of
  delinquents; and instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of
  Sir George, I was now accused as the person who had misled and
  debauched that hopeful young gentleman; for though he was the
  ringleader and promoter of all the mischief, he was never so
  considered. I fell at last under the censure of the vice-chancellor,
  and very narrowly escaped expulsion.
  
  “You will easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now describing
  must be incompatible with my further progress in learning; and that in
  proportion as I addicted myself more and more to loose pleasure, I
  must grow more and more remiss in application to my studies. This was
  truly the consequence; but this was not all. My expenses now greatly
  exceeded not only my former income, but those additions which I
  extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums being
  necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of batchelor of
  arts. These demands, however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant,
  that my father by slow degrees opened his ears to the accounts which
  he received from many quarters of my present behaviour, and which my
  mother failed not to echo very faithfully and loudly; adding, `Ay,
  this is the fine gentleman, the scholar who doth so much honour to his
  family, and is to be the making of it. I thought what all this
  learning would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, I find, after
  his elder brother hath been denied necessaries for his sake, to
  perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such
  interest: I thought what the interest would come to,' with much more
  of the same kind; but I have, I believe, satisfied you with this
  taste.
  
  “My father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances instead of
  money to my demands, which brought my affairs perhaps a little sooner
  to a crisis; but had he remitted me his whole income, you will imagine
  it could have sufficed a very short time to support one who kept pace
  with the expenses of Sir George Gresham.
  
  “It is more than possible that the distress I was now in for money,
  and the impracticability of going on in this manner, might have
  restored me at once to my senses and to my studies, had I opened my
  eyes before I became involved in debts from which I saw no hopes of
  ever extricating myself. This was indeed the great art of Sir George,
  and by which he accomplished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards
  laughed at as fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a
  man of his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then advance
  a little money himself, in order to support the credit of the
  unfortunate youth with other people; till, by means of that very
  credit, he was irretrievably undone.
  
  “My mind being by these means grown as desperate as my fortune, there
  was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my
  relief. Self-murder itself became the subject of my serious
  deliberation; and I had certainly resolved on it, had not a more
  shameful, though perhaps less sinful, thought expelled it from my
  head.”--Here he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, “I protest, so
  many years have not washed away the shame of this act, and I shall
  blush while I relate it.” Jones desired him to pass over anything that
  might give him pain in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out,
  “Oh, pray, sir, let us hear this; I had rather hear this than all the
  rest; as I hope to be saved, I will never mention a word of it.” Jones
  was going to rebuke him, but the stranger prevented it by proceeding
  thus: “I had a chum, a very prudent, frugal young lad, who, though he
  had no very large allowance, had by his parsimony heaped up upwards of
  forty guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritore. I took therefore
  an opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches-pocket, while
  he was asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches: after
  which I again conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting
  sleep--though I never once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he
  arose and went to prayers--an exercise to which I had long been
  unaccustomed.
  
  “Timorous thieves, by extreme caution, often subject themselves to
  discoveries, which those of a bolder kind escape. Thus it happened to
  me; for had I boldly broke open his escritore, I had, perhaps, escaped
  even his suspicion; but as it was plain that the person who robbed him
  had possessed himself of his key, he had no doubt, when he first
  missed his money, but that his chum was certainly the thief. Now as he
  was of a fearful disposition, and much my inferior in strength, and I
  believe in courage, he did not dare to confront me with my guilt, for
  fear of worse bodily consequences which might happen to him. He
  repaired therefore immediately to the vice-chancellor, and upon
  swearing to the robbery, and to the circumstances of it, very easily
  obtained a warrant against one who had now so bad a character through
  the whole university.
  
  “Luckily for me, I lay out of the college the next evening; for that
  day I attended a young lady in a chaise to Witney, where we staid all
  night, and in our return, the next morning, to Oxford, I met one of my
  cronies, who acquainted me with sufficient news concerning myself to
  make me turn my horse another way.”
  
  “Pray, sir, did he mention anything of the warrant?” said Partridge.
  But Jones begged the gentleman to proceed without regarding any
  impertinent questions; which he did as follows:--
  
  “Having now abandoned all thoughts of returning to Oxford, the next
  thing which offered itself was a journey to London. I imparted this
  intention to my female companion, who at first remonstrated against
  it; but upon producing my wealth, she immediately consented. We then
  struck across the country, into the great Cirencester road, and made
  such haste, that we spent the next evening, save one, in London.
  
  “When you consider the place where I now was, and the company with
  whom I was, you will, I fancy, conceive that a very short time brought
  me to an end of that sum of which I had so iniquitously possessed
  myself.
  
  “I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before:
  the necessaries of life began to be numbered among my wants; and what
  made my case still the more grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I
  was now grown immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with
  myself. To see a woman you love in distress; to be unable to relieve
  her, and at the same time to reflect that you have brought her into
  this situation, is perhaps a curse of which no imagination can
  represent the horrors to those who have not felt it.”--“I believe it
  from my soul,” cries Jones, “and I pity you from the bottom of my
  heart:” he then took two or three disorderly turns about the room, and
  at last begged pardon, and flung himself into his chair, crying, “I
  thank Heaven, I have escaped that!”
  
  “This circumstance,” continued the gentleman, “so severely aggravated
  the horrors of my present situation, that they became absolutely
  intolerable. I could with less pain endure the raging in my own
  natural unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, than I could
  submit to leave ungratified the most whimsical desires of a woman on
  whom I so extravagantly doated, that, though I knew she had been the
  mistress of half my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her. But
  the good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the
  world might think so much to my disadvantage. And as, possibly, she
  compassionated the daily anxieties which she must have perceived me
  suffer on her account, she resolved to put an end to my distress. She
  soon, indeed, found means to relieve me from my troublesome and
  perplexed situation; for while I was distracted with various
  inventions to supply her with pleasures, she very kindly--betrayed me
  to one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose care and diligence I
  was immediately apprehended and committed to gaol.
  
  “Here I first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my
  former life; on the errors I had been guilty of; on the misfortunes
  which I had brought on myself; and on the grief which I must have
  occasioned to one of the best of fathers. When I added to all these
  the perfidy of my mistress, such was the horror of my mind, that life,
  instead of being longer desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence;
  and I could have gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it had
  offered itself to my choice unattended by shame.
  
  “The time of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by habeas corpus
  to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction and condemnation; but,
  to my great surprize, none appeared against me, and I was, at the end
  of the sessions, discharged for want of prosecution. In short, my chum
  had left Oxford, and whether from indolence, or from what other motive
  I am ignorant, had declined concerning himself any farther in the
  affair.”
  
  “Perhaps,” cries Partridge, “he did not care to have your blood upon
  his hands; and he was in the right on't. If any person was to be
  hanged upon my evidence, I should never be able to lie alone
  afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.”
  
  “I shall shortly doubt, Partridge,” says Jones, “whether thou art more
  brave or wise.”--“You may laugh at me, sir, if you please,” answered
  Partridge; “but if you will hear a very short story which I can tell,
  and which is most certainly true, perhaps you may change your opinion.
  In the parish where I was born--” Here Jones would have silenced him;
  but the stranger interceded that he might be permitted to tell his
  story, and in the meantime promised to recollect the remainder of his
  own.
  
  Partridge then proceeded thus: “In the parish where I was born, there
  lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and he had a son named Francis,
  a good hopeful young fellow: I was at the grammar-school with him,
  where I remember he was got into Ovid's Epistles, and he could
  construe you three lines together sometimes without looking into a
  dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good lad, never missed
  church o' Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers in
  the whole parish. He would indeed now and then take a cup too much,
  and that was the only fault he had.”--“Well, but come to the ghost,”
   cries Jones. “Never fear, sir; I shall come to him soon enough,”
   answered Partridge. “You must know, then, that farmer Bridle lost a
  mare, a sorrel one, to the best of my remembrance; and so it fell out
  that this young Francis shortly afterward being at a fair at Hindon,
  and as I think it was on--, I can't remember the day; and being as he
  was, what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father's mare.
  Frank called out presently, Stop thief; and it being in the middle of
  the fair, it was impossible, you know, for the man to make his escape.
  So they apprehended him and carried him before the justice: I remember
  it was Justice Willoughby, of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman; and
  he committed him to prison, and bound Frank in a recognisance, I think
  they call it--a hard word compounded of _re_ and _cognosco_; but it
  differs in its meaning from the use of the simple, as many other
  compounds do. Well, at last down came my Lord Justice Page to hold the
  assizes; and so the fellow was had up, and Frank was had up for a
  witness. To be sure, I shall never forget the face of the judge, when
  he began to ask him what he had to say against the prisoner. He made
  poor Frank tremble and shake in his shoes. `Well you, fellow,' says my
  lord, `what have you to say? Don't stand humming and hawing, but speak
  out.' But, however, he soon turned altogether as civil to Frank, and
  began to thunder at the fellow; and when he asked him if he had
  anything to say for himself, the fellow said, he had found the horse.
  `Ay!' answered the judge, `thou art a lucky fellow: I have travelled
  the circuit these forty years, and never found a horse in my life: but
  I'll tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst know
  of; for thou didst not only find a horse, but a halter too, I promise
  thee.' To be sure, I shall never forget the word. Upon which everybody
  fell a laughing, as how could they help it? Nay, and twenty other
  jests he made, which I can't remember now. There was something about
  his skill in horse-flesh which made all the folks laugh. To be
  certain, the judge must have been a very brave man, as well as a man
  of much learning. It is indeed charming sport to hear trials upon life
  and death. One thing I own I thought a little hard, that the
  prisoner's counsel was not suffered to speak for him, though he
  desired only to be heard one very short word, but my lord would not
  hearken to him, though he suffered a counsellor to talk against him
  for above half-an-hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there should be
  so many of them; my lord, and the court, and the jury, and the
  counsellors, and the witnesses, all upon one poor man, and he too in
  chains. Well, the fellow was hanged, as to be sure it could be no
  otherwise, and poor Frank could never be easy about it. He never was
  in the dark alone, but he fancied he saw the fellow's spirit.”--“Well,
  and is this thy story?” cries Jones. “No, no,” answered Partridge. “O
  Lord have mercy upon me! I am just now coming to the matter; for one
  night, coming from the alehouse, in a long, narrow, dark lane, there
  he ran directly up against him; and the spirit was all in white, and
  fell upon Frank; and Frank, who was a sturdy lad, fell upon the spirit
  again, and there they had a tussel together, and poor Frank was
  dreadfully beat: indeed he made a shift at last to crawl home; but
  what with the beating, and what with the fright, he lay ill above a
  fortnight; and all this is most certainly true, and the whole parish
  will bear witness to it.”
  
  The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of
  laughter; upon which Partridge cried, “Ay, you may laugh, sir; and so
  did some others, particularly a squire, who is thought to be no better
  than an atheist; who, forsooth, because there was a calf with a white
  face found dead in the same lane the next morning, would fain have it
  that the battle was between Frank and that, as if a calf would set
  upon a man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be a spirit, and
  could swear to him in any court in Christendom; and he had not drank
  above a quart or two or such a matter of liquor, at the time. Lud have
  mercy upon us, and keep us all from dipping our hands in blood, I
  say!”
  
  “Well, sir,” said Jones to the stranger, “Mr Partridge hath finished
  his story, and I hope will give you no future interruption, if you
  will be so kind to proceed.” He then resumed his narration; but as he
  hath taken breath for a while, we think proper to give it to our
  reader, and shall therefore put an end to this chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
  
  
  “I had now regained my liberty,” said the stranger; “but I had lost my
  reputation; for there is a wide difference between the case of a man
  who is barely acquitted of a crime in a court of justice, and of him
  who is acquitted in his own heart, and in the opinion of the people. I
  was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face; so
  resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight
  discovered me to the eyes of any beholders.
  
  “When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to
  return home to my father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; but
  as I had no reason to doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and
  as I was well assured of his great aversion to all acts of dishonesty,
  I could entertain no hopes of being received by him, especially since
  I was too certain of all the good offices in the power of my mother;
  nay, had my father's pardon been as sure, as I conceived his
  resentment to be, I yet question whether I could have had the
  assurance to behold him, or whether I could, upon any terms, have
  submitted to live and converse with those who, I was convinced, knew
  me to have been guilty of so base an action.
  
  “I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of either
  grief or shame, unless for persons of a very public character; for
  here you have the advantage of solitude without its disadvantage,
  since you may be alone and in company at the same time; and while you
  walk or sit unobserved, noise, hurry, and a constant succession of
  objects, entertain the mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on
  themselves, or rather on grief or shame, which are the most
  unwholesome diet in the world; and on which (though there are many who
  never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very
  plentifully and very fatally when alone.
  
  “But as there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil,
  so there are people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving
  temper of mankind; I mean persons who have no money; for as you are
  not put out of countenance, so neither are you cloathed or fed by
  those who do not know you. And a man may be as easily starved in
  Leadenhall-market as in the deserts of Arabia.
  
  “It was at present my fortune to be destitute of that great evil, as
  it is apprehended to be by several writers, who I suppose were
  overburthened with it, namely, money.”--“With submission, sir,” said
  Partridge, “I do not remember any writers who have called it
  _malorum_; but _irritamenta malorum_. _Effodiuntur opes, irritamenta
  malorum_”--“Well, sir,” continued the stranger, “whether it be an
  evil, or only the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the
  same time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance; when one
  evening, as I was passing through the Inner Temple, very hungry, and
  very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden hailing me with great
  familiarity by my Christian name; and upon turning about, I presently
  recollected the person who so saluted me to have been my
  fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year, and
  long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman,
  whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing
  great joy at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle
  together. I first declined the proposal, and pretended business, but
  as he was very earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride,
  and I fairly confessed to him I had no money in my pocket; yet not
  without framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having
  changed my breeches that morning. Mr Watson answered, `I thought,
  Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance for you to mention such
  a matter.' He then took me by the arm, and was pulling me along; but I
  gave him very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled me much
  stronger than he could do.
  
  “We then went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all
  mirth and jollity. Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson
  applied himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of
  the cook; for he had no suspicion but that I had dined long since.
  However, as the case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood,
  and told my companion I had been at the further end of the city on
  business of consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in haste; so
  that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his
  bottle.”--“Some people,” cries Partridge, “ought to have good
  memories; or did you find just money enough in your breeches to pay
  for the mutton-chop?”--“Your observation is right,” answered the
  stranger, “and I believe such blunders are inseparable from all
  dealing in untruth.--But to proceed--I began now to feel myself
  extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high
  pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old
  acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what
  had happened at the university since his leaving it.
  
  “But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion;
  for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here,
  my boy,' cries he, `here's wishing you joy of your being so honourably
  acquitted of that affair laid to your charge.' I was thunderstruck
  with confusion at those words, which Watson observing, proceeded thus:
  `Nay, never be ashamed, man; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now
  dares call thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who am thy friend--I
  hope thou didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a meritorious
  action to strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the
  two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come,
  come, my boy, don't be shy of confessing to me: you are not now
  brought before one of the pimps. D--n me if I don't honour you for it;
  for, as I hope for salvation, I would have made no manner of scruple
  of doing the same thing.'
  
  “This declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had now
  somewhat opened my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but
  acquainted him that he had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which
  was little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned.
  
  “`I am sorry for it with all my heart,' quoth he, `and I wish thee
  better success another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you
  shall have no occasion to run any such risque. Here,' said he, taking
  some dice out of his pocket, `here's the stuff. Here are the
  implements; here are the little doctors which cure the distempers of
  the purse. Follow but my counsel, and I will show you a way to empty
  the pocket of a queer cull without any danger of the nubbing cheat.'”
  
  “Nubbing cheat!” cries Partridge: “pray, sir, what is that?”
  
  “Why that, sir,” says the stranger, “is a cant phrase for the gallows;
  for as gamesters differ little from highwaymen in their morals, so do
  they very much resemble them in their language.
  
  “We had now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board was
  sitting, and that he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same
  time to go with him and try my fortune. I answered he knew that was at
  present out of my power, as I had informed him of the emptiness of my
  pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not from his many strong
  expressions of friendship, but that he would offer to lend me a small
  sum for that purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e'en
  boldly run a levant' [Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of
  that word, but Jones stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the
  man. I will tip you the proper person, which may be necessary, as you
  do not know the town, nor can distinguish a rum cull from a queer
  one.”
  
  “The bill was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was
  departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no
  money. He answered, `That signifies nothing; score it behind the door,
  or make a bold brush and take no notice.--Or--stay,' says he; `I will
  go down-stairs first, and then do you take up my money, and score the
  whole reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you at the corner.' I
  expressed some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations that he
  would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another
  sixpence in his pocket.
  
  “He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and
  follow him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the
  reckoning was upon the table. The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I
  made such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his
  disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to
  my instructions.
  
  “We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my
  surprize, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it before him, as
  did many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as
  so many decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the heaps of
  their neighbours.
  
  “Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or
  rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in
  a few moments reduced to nothing at one part of the table, and rose as
  suddenly in another. The rich grew in a moment poor, and the poor as
  suddenly became rich; so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere
  have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least
  he could nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of their
  duration.
  
  “For my own part, after having considerably improved my small estate,
  I at last entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much variety of
  luck, rose from the table in some heat, and declared he had lost a
  cool hundred, and would play no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked
  me to return with him to the tavern; but I positively refused, saying,
  I would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemma, and
  especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my own
  condition. `Pooh!' says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas
  of a friend, and one of them is at your service.' He immediately put
  one of them into my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.
  
  “I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same house whence
  we had departed in so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer, with
  very civil address, told us, `he believed we had forgot to pay our
  reckoning,' I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a
  guinea, bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the unjust charge which
  had been laid on my memory.
  
  “Mr Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think
  of; and though he had contented himself with simple claret before,
  nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.
  
  “Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen
  from the gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not
  to the tavern to drink, but in the way of business; for the true
  gamesters pretended to be ill, and refused their glass, while they
  plied heartily two young fellows, who were to be afterwards pillaged,
  as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I had the good
  fortune to be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret.
  
  “There was one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for the
  money by degrees totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning
  the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which
  it did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon, there was scarce
  a single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger as
  every person present, except myself, declared he had lost; and what
  was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is
  difficult to determine.”
  
  “Most certainly he did,” says Partridge, “for evil spirits can carry
  away anything without being seen, though there were never so many folk
  in the room; and I should not have been surprized if he had carried
  away all the company of a set of wicked wretches, who were at play in
  sermon time. And I could tell you a true story, if I would, where the
  devil took a man out of bed from another man's wife, and carried him
  away through the keyhole of the door. I've seen the very house where
  it was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years.”
  
  Though Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge,
  he could not however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did
  the same, and then proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the
  next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
  
  
  “My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I
  soon became acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was
  let into their secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross
  cheats which are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for
  there are some tricks of a finer kind, which are known only to a few
  of the gang, who are at the head of their profession; a degree of
  honour beyond my expectation; for drink, to which I was immoderately
  addicted, and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from
  arriving at any great success in an art which requires as much
  coolness as the most austere school of philosophy.
  
  “Mr Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had unluckily
  the former failing to a very great excess; so that instead of making a
  fortune by his profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich
  and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends,
  over a bottle which they never tasted, that plunder that he had taken
  from culls at the public table.
  
  “However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood;
  and for two years I continued of the calling; during which time I
  tasted all the varieties of fortune, sometimes flourishing in
  affluence, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost
  incredible difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and to-morrow
  reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being
  often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next
  morning.
  
  “One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I
  observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together
  in the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into
  the croud, where upon enquiry I found that a man had been robbed and
  very ill used by some ruffians. The wounded man appeared very bloody,
  and seemed scarce able to support himself on his legs. As I had not
  therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present life and
  conversation, though they had left me very little of either honesty or
  shame, I immediately offered my assistance to the unhappy person, who
  thankfully accepted it, and, putting himself under my conduct, begged
  me to convey him to some tavern, where he might send for a surgeon,
  being, as he said, faint with loss of blood. He seemed indeed highly
  pleased at finding one who appeared in the dress of a gentleman; for
  as to all the rest of the company present, their outside was such that
  he could not wisely place any confidence in them.
  
  “I took the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we
  kept our rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A
  surgeon happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended,
  and applied himself to dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure
  to hear were not likely to be mortal.
  
  “The surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his
  business, began to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man
  lodged; who answered, `That he was come to town that very morning;
  that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had no other
  lodging, and very little or no acquaintance in town.'
  
  “This surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began
  with an R, had the first character in his profession, and was
  serjeant-surgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and
  was a very generous good-natured man, and ready to do any service to
  his fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use of his chariot to
  carry him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, `That
  if he wanted any money, he would furnish him.'
  
  “The poor man was not now capable of returning thanks for this
  generous offer; for having had his eyes for some time stedfastly on
  me, he threw himself back in his chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!'
  and then fainted away.
  
  “Many of the people present imagined this accident had happened
  through his loss of blood; but I, who at the same time began to
  recollect the features of my father, was now confirmed in my
  suspicion, and satisfied that it was he himself who appeared before
  me. I presently ran to him, raised him in my arms, and kissed his cold
  lips with the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a
  scene which I cannot describe; for though I did not lose my being, as
  my father for a while did, my senses were however so overpowered with
  affright and surprize, that I am a stranger to what passed during some
  minutes, and indeed till my father had again recovered from his swoon,
  and I found myself in his arms, both tenderly embracing each other,
  while the tears trickled a-pace down the cheeks of each of us.
  
  “Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who
  might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing
  from the eyes of all spectators as fast as we could; my father
  therefore accepted the kind offer of the surgeon's chariot, and I
  attended him in it to his inn.
  
  “When we were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having
  neglected to write to him during so long a time, but entirely omitted
  the mention of that crime which had occasioned it. He then informed me
  of my mother's death, and insisted on my returning home with him,
  saying, `That he had long suffered the greatest anxiety on my account;
  that he knew not whether he had most feared my death or wished it,
  since he had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he
  said, a neighbouring gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the
  same place, informed him where I was; and that to reclaim me from this
  course of life was the sole cause of his journey to London.' He
  thanked Heaven he had succeeded so far as to find me out by means of
  an accident which had like to have proved fatal to him; and had the
  pleasure to think he partly owed his preservation to my humanity, with
  which he profest himself to be more delighted than he should have been
  with my filial piety, if I had known that the object of all my care
  was my own father.
  
  “Vice had not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an insensibility
  of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I
  presently promised to obey his commands in my return home with him, as
  soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few days,
  by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his
  cure.
  
  “The day preceding my father's journey (before which time I scarce
  ever left him), I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate
  acquaintance, particularly of Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying
  myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with the fond
  desires of a foolish old fellow. Such sollicitations, however, had no
  effect, and I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly
  sollicited me to think of marriage; but my inclinations were utterly
  averse to any such thoughts. I had tasted of love already, and perhaps
  you know the extravagant excesses of that most tender and most violent
  passion.”--Here the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at
  Jones; whose countenance, within a minute's space, displayed the
  extremities of both red and white. Upon which the old man, without
  making any observations, renewed his narrative.
  
  “Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself
  once again to study, and that with a more inordinate application than
  I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely
  were those, as well antient as modern, which treat of true philosophy,
  a word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and
  ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the
  rest of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had
  bequeathed to the world.
  
  “These authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men
  may promise to themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly
  power, taught me, however, the art of despising the highest
  acquisitions of both. They elevate the mind, and steel and harden it
  against the capricious invasions of fortune. They not only instruct in
  the knowledge of Wisdom, but confirm men in her habits, and
  demonstrate plainly, that this must be our guide, if we propose ever
  to arrive at the greatest worldly happiness, or to defend ourselves,
  with any tolerable security, against the misery which everywhere
  surrounds and invests us.
  
  “To this I added another study, compared to which, all the philosophy
  taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream, and is
  indeed as full of vanity as the silliest jester ever pleased to
  represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which is alone to be found in
  the Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the knowledge and assurance
  of things much more worthy our attention than all which this world can
  offer to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath
  condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which
  the highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to
  think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers was
  little more than labour lost: for, however pleasant and delightful
  their lessons may be, or however adequate to the right regulation of
  our conduct with respect to this world only; yet, when compared with
  the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest documents will appear
  as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the rules by which
  children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is,
  that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men.
  Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and
  sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the
  latter of Divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal
  happiness.--But I am afraid I tire you with my rhapsody.”
  
  “Not at all,” cries Partridge; “Lud forbid we should be tired with
  good things!”
  
  “I had spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years in the most
  delightful manner to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and
  entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world, when I lost the
  best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my grief at
  his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and gave
  myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy and despair.
  Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me
  relief.”--“Ay, ay; _Tempus edax rerum_” said Partridge.--“I then,”
   continued the stranger, “betook myself again to my former studies,
  which I may say perfected my cure; for philosophy and religion may be
  called the exercises of the mind, and when this is disordered, they
  are as wholesome as exercise can be to a distempered body. They do
  indeed produce similar effects with exercise; for they strengthen and
  confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble strain of Horace--
  
       _Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
       Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;
       In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna._“[*]
  
       [*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
       Polish'd and round, who runs his proper course
       And breaks misfortunes with superior force.--MR FRANCIS.
  
  Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his
  imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and
  proceeded thus:--
  
  “My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best
  of men; for my brother, who was now become master of the house,
  differed so widely from me in his inclinations, and our pursuits in
  life had been so very various, that we were the worst of company to
  each other: but what made our living together still more disagreeable,
  was the little harmony which could subsist between the few who
  resorted to me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who often attended
  my brother from the field to the table; for such fellows, besides the
  noise and nonsense with which they persecute the ears of sober men,
  endeavour always to attack them with affront and contempt. This was so
  much the case, that neither I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit
  down to a meal with them without being treated with derision, because
  we were unacquainted with the phrases of sportsmen. For men of true
  learning, and almost universal knowledge, always compassionate the
  ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little, low,
  contemptible art, are always certain to despise those who are
  unacquainted with that art.
  
  “In short, we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a
  physician, to drink the Bath waters; for my violent affliction, added
  to a sedentary life, had thrown me into a kind of paralytic disorder,
  for which those waters are accounted an almost _certain_ cure. The
  second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun
  shone so intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I
  retired to the shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river
  side. Here I had not been seated long before I heard a person on the
  other side of the willows sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a
  sudden, having uttered a most impious oath, he cried, `I am resolved
  to bear it no longer,' and directly threw himself into the water. I
  immediately started, and ran towards the place, calling at the same
  time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler happened luckily
  to be a-fishing a little below me, though some very high sedge had hid
  him from my sight. He immediately came up, and both of us together,
  not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At
  first we perceived no sign of life remaining; but having held the body
  up by the heels (for we soon had assistance enough), it discharged a
  vast quantity of water at the mouth, and at length began to discover
  some symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both its
  hands and its legs.
  
  “An apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised that
  the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of
  water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should be
  directly taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly
  performed, the apothecary and myself attending.
  
  “As we were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man's lodgings,
  luckily a woman met us, who, after some violent screaming, told us
  that the gentleman lodged at her house.
  
  “When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the
  care of the apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods
  with him, for the next morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his
  senses.
  
  “I then went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I
  could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and to
  prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for
  the future. I was no sooner admitted into his chamber, than we both
  instantly knew each other; for who should this person be but my good
  friend Mr Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what past at our
  first interview; for I would avoid prolixity as much as
  possible.”--“Pray let us hear all,” cries Partridge; “I want mightily
  to know what brought him to Bath.”
  
  “You shall hear everything material,” answered the stranger; and then
  proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have
  given a short breathing time to both ourselves and the reader.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiv.
  
  In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
  
  
  “Mr Watson,” continued the stranger, “very freely acquainted me, that
  the unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of
  ill luck, had in a manner forced him to a resolution of destroying
  himself.
  
  “I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this
  heathenish, or indeed diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of
  self-murder; and said everything which occurred to me on the subject;
  but, to my great concern, it seemed to have very little effect on him.
  He seemed not at all to repent of what he had done, and gave me reason
  to fear he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind.
  
  “When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer
  my arguments, he looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile
  said, `You are strangely altered, my good friend, since I remember
  you. I question whether any of our bishops could make a better
  argument against suicide than you have entertained me with; but unless
  you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either
  hang, or drown, or starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is the
  most terrible of the three.'
  
  “I answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had
  seen him last. That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to
  repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps; and at
  last concluded with an assurance that I myself would lend him a
  hundred pound, if it would be of any service to his affairs, and he
  would not put it into the power of a die to deprive him of it.
  
  “Mr Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part
  of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly,
  gave me a thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding
  that he hoped I had a better opinion of him than to imagine he had
  profited so little by experience, as to put any confidence in those
  damned dice which had so often deceived him. `No, no,' cries he; `let
  me but once handsomely be set up again, and if ever Fortune makes a
  broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive her.'
  
  “I very well understood the language of setting up, and broken
  merchant. I therefore said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson,
  you must endeavour to find out some business or employment, by which
  you may procure yourself a livelihood; and I promise you, could I see
  any probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much
  larger sum than what you have mentioned, to equip you in any fair and
  honourable calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and
  wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own
  knowledge, unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin.
  
  “`Why now, that's strange,' answered he; `neither you, nor any of my
  friends, would ever allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I
  believe I _am_ as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I
  heartily wish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune: I
  should desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into
  the bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your
  pocket?”
  
  “I answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and
  promised to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a
  little more advice, took my leave.
  
  “I was indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very
  afternoon. When I entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed
  at cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine,
  shocked me not a little; to which I may add the mortification of
  seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas
  only given in exchange for it.
  
  “The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson
  declared he was ashamed to see me; `but,' says he, `I find luck runs
  so damnably against me, that I will resolve to leave off play for
  ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and
  I promise you there shall be no fault in me, if I do not put it in
  execution.'
  
  “Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the
  remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own; for which he gave
  me a note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my
  money.
  
  “We were prevented from any further discourse at present by the
  arrival of the apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and
  without even asking his patient how he did, proclaimed there was great
  news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be
  public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast
  army of Dutch; and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of
  Norfolk, and was to make a descent there, in order to favour the
  duke's enterprize with a diversion on that side.'
  
  “This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He
  was more delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best
  patient, and the highest joy he was capable of, he received from
  having a piece of news in his possession an hour or two sooner than
  any other person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom
  authentic; for he would swallow almost anything as a truth--a humour
  which many made use of to impose upon him.
  
  “Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was
  known within a short time afterwards that the duke was really landed,
  but that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the
  diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely false.
  
  “The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted
  us with his news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient
  on any other subject, departed to spread his advices all over the
  town.
  
  “Events of this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse all
  private concerns. Our discourse therefore now became entirely
  political.[*] For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously
  affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so
  visibly exposed under a Popish prince, and thought the apprehension of
  it alone sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no real security
  can ever be found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when armed
  with power, except the depriving it of that power, as woeful
  experience presently showed. You know how King James behaved after
  getting the better of this attempt; how little he valued either his
  royal word, or coronation oath, or the liberties and rights of his
  people. But all had not the sense to foresee this at first; and
  therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly supported; yet all could
  feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore all united, at last,
  to drive out that king, against whose exclusion a great party among us
  had so warmly contended during the reign of his brother, and for whom
  they now fought with such zeal and affection.”
  
  “What you say,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it has often
  struck me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in history, that
  so soon after this convincing experience which brought our whole
  nation to join so unanimously in expelling King James, for the
  preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be a party
  among us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the
  throne.” “You are not in earnest!” answered the old man; “there can be
  no such party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot
  believe them infatuated to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed
  Papists led by their priests to engage in this desperate cause, and
  think it a holy war; but that Protestants, that are members of the
  Church of England, should be such apostates, such _felos de se_, I
  cannot believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with what
  has past in the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so
  imposed upon as to credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind
  to sport with my ignorance.”--“Can it be possible,” replied Jones,
  “that you have lived so much out of the world as not to know that
  during that time there have been two rebellions in favour of the son
  of King James, one of which is now actually raging in the very heart
  of the kingdom.” At these words the old gentleman started up, and in a
  most solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to tell him if
  what he said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming,
  he walked several turns about the room in a profound silence, then
  cried, then laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed
  God, in a loud thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all
  society with human nature, which could be capable of such monstrous
  extravagances. After which, being reminded by Jones that he had broke
  off his story, he resumed it again in this manner:--
  
  “As mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at
  that pitch of madness which I find they are capable of now, and which,
  to be sure, I have only escaped by living alone, and at a distance
  from the contagion, there was a considerable rising in favour of
  Monmouth; and my principles strongly inclining me to take the same
  part, I determined to join him; and Mr Watson, from different motives
  concurring in the same resolution (for the spirit of a gamester will
  carry a man as far upon such an occasion as the spirit of patriotism),
  we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the duke
  at Bridgewater.
  
  “The unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as
  well acquainted with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson,
  from the battle at Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight
  wound. We rode near forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then
  abandoning our horses, scrambled as well as we could through the
  fields and bye-roads, till we arrived at a little wild hut on a
  common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and
  dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it.”
  
  “Pray, sir, where was the wound?” says Partridge. The stranger
  satisfied him it was in his arm, and then continued his narrative.
  “Here, sir,” said he, “Mr Watson left me the next morning, in order,
  as he pretended, to get us some provision from the town of Collumpton;
  but--can I relate it, or can you believe it?--this Mr Watson, this
  friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a
  party of horse belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me
  into their hands.
  
  “The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were
  conducting me to Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor
  the apprehensions of what might happen to me, were half so irksome to
  my mind as the company of my false friend, who, having surrendered
  himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner, though he was better
  treated, as being to make his peace at my expense. He at first
  endeavoured to excuse his treachery; but when he received nothing but
  scorn and upbraiding from me, he soon changed his note, abused me as
  the most atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to
  my charge, who, as he declared, had solicited, and even threatened
  him, to make him take up arms against his gracious as well as lawful
  sovereign.
  
  “This false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder of
  the two) stung me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce
  conceivable by those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length
  took pity on me; for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a
  narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the
  enemy were at hand; upon which they shifted for themselves, and left
  me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from
  me, and I am glad he did, or I should have certainly endeavoured,
  though I had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness.
  
  “I was now once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from the
  highway into the fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I
  went, and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads and all
  towns--nay, even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human
  creature whom I saw desirous of betraying me.
  
  “At last, after rambling several days about the country, during which
  the fields afforded me the same bed and the same food which nature
  bestows on our savage brothers of the creation, I at length arrived at
  this place, where the solitude and wildness of the country invited me
  to fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation
  was the mother of this old woman, with whom I remained concealed till
  the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions
  of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own
  home, and of enquiring a little into my affairs, which I soon settled
  as agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned everything to
  him, for which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on
  me an annuity for life.
  
  “His behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish
  and ungenerous. I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did
  he desire that I should; so I presently took my leave of him, as well
  as of my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is
  little better than a blank.”
  
  “And is it possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you can have resided here
  from that day to this?”--“O no, sir,” answered the gentleman; “I have
  been a great traveller, and there are few parts of Europe with which I
  am not acquainted.” “I have not, sir,” cried Jones, “the assurance to
  ask it of you now; indeed it would be cruel, after so much breath as
  you have already spent: but you will give me leave to wish for some
  further opportunity of hearing the excellent observations which a man
  of your sense and knowledge of the world must have made in so long a
  course of travels.”--“Indeed, young gentleman,” answered the stranger,
  “I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as
  far as I am able.” Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented;
  and while he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the
  stranger proceeded as in the next chapter.
  
  
    [*] _The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs
    in the first edition were as follows_:
  
    “For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected
    with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly
    exposed, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence
    seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared
    war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into
    the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the
    University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared
    publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk
    in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to
    preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who
    did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical
    commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which,
    probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to
    the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had
    discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our
    preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he
    had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his
    Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had
    imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion,
    and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender
    the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he
    claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as
    absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated
    these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in
    history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have
    here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to
    their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the
    dreadful sin of rebellion in any people.”
  
    “I promise you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have
    read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet
    recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually
    now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that
    very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than
    his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who
    hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our
    liberties.”
  
    “Prodigious indeed!” answered the stranger. “You tell me what would
    be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that
    Virgil gives of a woman, _varium et mutabile semper_. Surely this is
    to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of
    us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs
    and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and
    unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a
    miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A
    Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of
    mankind is as wonderful as their knavery--But to conclude my story:
    I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,
    and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We
    soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at
    Bridgewater.”
  
    “The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better
    acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from
    the battle at Sedgemore,...
  
  
  
  Chapter xv.
  
  A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr Jones
  and the Man of the Hill.
  
  
  “In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more
  talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally
  very impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty
  equal in all those countries. The _laquais à louange_ are sure to lose
  no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think
  they are pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the
  observations on men which I made in my travels; for these were the
  only men I ever conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to
  divert myself by seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts,
  birds, fishes, insects, and vegetables, with which God has been
  pleased to enrich the several parts of this globe; a variety which, as
  it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it
  admirably display the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.
  Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole creation
  that doth him any dishonour, and with that I have long since avoided
  holding any conversation.”
  
  “You will pardon me,” cries Jones; “but I have always imagined that
  there is in this very work you mention as great variety as in all the
  rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and climates
  have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human nature.”
  
  “Very little indeed,” answered the other: “those who travel in order
  to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare
  themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they
  will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of
  Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies
  and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped
  with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a
  knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a
  sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object
  of detestation and scorn.
  
  “As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps
  may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them,
  holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the
  other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on
  to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be
  in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me.”
  
  “Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less
  troublesome to you than others?” said Jones. “O yes,” replied the old
  man: “the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians;
  for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never disturb a stranger
  with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short curse upon
  him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they have
  done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without
  hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw,
  heaven defend me from the French! With their damned prate and
  civilities, and doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they
  are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity;
  they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass my life
  with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They are a nasty
  people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in France, and
  some other nations that I won't name, it is all within, and makes them
  stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots does to my nose.
  
  “Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that
  series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no
  variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one
  day.[*] The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have
  enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than
  here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am
  plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty
  regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I
  might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none;
  and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely
  depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I
  want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding
  her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night,
  I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any
  company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home
  heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they
  took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night
  shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for
  without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably
  murdered.”
  
    [*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition
  
  Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating
  his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure
  a life of such solitude; “in which,” says he, “you may well complain
  of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have filled up,
  or rather killed, so much of your time.”
  
  “I am not at all surprized,” answered the other, “that to one whose
  affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should appear
  to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one single act,
  for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what time can
  suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious, immortal,
  and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation not
  only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may
  here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be
  suns lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as
  a few atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who
  by divine meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of
  this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or
  ages, too long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall
  the trifling amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of
  the world, roll away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace
  of time seem sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so
  important, and so glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is
  improper, for this great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes
  which may not inspire us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and
  of his goodness? It is not necessary that the rising sun should dart
  his fiery glories over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous
  winds should rush from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor
  that the opening clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is
  not necessary, I say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty:
  there is not an insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the
  creation as not to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of
  its great Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and
  goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest
  work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely
  dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude,
  and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by
  puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish
  and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation
  you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and
  without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious
  and insipid.”
  
  “In the former part of what you said,” replied Jones, “I most heartily
  and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the
  abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much
  too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little
  experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the
  character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas,
  indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as
  characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best
  and most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe,
  is generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the
  choice of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from
  bad and worthless men; two or three instances of which are very
  unjustly charged on all human nature.”
  
  “I think I had experience enough of it,” answered the other: “my first
  mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner, and in
  matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences--even to
  bring me to a shameful death.”
  
  “But you will pardon me,” cries Jones, “if I desire you to reflect who
  that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good sir,
  could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in friendship
  first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the
  characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the
  latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and
  unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived
  but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the
  highest friendship, and women of the highest love.”
  
  “Alas! young man,” answered the stranger, “you have lived, you
  confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than
  you when I was of the same opinion.”
  
  “You might have remained so still,” replies Jones, “if you had not
  been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing
  your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the
  world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions
  against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and
  many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his
  heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to
  be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds afford
  them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am
  convinced, your case.”
  
  “And such,” said the stranger, “will be always the most backward to
  assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us of
  the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that there
  are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put you on
  your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason, though
  knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons, yet
  they never cast any reflection on human nature in general.” The old
  gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a
  convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.
  
  The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones
  made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps
  detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, “He never wanted
  rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent
  seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the
  time of his repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations.
  However,” said he, “it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can
  bear any longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly
  entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects which I
  believe you have not yet seen.”
  
  Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set
  forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen
  into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story;
  for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not
  forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of sleep.
  Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader may
  perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here put an
  end to the eighth book of our history.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK IX.
  
  CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such
  histories as this.
  
  
  Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute
  these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind
  of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader
  to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of
  writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely
  that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable
  reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their
  works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an
  encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of
  foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the
  great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and
  depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of
  scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many
  worthy and honest people.
  
  I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was
  principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper,
  from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those
  scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by
  the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the
  same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
  fable was of braying in the lion's skin.
  
  By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any
  man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at
  least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have
  now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly
  incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal
  to an essay.
  
  I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit
  of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory
  chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only,
  afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those
  which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such
  imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the
  Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
  
  To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare
  talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim
  at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the
  world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the
  authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the
  expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
  indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject
  whatever.
  
       _Scribimus indocti doctique passim_,[*]
  
       [*] --Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
       Verse is the trade of every living wight.--FRANCIS.
  
  may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any
  other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even
  criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and
  knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but
  then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the
  composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper,
  pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I
  conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors
  themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed
  there be any such.
  
  Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who
  always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all
  historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And
  it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so
  cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
  otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good
  authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast
  authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours
  have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve
  some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men
  regarded only as proceeding from a _pruritus_, or indeed rather from a
  looseness of the brain.
  
  But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful
  as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason
  to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much
  dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and
  valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the
  dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of
  language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just
  above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived
  should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.
  
  To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of
  leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as
  the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with
  them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one
  of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of
  historians.
  
  The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
  Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or
  rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into
  all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their
  essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment;
  and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are
  of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world.
  Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great
  errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a
  creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to
  have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really
  meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding
  out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into
  the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I
  think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how
  we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things,
  without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now
  this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men
  of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in
  representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of
  one and the same person.
  
  But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose,
  without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the
  authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove
  that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened
  by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no
  matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for
  nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to
  illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit
  them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute
  part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and
  of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this
  share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian,
  is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or
  mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added
  the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our
  order, were masters of all the learning of their times.
  
  Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of
  learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So
  necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that
  none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives
  have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for however
  exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true
  practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like
  happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are
  to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the
  gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the
  rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr Miller
  may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to
  see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest
  strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway, some
  touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action
  of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the
  real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light
  than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and
  nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from
  life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself
  takes his lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are
  only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor
  spirit of an original.
  
    [*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor,
    and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as
    they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not
    on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to
    excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the
    servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
  
  Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is,
  with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called
  high life will not instruct him in low; nor, _e converso_, will his
  being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the
  manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the
  knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least
  that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall
  greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in
  reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high
  life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the
  low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes
  with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and
  opposed to, the politeness which controuls the former. Besides, to say
  the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these
  conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of
  plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
  elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
  scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.
  
  Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail
  him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be
  capable of feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace,
  must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well
  which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but
  that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears.
  In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never
  make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him;
  unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me
  he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the
  case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will
  here put an end to it.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr Jones met with
  in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
  
  
  Aurora now first opened her casement, _Anglice_ the day began to
  break, when Jones walked forth in company with the stranger, and
  mounted Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit
  than one of the most noble prospects in the world presented itself to
  their view, and which we would likewise present to the reader, but for
  two reasons: first, we despair of making those who have seen this
  prospect admire our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether
  those who have not seen it would understand it.
  
  Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his
  eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, What he
  was looking at with so much attention? “Alas! sir,” answered he with a
  sigh, “I was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
  heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
  land must be between me and my own home!”--“Ay, ay, young gentleman,”
   cries the other, “and by your sighing, from what you love better than
  your own home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the object of your
  contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you have a
  pleasure in looking that way.” Jones answered with a smile, “I find,
  old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your youth. I
  own my thoughts were employed as you have guessed.”
  
  They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the
  north-west, and which hangs over a vast and extensive wood. Here they
  were no sooner arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent
  screams of a woman, proceeding from the wood below them. Jones
  listened a moment, and then, without saying a word to his companion
  (for indeed the occasion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather
  slid, down the hill, and, without the least apprehension or concern
  for his own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had
  issued.
  
  He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most shocking
  sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a ruffian,
  who had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring to draw
  her up to a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell
  instantly upon the villain, and made such good use of his trusty oaken
  stick that he laid him sprawling on the ground before he could defend
  himself, indeed almost before he knew he was attacked; nor did he
  cease the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself begged him
  to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done his
  business.
  
  The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a
  thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and
  told her he was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which
  had sent him thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she
  should find any; adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as
  the happy instrument of her protection. “Nay,” answered she, “I could
  almost conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the truth, you
  look more like an angel than a man in my eye.” Indeed he was a
  charming figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely set of
  features, adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and
  good-nature, can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that
  resemblance.
  
  The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic
  species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face
  much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the
  upper part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and
  extremely white, attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few
  moments they stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian
  on the ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which had been
  intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands behind him. And
  now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, greatly to his
  surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfaction, this very
  person to be no other than ensign Northerton. Nor had the ensign
  forgotten his former antagonist, whom he knew the moment he came to
  himself. His surprize was equal to that of Jones; but I conceive his
  pleasure was rather less on this occasion.
  
  Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him stedfastly
  in the face, “I fancy, sir,” said he, “you did not expect to meet me
  any more in this world, and I confess I had as little expectation to
  find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us once more
  together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I have
  received, even without my own knowledge.”
  
  “It is very much like a man of honour, indeed,” answered Northerton,
  “to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his back. Neither
  am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no sword; but
  if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I can furnish
  myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour ought.”
  
  “Doth it become such a villain as you are,” cries Jones, “to
  contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste no
  time in discourse with you. Justice requires satisfaction of you now,
  and shall have it.” Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she
  was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any
  house in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some
  decent cloaths, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace.
  
  She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world.
  Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who would
  direct them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in fact,
  the good Man of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself down on
  the brow, where, though he had a gun in his hand, he with great
  patience and unconcern had attended the issue.
  
  Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man sitting as
  we have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost agility,
  and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill.
  
  The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said,
  was the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her
  with all manner of conveniencies. Jones having received his direction
  to the place, took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him
  to direct Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.
  
  Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, had
  considered, that as the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he was
  incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman. Besides,
  he knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and could
  return soon enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover declared
  to the villain, that if he attempted the least insult, he would be
  himself immediately the executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones
  unluckily forgot, that though the hands of Northerton were tied, his
  legs were at liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on the
  prisoner that he should not make what use of these he pleased.
  Northerton therefore having given no parole of that kind, thought he
  might without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he
  imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He therefore
  took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through the
  wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were
  perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his escape,
  or give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.
  
  Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have
  spent some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not permit
  him; earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the town
  whither they had been directed. “As to the fellow's escape,” said she,
  “it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity both
  preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at
  the trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me
  ashamed to look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of
  your protection, I should wish to go alone.”
  
  Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she
  absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He
  then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. “With
  regard to the former,” says he, “I have done no more than my duty in
  protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by
  walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend
  you, and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive
  charms of so much beauty.”
  
  Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as
  Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe
  that Jones was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind him,
  yet as she frequently wanted his assistance to help her over stiles,
  and had besides many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged
  to turn about. However, he had better fortune than what attended poor
  Orpheus, for he brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into
  the famous town of Upton.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with a very full
  description of the battle of Upton.
  
  
  Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady
  was, and how she fell into the hands of Mr Northerton, we must beg him
  to suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged, for some
  very good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to delay his
  satisfaction a little longer.
  
  Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than they
  went directly to that inn which in their eyes presented the fairest
  appearance to the street. Here Jones, having ordered a servant to show
  a room above stairs, was ascending, when the dishevelled fair, hastily
  following, was laid hold on by the master of the house, who cried,
  “Heyday, where is that beggar wench going? Stay below stairs, I desire
  you.” But Jones at that instant thundered from above, “Let the lady
  come up,” in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly
  withdrew his hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the
  chamber.
  
  Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then departed, in
  order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some cloaths. The
  poor woman thanked him heartily for all his kindness, and said, she
  hoped she should see him again soon, to thank him a thousand times
  more. During this short conversation, she covered her white bosom as
  well as she could possibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid
  stealing a sly peep or two, though he took all imaginable care to
  avoid giving any offence.
  
  Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a house of
  exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict virtue, and many
  northern lasses of the same predicament, were accustomed to resort in
  their way to Bath. The landlady therefore would by no means have
  admitted any conversation of a disreputable kind to pass under her
  roof. Indeed, so foul and contagious are all such proceedings, that
  they contaminate the very innocent scenes where they are committed,
  and give the name of a bad house, or of a house of ill repute, to all
  those where they are suffered to be carried on.
  
  Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved
  in the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My
  good landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the
  ladies I have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note,
  have expected or insisted on any such thing. But to exclude all vulgar
  concubinage, and to drive all whores in rags from within the walls, is
  within the power of every one. This my landlady very strictly adhered
  to, and this her virtuous guests, who did not travel in rags, would
  very reasonably have expected of her.
  
  Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to imagine that
  Mr Jones and his ragged companion had certain purposes in their
  intention, which, though tolerated in some Christian countries,
  connived at in others, and practised in all, are however as expressly
  forbidden as murder, or any other horrid vice, by that religion which
  is universally believed in those countries. The landlady, therefore,
  had no sooner received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said
  persons than she began to meditate the most expeditious means for
  their expulsion. In order to this, she had provided herself with a
  long and deadly instrument, with which, in times of peace, the
  chambermaid was wont to demolish the labours of the industrious
  spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was
  just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with a
  demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half-naked woman
  upstairs.
  
  Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous
  to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary
  offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are
  highly incensed. For this reason Shakespear hath artfully introduced
  his Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the
  means of inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the
  highest pitch of madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able
  to command his passion on this occasion, than even when he beheld his
  valued present to his wife in the hands of his supposed rival. In
  fact, we regard these efforts as insults on our understanding, and to
  such the pride of man is very difficultly brought to submit.
  
  My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some
  of this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his
  request, when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though
  it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its
  appearance with either death or wound, hath been however held in great
  dread and abhorrence by many wise men--nay, by many brave ones;
  insomuch, that some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded
  cannon, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was
  brandished; and rather than run the hazard of its execution, have
  contented themselves with making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in
  the eyes of all their acquaintance.
  
  To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; for
  though he was attacked and violently belaboured with the aforesaid
  weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resistance; but in a most
  cowardly manner applied, with many entreaties, to his antagonist to
  desist from pursuing her blows; in plain English, he only begged her
  with the utmost earnestness to hear him; but before he could obtain
  his request, my landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced
  that side of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of
  assistance.
  
  There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their
  chusing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the
  person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and
  Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive
  to her, he was no sooner attacked by her husband, than he demonstrated
  an immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a
  very severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being converted
  into fuel for his own fire.
  
  The husband, with great indignation, but with a mixture of pity,
  answered, “You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a
  better man than yourself; ay, every way, that I am;” and presently
  proceeded to discharge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs,
  the last of which had scarce issued from his lips, when a swinging
  blow from the cudgel that Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over
  the shoulders.
  
  It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most
  expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were
  empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom
  and aiming at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to
  the fray, and to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom
  been prevented--not by the miraculous intervention of any heathen
  deity, but by a very natural though fortunate accident, viz., by the
  arrival of Partridge; who entered the house at that instant (for fear
  had caused him to run every step from the hill), and who, seeing the
  danger which threatened his master or companion (which you chuse to
  call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by catching hold of the
  landlady's arm, as it was brandished aloft in the air.
  
  The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow;
  and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she
  let fall the broom; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her
  husband, she fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had
  already given some intimation of himself, by crying, “Zounds! do you
  intend to kill my friend?”
  
  Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand
  still when his friend was attacked; nor was he much displeased with
  that part of the combat which fell to his share; he therefore returned
  my landlady's blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was
  obstinately maintained on all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which
  side Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at
  the top of the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement,
  descended suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair
  inequality of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with
  Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather redoubled
  his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived to his assistance.
  
  Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the
  bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid
  come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a
  wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I
  believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her subject
  Amazons; for her form was robust and man-like, and every way made for
  such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with
  great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to
  receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being
  already flat to her face; her lips were so large, that no swelling
  could be perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a
  fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek-bones
  stood out, as if nature had intended them for two bastions to defend
  her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated,
  and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.
  
  This fair creature entering the field of battle, immediately filed to
  that wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of
  either sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat.
  He accepted the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between
  them.
  
  Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips;
  now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune,
  taking her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom
  Jones, his female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his
  wife, and maid; all which hung in exact balance before her; when a
  good-natured accident put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with
  which half of the combatants had already sufficiently feasted. This
  accident was the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord
  and landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their entreaty
  obtained the same favour of their antagonists: but Susan was not so
  kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian fair having overthrown and
  bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her hands,
  without any regard to his request of a cessation of arms, or to those
  loud exclamations of murder which he roared forth.
  
  No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to
  the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much
  difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not
  immediately sensible of his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the
  floor, guarding his face with his hands; nor did he cease roaring till
  Jones had forced him to look up, and to perceive that the battle was
  at an end.
  
  The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, hiding her
  well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both hastily to the
  door to attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now
  alighted. These the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr
  Jones had at first deposited his fair prize, as it was the best
  apartment in the house. Hither they were obliged to pass through the
  field of battle, which they did with the utmost haste, covering their
  faces with their handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any
  one. Indeed their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor
  unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely
  taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no
  less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; which
  being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately departed to the
  pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan had
  plentifully set a-flowing from his nostrils.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to hostilities,
  and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace between all
  parties.
  
  
  A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their
  custody, arrived about this time. The serjeant presently enquired for
  the principal magistrate of the town, and was informed by my landlord,
  that he himself was vested in that office. He then demanded his
  billets, together with a mug of beer, and complaining it was cold,
  spread himself before the kitchen fire.
  
  Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed lady, who sat
  down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her head upon her arm, was
  bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest my fair readers should be in pain
  concerning a particular circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint
  them, that before she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so
  well covered herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her
  regard to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so
  many men as were now in the room.
  
  One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whispered
  something in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed his eyes on the
  lady, and having looked at her for near a minute, he came up to her,
  saying, “I ask pardon, madam; but I am certain I am not deceived; you
  can be no other person than Captain Waters's lady?”
  
  The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little regarded
  the face of any person present, no sooner looked at the serjeant than
  she presently recollected him, and calling him by his name, answered,
  “That she was indeed the unhappy person he imagined her to be;” but
  added, “I wonder any one should know me in this disguise.” To which
  the serjeant replied, “He was very much surprized to see her ladyship
  in such a dress, and was afraid some accident had happened to
  her.”--“An accident hath happened to me, indeed,” says she, “and I am
  highly obliged to this gentleman” (pointing to Jones) “that it was not
  a fatal one, or that I am now living to mention it.”--“Whatever the
  gentleman hath done,” cries the serjeant, “I am sure the captain will
  make him amends for it; and if I can be of any service, your ladyship
  may command me, and I shall think myself very happy to have it in my
  power to serve your ladyship; and so indeed may any one, for I know
  the captain will well reward them for it.”
  
  The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between the
  serjeant and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running directly up to
  her, began to ask pardon for the offences she had committed, begging
  that all might be imputed to ignorance of her quality: for, “Lud!
  madam,” says she, “how should I have imagined that a lady of your
  fashion would appear in such a dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once
  suspected that your ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have
  burnt my tongue out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your
  ladyship will accept of a gown, till you can get your own cloaths.”
  
  “Prithee, woman,” says Mrs Waters, “cease your impertinence: how can
  you imagine I should concern myself about anything which comes from
  the lips of such low creatures as yourself? But I am surprized at your
  assurance in thinking, after what is past, that I will condescend to
  put on any of your dirty things. I would have you know, creature, I
  have a spirit above that.”
  
  Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive the landlady,
  and to accept her gown: “for I must confess,” cries he, “our
  appearance was a little suspicious when first we came in; and I am
  well assured all this good woman did was, as she professed, out of
  regard to the reputation of her house.”
  
  “Yes, upon my truly was it,” says she: “the gentleman speaks very much
  like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so; and to be certain the
  house is well known to be a house of as good reputation as any on the
  road, and though I say it, is frequented by gentry of the best
  quality, both Irish and English. I defy anybody to say black is my
  eye, for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known your
  ladyship to be your ladyship, I would as soon have burnt my fingers as
  have affronted your ladyship; but truly where gentry come and spend
  their money, I am not willing that they should be scandalized by a set
  of poor shabby vermin, that, wherever they go, leave more lice than
  money behind them; such folks never raise my compassion, for to be
  certain it is foolish to have any for them; and if our justices did as
  they ought, they would be all whipt out of the kingdom, for to be
  certain it is what is most fitting for them. But as for your ladyship,
  I am heartily sorry your ladyship hath had a misfortune, and if your
  ladyship will do me the honour to wear my cloaths till you can get
  some of your ladyship's own, to be certain the best I have is at your
  ladyship's service.”
  
  Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones prevailed most on
  Mrs Waters, I will not determine, but she suffered herself to be
  pacified by this speech of my landlady, and retired with that good
  woman, in order to apparel herself in a decent manner.
  
  My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, but was
  presently interrupted by that generous youth, who shook him heartily
  by the hand, and assured him of entire forgiveness, saying, “If you
  are satisfied, my worthy friend, I promise you I am;” and indeed, in
  one sense, the landlord had the better reason to be satisfied; for he
  had received a bellyfull of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a
  single blow.
  
  Partridge, who had been all this time washing his bloody nose at the
  pump, returned into the kitchen at the instant when his master and the
  landlord were shaking hands with each other. As he was of a peaceable
  disposition, he was pleased with those symptoms of reconciliation; and
  though his face bore some marks of Susan's fist, and many more of her
  nails, he rather chose to be contented with his fortune in the last
  battle than to endeavour at bettering it in another.
  
  The heroic Susan was likewise well contented with her victory, though
  it had cost her a black eye, which Partridge had given her at the
  first onset. Between these two, therefore, a league was struck, and
  those hands which had been the instruments of war became now the
  mediators of peace.
  
  Matters were thus restored to a perfect calm; at which the serjeant,
  though it may seem so contrary to the principles of his profession,
  testified his approbation. “Why now, that's friendly,” said he; “d--n
  me, I hate to see two people bear ill-will to one another after they
  have had a tussel. The only way when friends quarrel is to see it out
  fairly in a friendly manner, as a man may call it, either with a fist,
  or sword, or pistol, according as they like, and then let it be all
  over; for my own part, d--n me if ever I love my friend better than
  when I am fighting with him! To bear malice is more like a Frenchman
  than an Englishman.”
  
  He then proposed a libation as a necessary part of the ceremony at all
  treaties of this kind. Perhaps the reader may here conclude that he
  was well versed in antient history; but this, though highly probable,
  as he cited no authority to support the custom, I will not affirm with
  any confidence. Most likely indeed it is, that he founded his opinion
  on very good authority, since he confirmed it with many violent oaths.
  
  Jones no sooner heard the proposal than, immediately agreeing with the
  learned serjeant, he ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled
  with the liquor used on these occasions, to be brought in, and then
  began the ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in that of the
  landlord, and, seizing the bowl with his left, uttered the usual
  words, and then made his libation. After which, the same was observed
  by all present. Indeed, there is very little need of being particular
  in describing the whole form, as it differed so little from those
  libations of which so much is recorded in antient authors and their
  modern transcribers. The principal difference lay in two instances;
  for, first, the present company poured the liquor only down their
  throats; and, secondly, the serjeant, who officiated as priest, drank
  the last; but he preserved, I believe, the antient form, in swallowing
  much the largest draught of the whole company, and in being the only
  person present who contributed nothing towards the libation besides
  his good offices in assisting at the performance.
  
  The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen fire, where
  good humour seemed to maintain an absolute dominion; and Partridge not
  only forgot his shameful defeat, but converted hunger into thirst, and
  soon became extremely facetious. We must however quit this agreeable
  assembly for a while, and attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters's apartment,
  where the dinner which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it
  took no long time in preparing, having been all drest three days
  before, and required nothing more from the cook than to warm it over
  again.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a description
  of a battle of the amorous kind.
  
  
  Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means of
  flatterers, they may entertain of themselves, or the world may
  conceive of them, have certainly more of mortal than divine about
  them. However elevated their minds may be, their bodies at least
  (which is much the major part of most) are liable to the worst
  infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of human nature. Among
  these latter, the act of eating, which hath by several wise men been
  considered as extremely mean and derogatory from the philosophic
  dignity, must be in some measure performed by the greatest prince,
  heroe, or philosopher upon earth; nay, sometimes Nature hath been so
  frolicsome as to exact of these dignified characters a much more
  exorbitant share of this office than she hath obliged those of the
  lowest order to perform.
  
  To say the truth, as no known inhabitant of this globe is really more
  than man, so none need be ashamed of submitting to what the
  necessities of man demand; but when those great personages I have just
  mentioned condescend to aim at confining such low offices to
  themselves--as when, by hoarding or destroying, they seem desirous to
  prevent any others from eating--then they surely become very low and
  despicable.
  
  Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement to our
  heroe to mention the immoderate ardour with which he laid about him at
  this season. Indeed, it may be doubted whether Ulysses, who by the way
  seems to have had the best stomach of all the heroes in that eating
  poem of the Odyssey, ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of
  that flesh which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox
  was now honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones.
  
  This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may
  account for our heroe's temporary neglect of his fair companion, who
  eat but very little, and was indeed employed in considerations of a
  very different nature, which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had
  entirely satisfied that appetite which a fast of twenty-four hours had
  procured him; but his dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to
  other matters revived; with these matters therefore we shall now
  proceed to acquaint the reader.
  
  Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very
  little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest young fellows in the
  world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the
  most apparent marks of sweetness and good-nature. These qualities were
  indeed so characteristical in his countenance, that, while the spirit
  and sensibility in his eyes, though they must have been perceived by
  an accurate observer, might have escaped the notice of the less
  discerning, so strongly was this good-nature painted in his look, that
  it was remarked by almost every one who saw him.
  
  It was, perhaps, as much owing to this as to a very fine complexion
  that his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which
  might have given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been
  joined to a most masculine person and mien: which latter had as much
  in them of the Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. He was
  besides active, genteel, gay, and good-humoured; and had a flow of
  animal spirits which enlivened every conversation where he was
  present.
  
  When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms which all
  centered in our heroe, and considers at the same time the fresh
  obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be a mark more of
  prudery than candour to entertain a bad opinion of her because she
  conceived a very good opinion of him.
  
  But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my business to
  relate matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters had, in truth, not
  only a good opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him.
  To speak out boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present
  universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied
  indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions,
  appetites, and senses, and is understood to be that preference which
  we give to one kind of food rather than to another.
  
  But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and
  the same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be
  different; for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent
  surloin of beef, or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona
  fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor
  endeavour by any other arts or tricks to gain the affection of the
  said beef, &c. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is generally in
  the absence, not in the presence, of the beloved object. For otherwise
  we might possibly complain of their ingratitude and deafness, with the
  same reason as Pasiphae doth of her bull, whom she endeavoured to
  engage by all the coquetry practised with good success in the
  drawing-room on the much more sensible as well as tender hearts of the
  fine gentlemen there.
  
  The contrary happens in that love which operates between persons of
  the same species, but of different sexes. Here we are no sooner in
  love than it becomes our principal care to engage the affection of the
  object beloved. For what other purpose indeed are our youth instructed
  in all the arts of rendering themselves agreeable? If it was not with
  a view to this love, I question whether any of those trades which deal
  in setting off and adorning the human person would procure a
  livelihood. Nay, those great polishers of our manners, who are by some
  thought to teach what principally distinguishes us from the brute
  creation, even dancing-masters themselves, might possibly find no
  place in society. In short, all the graces which young ladies and
  young gentlemen too learn from others, and the many improvements
  which, by the help of a looking-glass, they add of their own, are in
  reality those very _spicula et faces amoris_ so often mentioned by
  Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own language, the whole
  artillery of love.
  
  Now Mrs Waters and our heroe had no sooner sat down together than the
  former began to play this artillery upon the latter. But here, as we
  are about to attempt a description hitherto unassayed either in prose
  or verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aërial
  beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this
  occasion.
  
  “Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly mansions of
  Seraphina's countenance; for you are truly divine, are always in her
  presence, and well know all the arts of charming; say, what were the
  weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr Jones.”
  
  “First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning
  at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily for our
  heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying into
  his plate, and harmless spent their force. The fair warrior perceived
  their miscarriage, and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a
  deadly sigh. A sigh which none could have heard unmoved, and which was
  sufficient at once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet,
  so tender, that the insinuating air must have found its subtle way to
  the heart of our heroe, had it not luckily been driven from his ears
  by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale, which at that time he was
  pouring forth. Many other weapons did she assay; but the god of eating
  (if there be any such deity, for I do not confidently assert it)
  preserved his votary; or perhaps it may not be _dignus vindice nodus_,
  and the present security of Jones may be accounted for by natural
  means; for as love frequently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so
  may hunger possibly, in some cases, defend us against love.
  
  “The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, determined on
  a short cessation of arms. Which interval she employed in making ready
  every engine of amorous warfare for the renewing of the attack when
  dinner should be over.
  
  “No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began her
  operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise against Mr
  Jones, she shot from its corner a most penetrating glance; which,
  though great part of its force was spent before it reached our heroe,
  did not vent itself absolutely without effect. This the fair one
  perceiving, hastily withdrew her eyes, and levelled them downwards, as
  if she was concerned for what she had done; though by this means she
  designed only to draw him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes,
  through which she intended to surprize his heart. And now, gently
  lifting up those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an
  impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small charms at
  once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not a smile of mirth, nor
  of joy; but a smile of affection, which most ladies have always ready
  at their command, and which serves them to show at once their
  good-humour, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth.
  
  “This smile our heroe received full in his eyes, and was immediately
  staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the
  enemy, and indeed to feel their success. A parley now was set on foot
  between the parties; during which the artful fair so slily and
  imperceptibly carried on her attack, that she had almost subdued the
  heart of our heroe before she again repaired to acts of hostility. To
  confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch
  defence, and treacherously delivered up the garrison, without duly
  weighing his allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had
  the amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked the royal battery,
  by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her neck, than the
  heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the fair conqueror enjoyed
  the usual fruits of her victory.”
  
  Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we
  think proper to end the chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very common,
  though not very friendly, conclusion.
  
  
  While our lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is
  partly described in the foregoing chapter, they were likewise
  furnishing out an entertainment for their good friends in the kitchen.
  And this in a double sense, by affording them matter for their
  conversation, and, at the same time, drink to enliven their spirits.
  
  There were now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord
  and landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr
  Partridge, the serjeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and
  her maid.
  
  Partridge having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from
  the Man of the Hill concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had
  been found by Jones, the serjeant proceeded to that part of her
  history which was known to him. He said she was the wife of Mr Waters,
  who was a captain in their regiment, and had often been with him at
  quarters. “Some folks,” says he, “used indeed to doubt whether they
  were lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that's no
  business of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I
  believe she is little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain
  may go to heaven when the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does,
  that is neither here nor there; for he won't want company. And the
  lady, to give the devil his due, is a very good sort of lady, and
  loves the cloth, and is always desirous to do strict justice to it;
  for she hath begged off many a poor soldier, and, by her good-will,
  would never have any of them punished. But yet, to be sure, Ensign
  Northerton and she were very well acquainted together at our last
  quarters; that is the very right and truth of the matter. But the
  captain he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for
  him too, what does it signify? He loves her not a bit the worse, and I
  am certain would run any man through the body that was to abuse her;
  therefore I won't abuse her, for my part. I only repeat what other
  folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says, there must be some
  truth in.”--“Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I warrant you,” cries
  Partridge; “_Veritas odium parit_”--“All a parcel of scandalous
  stuff,” answered the mistress of the house. “I am sure, now she is
  drest, she looks like a very good sort of lady, and she behaves
  herself like one; for she gave me a guinea for the use of my
  cloaths.”--“A very good lady indeed!” cries the landlord; “and if you
  had not been a little too hasty, you would not have quarrelled with
  her as you did at first.”--“You need mention that with my truly!”
   answered she: “if it had not been for your nonsense, nothing had
  happened. You must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and
  throw in your fool's discourse.”--“Well, well,” answered he; “what's
  past cannot be mended, so there's an end of the matter.”--“Yes,” cries
  she, “for this once; but will it be mended ever the more hereafter?
  This is not the first time I have suffered for your numscull's pate. I
  wish you would always hold your tongue in the house, and meddle only
  in matters without doors, which concern you. Don't you remember what
  happened about seven years ago?”--“Nay, my dear,” returned he, “don't
  rip up old stories. Come, come, all's well, and I am sorry for what I
  have done.” The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the
  peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was
  a great lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those
  harmless quarrels which tend rather to the production of comical than
  tragical incidents.
  
  The serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling?
  “None of your magisters,” answered Partridge; “I am no man's servant, I
  assure you; for, though I have had misfortunes in the world, I write
  gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple as I may appear now, I
  have taught grammar-school in my time; _sed hei mihi! non sum quod
  fui_.”--“No offence, I hope, sir,” said the serjeant; “where, then, if
  I may venture to be so bold, may you and your friend be
  travelling?”--“You have now denominated us right,” says Partridge.
  “_Amici sumus._ And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest
  gentlemen in the kingdom” (at which words both landlord and landlady
  pricked up their ears). “He is the heir of Squire Allworthy.”--“What,
  the squire who doth so much good all over the country?” cries my
  landlady. “Even he,” answered Partridge.--“Then I warrant,” says she,
  “he'll have a swinging great estate hereafter.”--“Most certainly,”
   answered Partridge.--“Well,” replied the landlady, “I thought the first
  moment I saw him he looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my
  husband here, to be sure, is wiser than anybody.”--“I own, my dear,”
   cries he, “it was a mistake.”--“A mistake, indeed!” answered she; “but
  when did you ever know me to make such mistakes?”--“But how comes it,
  sir,” cries the landlord, “that such a great gentleman walks about the
  country afoot?”--“I don't know,” returned Partridge; “great gentlemen
  have humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen horses and servants at
  Gloucester; and nothing would serve him, but last night, it being very
  hot weather, he must cool himself with a walk to yon high hill, whither
  I likewise walked with him to bear him company; but if ever you catch
  me there again: for I was never so frightened in all my life. We met
  with the strangest man there.”--“I'll be hanged,” cries the landlord,
  “if it was not the Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a
  man; but I know several people who believe it is the devil that lives
  there.”--“Nay, nay, like enough,” says Partridge; “and now you put me
  in the head of it, I verily and sincerely believe it was the devil,
  though I could not perceive his cloven foot: but perhaps he might have
  the power given him to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in what
  shapes they please.”--“And pray, sir,” says the serjeant, “no offence,
  I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have
  heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and that it is
  only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for, if it
  was publickly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of no
  more use than we are in time of peace.”--“Those officers,” says
  Partridge, “are very great scholars, I suppose.”--“Not much of
  schollards neither,” answered the serjeant; “they have not half your
  learning, sir, I believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must be a
  devil, notwithstanding what they said, though one of them was a
  captain; for methought, thinks I to myself, if there be no devil, how
  can wicked people be sent to him? and I have read all that upon a
  book.”--“Some of your officers,” quoth the landlord, “will find there
  is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I don't question but he'll pay
  off some old scores upon my account. Here was one quartered upon me
  half a year, who had the conscience to take up one of my best beds,
  though he hardly spent a shilling a day in the house, and suffered his
  men to roast cabbages at the kitchen fire, because I would not give
  them a dinner on a Sunday. Every good Christian must desire there
  should be a devil for the punishment of such wretches.”--“Harkee,
  landlord,” said the serjeant, “don't abuse the cloth, for I won't take
  it.”--“D--n the cloth!” answered the landlord, “I have suffered enough
  by them.”--“Bear witness, gentlemen,” says the serjeant, “he curses the
  king, and that's high treason.”--“I curse the king! you villain,” said
  the landlord. “Yes, you did,” cries the serjeant; “you cursed the
  cloth, and that's cursing the king. It's all one and the same; for
  every man who curses the cloth would curse the king if he durst; so for
  matter o' that, it's all one and the same thing.”--“Excuse me there, Mr
  Serjeant,” quoth Partridge, “that's a _non sequitur_.”--“None of your
  outlandish linguo,” answered the serjeant, leaping from his seat; “I
  will not sit still and hear the cloth abused.”--“You mistake me,
  friend,” cries Partridge. “I did not mean to abuse the cloth; I only
  said your conclusion was a _non sequitur_.[*]”--“You
  are another,” cries the serjeant,” an you come to that. No more a
  _sequitur_ than yourself. You are a pack of rascals, and I'll prove it;
  for I will fight the best man of you all for twenty pound.” This
  challenge effectually silenced Partridge, whose stomach for drubbing
  did not so soon return after the hearty meal which he had lately been
  treated with; but the coachman, whose bones were less sore, and whose
  appetite for fighting was somewhat sharper, did not so easily brook the
  affront, of which he conceived some part at least fell to his share. He
  started therefore from his seat, and, advancing to the serjeant, swore
  he looked on himself to be as good a man as any in the army, and
  offered to box for a guinea. The military man accepted the combat, but
  refused the wager; upon which both immediately stript and engaged, till
  the driver of horses was so well mauled by the leader of men, that he
  was obliged to exhaust his small remainder of breath in begging for
  quarter.
  
    [*] This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an affront,
    is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not follow
    from the premises.
  
  The young lady was now desirous to depart, and had given orders for
  her coach to be prepared; but all in vain, for the coachman was
  disabled from performing his office for that evening. An antient
  heathen would perhaps have imputed this disability to the god of
  drink, no less than to the god of war; for, in reality, both the
  combatants had sacrificed as well to the former deity as to the
  latter. To speak plainly, they were both dead drunk, nor was Partridge
  in a much better situation. As for my landlord, drinking was his
  trade; and the liquor had no more effect on him than it had on any
  other vessel in his house.
  
  The mistress of the inn, being summoned to attend Mr Jones and his
  companion at their tea, gave a full relation of the latter part of the
  foregoing scene; and at the same time expressed great concern for the
  young lady, “who,” she said, “was under the utmost uneasiness at being
  prevented from pursuing her journey. She is a sweet pretty creature,”
   added she, “and I am certain I have seen her face before. I fancy she
  is in love, and running away from her friends. Who knows but some
  young gentleman or other may be expecting her, with a heart as heavy
  as her own?”
  
  Jones fetched a heavy sigh at those words; of which, though Mrs Waters
  observed it, she took no notice while the landlady continued in the
  room; but, after the departure of that good woman, she could not
  forbear giving our heroe certain hints on her suspecting some very
  dangerous rival in his affections. The aukward behaviour of Mr Jones
  on this occasion convinced her of the truth, without his giving her a
  direct answer to any of her questions; but she was not nice enough in
  her amours to be greatly concerned at the discovery. The beauty of
  Jones highly charmed her eye; but as she could not see his heart, she
  gave herself no concern about it. She could feast heartily at the
  table of love, without reflecting that some other already had been, or
  hereafter might be, feasted with the same repast. A sentiment which,
  if it deals but little in refinement, deals, however, much in
  substance; and is less capricious, and perhaps less ill-natured and
  selfish, than the desires of those females who can be contented enough
  to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided they are
  sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what means she came
  into that distressful situation from which she was rescued by Jones.
  
  
  Though Nature hath by no means mixed up an equal share either of
  curiosity or vanity in every human composition, there is perhaps no
  individual to whom she hath not allotted such a proportion of both as
  requires much arts, and pains too, to subdue and keep under;--a
  conquest, however, absolutely necessary to every one who would in any
  degree deserve the characters of wisdom or good breeding.
  
  As Jones, therefore, might very justly be called a well-bred man, he
  had stifled all that curiosity which the extraordinary manner in which
  he had found Mrs Waters must be supposed to have occasioned. He had,
  indeed, at first thrown out some few hints to the lady; but, when he
  perceived her industriously avoiding any explanation, he was contented
  to remain in ignorance, the rather as he was not without suspicion
  that there were some circumstances which must have raised her blushes,
  had she related the whole truth.
  
  Now since it is possible that some of our readers may not so easily
  acquiesce under the same ignorance, and as we are very desirous to
  satisfy them all, we have taken uncommon pains to inform ourselves of
  the real fact, with the relation of which we shall conclude this book.
  
  This lady, then, had lived some years with one Captain Waters, who was
  a captain in the same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She
  past for that gentleman's wife, and went by his name; and yet, as the
  serjeant said, there were some doubts concerning the reality of their
  marriage, which we shall not at present take upon us to resolve.
  
  Mrs Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an
  intimacy with the above-mentioned ensign, which did no great credit to
  her reputation. That she had a remarkable fondness for that young
  fellow is most certain; but whether she indulged this to any very
  criminal lengths is not so extremely clear, unless we will suppose
  that women never grant every favour to a man but one, without granting
  him that one also.
  
  The division of the regiment to which Captain Waters belonged had two
  days preceded the march of that company to which Mr Northerton was the
  ensign; so that the former had reached Worcester the very day after
  the unfortunate re-encounter between Jones and Northerton which we
  have before recorded.
  
  Now, it had been agreed between Mrs Waters and the captain that she
  would accompany him in his march as far as Worcester, where they were
  to take their leave of each other, and she was thence to return to
  Bath, where she was to stay till the end of the winter's campaign
  against the rebels.
  
  With this agreement Mr Northerton was made acquainted. To say the
  truth, the lady had made him an assignation at this very place, and
  promised to stay at Worcester till his division came thither; with
  what view, and for what purpose, must be left to the reader's
  divination; for, though we are obliged to relate facts, we are not
  obliged to do a violence to our nature by any comments to the
  disadvantage of the loveliest part of the creation.
  
  Northerton no sooner obtained a release from his captivity, as we have
  seen, than he hasted away to overtake Mrs Waters; which, as he was a
  very active nimble fellow, he did at the last-mentioned city, some few
  hours after Captain Waters had left her. At his first arrival he made
  no scruple of acquainting her with the unfortunate accident; which he
  made appear very unfortunate indeed, for he totally extracted every
  particle of what could be called fault, at least in a court of honour,
  though he left some circumstances which might be questionable in a
  court of law.
  
  Women, to their glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that
  violent and apparently disinterested passion of love, which seeks only
  the good of its object, than men. Mrs Waters, therefore, was no sooner
  apprized of the danger to which her lover was exposed, than she lost
  every consideration besides that of his safety; and this being a
  matter equally agreeable to the gentleman, it became the immediate
  subject of debate between them.
  
  After much consultation on this matter, it was at length agreed that
  the ensign should go across the country to Hereford, whence he might
  find some conveyance to one of the sea-ports in Wales, and thence
  might make his escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs Waters
  declared she would bear him company; and for which she was able to
  furnish him with money, a very material article to Mr Northerton, she
  having then in her pocket three bank-notes to the amount of £90,
  besides some cash, and a diamond ring of pretty considerable value on
  her finger. All which she, with the utmost confidence, revealed to
  this wicked man, little suspecting she should by these means inspire
  him with a design of robbing her. Now, as they must, by taking horses
  from Worcester, have furnished any pursuers with the means of
  hereafter discovering their route, the ensign proposed, and the lady
  presently agreed, to make their first stage on foot; for which purpose
  the hardness of the frost was very seasonable.
  
  The main part of the lady's baggage was already at Bath, and she had
  nothing with her at present besides a very small quantity of linen,
  which the gallant undertook to carry in his own pockets. All things,
  therefore, being settled in the evening, they arose early the next
  morning, and at five o'clock departed from Worcester, it being then
  above two hours before day, but the moon, which was then at the full,
  gave them all the light she was capable of affording.
  
  Mrs Waters was not of that delicate race of women who are obliged to
  the invention of vehicles for the capacity of removing themselves from
  one place to another, and with whom consequently a coach is reckoned
  among the necessaries of life. Her limbs were indeed full of strength
  and agility, and, as her mind was no less animated with spirit, she
  was perfectly able to keep pace with her nimble lover.
  
  Having travelled on for some miles in a high road, which Northerton
  said he was informed led to Hereford, they came at the break of day to
  the side of a large wood, where he suddenly stopped, and, affecting to
  meditate a moment with himself, expressed some apprehensions from
  travelling any longer in so public a way. Upon which he easily
  persuaded his fair companion to strike with him into a path which
  seemed to lead directly through the wood, and which at length brought
  them both to the bottom of Mazard Hill.
  
  Whether the execrable scheme which he now attempted to execute was the
  effect of previous deliberation, or whether it now first came into his
  head, I cannot determine. But being arrived in this lonely place,
  where it was very improbable he should meet with any interruption, he
  suddenly slipped his garter from his leg, and, laying violent hands on
  the poor woman, endeavoured to perpetrate that dreadful and detestable
  fact which we have before commemorated, and which the providential
  appearance of Jones did so fortunately prevent.
  
  Happy was it for Mrs Waters that she was not of the weakest order of
  females; for no sooner did she perceive, by his tying a knot in his
  garter, and by his declarations, what his hellish intentions were,
  than she stood stoutly to her defence, and so strongly struggled with
  her enemy, screaming all the while for assistance, that she delayed
  the execution of the villain's purpose several minutes, by which means
  Mr Jones came to her relief at that very instant when her strength
  failed and she was totally overpowered, and delivered her from the
  ruffian's hands, with no other loss than that of her cloaths, which
  were torn from her back, and of the diamond ring, which during the
  contention either dropped from her finger, or was wrenched from it by
  Northerton.
  
  Thus, reader, we have given thee the fruits of a very painful enquiry
  which for thy satisfaction we have made into this matter. And here we
  have opened to thee a scene of folly as well as villany, which we
  could scarce have believed a human creature capable of being guilty
  of, had we not remembered that this fellow was at that time firmly
  persuaded that he had already committed a murder, and had forfeited
  his life to the law. As he concluded therefore that his only safety
  lay in flight, he thought the possessing himself of this poor woman's
  money and ring would make him amends for the additional burthen he was
  to lay on his conscience.
  
  And here, reader, we must strictly caution thee that thou dost not
  take any occasion, from the misbehaviour of such a wretch as this, to
  reflect on so worthy and honourable a body of men as are the officers
  of our army in general. Thou wilt be pleased to consider that this
  fellow, as we have already informed thee, had neither the birth nor
  education of a gentleman, nor was a proper person to be enrolled among
  the number of such. If, therefore, his baseness can justly reflect on
  any besides himself, it must be only on those who gave him his
  commission.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK X.
  
  IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by modern
  critics.
  
  
  Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt
  be; for, perhaps, thou may'st be as learned in human nature as
  Shakespear himself was, and, perhaps, thou may'st be no wiser than
  some of his editors. Now, lest this latter should be the case, we
  think proper, before we go any farther together, to give thee a few
  wholesome admonitions; that thou may'st not as grossly misunderstand
  and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors have misunderstood
  and misrepresented their author.
  
  First, then, we warn thee not too hastily to condemn any of the
  incidents in this our history as impertinent and foreign to our main
  design, because thou dost not immediately conceive in what manner such
  incident may conduce to that design. This work may, indeed, be
  considered as a great creation of our own; and for a little reptile of
  a critic to presume to find fault with any of its parts, without
  knowing the manner in which the whole is connected, and before he
  comes to the final catastrophe, is a most presumptuous absurdity. The
  allusion and metaphor we have here made use of, we must acknowledge to
  be infinitely too great for our occasion; but there is, indeed, no
  other, which is at all adequate to express the difference between an
  author of the first rate and a critic of the lowest.
  
  Another caution we would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou
  dost not find out too near a resemblance between certain characters
  here introduced; as, for instance, between the landlady who appears in
  the seventh book and her in the ninth. Thou art to know, friend, that
  there are certain characteristics in which most individuals of every
  profession and occupation agree. To be able to preserve these
  characteristics, and at the same time to diversify their operations,
  is one talent of a good writer. Again, to mark the nice distinction
  between two persons actuated by the same vice or folly is another;
  and, as this last talent is found in very few writers, so is the true
  discernment of it found in as few readers; though, I believe, the
  observation of this forms a very principal pleasure in those who are
  capable of the discovery; every person, for instance, can distinguish
  between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling Flutter; but to note the
  difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir Courtly Nice requires a
  more exquisite judgment: for want of which, vulgar spectators of plays
  very often do great injustice in the theatre; where I have sometimes
  known a poet in danger of being convicted as a thief, upon much worse
  evidence than the resemblance of hands hath been held to be in the
  law. In reality, I apprehend every amorous widow on the stage would
  run the hazard of being condemned as a servile imitation of Dido, but
  that happily very few of our play-house critics understand enough of
  Latin to read Virgil.
  
  In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for,
  perhaps, thy heart may be better than thy head), not to condemn a
  character as a bad one, because it is not perfectly a good one. If
  thou dost delight in these models of perfection, there are books enow
  written to gratify thy taste; but, as we have not, in the course of
  our conversation, ever happened to meet with any such person, we have
  not chosen to introduce any such here. To say the truth, I a little
  question whether mere man ever arrived at this consummate degree of
  excellence, as well as whether there hath ever existed a monster bad
  enough to verify that
  
        _----nulla virtute redemptum
         A vitiis_----[*]
  
    [*] Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue
  
  in Juvenal; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served by
  inserting characters of such angelic perfection, or such diabolical
  depravity, in any work of invention; since, from contemplating either,
  the mind of man is more likely to be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame
  than to draw any good uses from such patterns; for in the former
  instance he may be both concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of
  excellence in his nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever
  arriving at; and in contemplating the latter he may be no less
  affected with those uneasy sensations, at seeing the nature of which
  he is a partaker degraded into so odious and detestable a creature.
  
  In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the
  admiration and affection of a well-disposed mind, though there should
  appear some of those little blemishes _quas humana parum cavit
  natura_, they will raise our compassion rather than our abhorrence.
  Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use than the imperfections which
  are seen in examples of this kind; since such form a kind of surprize,
  more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds than the faults of very
  vicious and wicked persons. The foibles and vices of men, in whom
  there is great mixture of good, become more glaring objects from the
  virtues which contrast them and shew their deformity; and when we find
  such vices attended with their evil consequence to our favourite
  characters, we are not only taught to shun them for our own sake, but
  to hate them for the mischiefs they have already brought on those we
  love.
  
  And now, my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will,
  if you please, once more set forward with our history.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very extraordinary
  adventures which ensued at the inn.
  
  
  Now the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous
  enemies, and chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal, man,
  had confined all the day to her lurking-place, sports wantonly o'er
  the lawns; now on some hollow tree the owl, shrill chorister of the
  night, hoots forth notes which might charm the ears of some modern
  connoisseurs in music; now, in the imagination of the half-drunk
  clown, as he staggers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard,
  to his home, fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and
  ruffians are awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English,
  it was now midnight; and the company at the inn, as well those who
  have been already mentioned in this history, as some others who
  arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only Susan Chambermaid was
  now stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen before she retired
  to the arms of the fond expecting hostler.
  
  In this posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman arrived there
  post. He immediately alighted from his horse, and, coming up to Susan,
  enquired of her, in a very abrupt and confused manner, being almost
  out of breath with eagerness, Whether there was any lady in the house?
  The hour of night, and the behaviour of the man, who stared very
  wildly all the time, a little surprized Susan, so that she hesitated
  before she made any answer; upon which the gentleman, with redoubled
  eagerness, begged her to give him a true information, saying, He had
  lost his wife, and was come in pursuit of her. “Upon my shoul,” cries
  he, “I have been near catching her already in two or three places, if
  I had not found her gone just as I came up with her. If she be in the
  house, do carry me up in the dark and show her to me; and if she be
  gone away before me, do tell me which way I shall go after her to meet
  her, and, upon my shoul, I will make you the richest poor woman in the
  nation.” He then pulled out a handful of guineas, a sight which would
  have bribed persons of much greater consequence than this poor wench
  to much worse purposes.
  
  Susan, from the account she had received of Mrs Waters, made not the
  least doubt but that she was the very identical stray whom the right
  owner pursued. As she concluded, therefore, with great appearance of
  reason, that she never could get money in an honester way than by
  restoring a wife to her husband, she made no scruple of assuring the
  gentleman that the lady he wanted was then in the house; and was
  presently afterwards prevailed upon (by very liberal promises, and
  some earnest paid into her hands) to conduct him to the bedchamber of
  Mrs Waters.
  
  It hath been a custom long established in the polite world, and that
  upon very solid and substantial reasons, that a husband shall never
  enter his wife's apartment without first knocking at the door. The
  many excellent uses of this custom need scarce be hinted to a reader
  who hath any knowledge of the world; for by this means the lady hath
  time to adjust herself, or to remove any disagreeable object out of
  the way; for there are some situations in which nice and delicate
  women would not be discovered by their husbands.
  
  To say the truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among the
  polished part of mankind, which, though they may, to coarser
  judgments, appear as matters of mere form, are found to have much of
  substance in them, by the more discerning; and lucky would it have
  been had the custom above mentioned been observed by our gentleman in
  the present instance. Knock, indeed, he did at the door, but not with
  one of those gentle raps which is usual on such occasions. On the
  contrary, when he found the door locked, he flew at it with such
  violence, that the lock immediately gave way, the door burst open, and
  he fell headlong into the room.
  
  He had no sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, upon his
  legs likewise, appeared--with shame and sorrow are we obliged to
  proceed--our heroe himself, who, with a menacing voice, demanded of
  the gentleman who he was, and what he meant by daring to burst open
  his chamber in that outrageous manner.
  
  The gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, and was
  going to ask pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, as the moon shone
  very bright, he cast his eyes on stays, gowns, petticoats, caps,
  ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, &c., all which lay in a
  disordered manner on the floor. All these, operating on the natural
  jealousy of his temper, so enraged him, that he lost all power of
  speech; and, without returning any answer to Jones, he endeavoured to
  approach the bed.
  
  Jones immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, which soon
  proceeded to blows on both sides. And now Mrs Waters (for we must
  confess she was in the same bed), being, I suppose, awakened from her
  sleep, and seeing two men fighting in her bedchamber, began to scream
  in the most violent manner, crying out murder! robbery! and more
  frequently rape! which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she should
  mention, who do not consider that these words of exclamation are used
  by ladies in a fright, as fa, la, la, ra, da, &c., are in music, only
  as the vehicles of sound, and without any fixed ideas.
  
  Next to the lady's chamber was deposited the body of an Irish
  gentleman who arrived too late at the inn to have been mentioned
  before. This gentleman was one of those whom the Irish call a
  calabalaro, or cavalier. He was a younger brother of a good family,
  and, having no fortune at home, was obliged to look abroad in order to
  get one; for which purpose he was proceeding to the Bath, to try his
  luck with cards and the women.
  
  This young fellow lay in bed reading one of Mrs Behn's novels; for he
  had been instructed by a friend that he would find no more effectual
  method of recommending himself to the ladies than the improving his
  understanding, and filling his mind with good literature. He no
  sooner, therefore, heard the violent uproar in the next room, than he
  leapt from his bolster, and, taking his sword in one hand, and the
  candle which burnt by him in the other, he went directly to Mrs
  Waters's chamber.
  
  If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock to
  the decency of the lady, it made her presently amends by considerably
  abating her fears; for no sooner had the calabalaro entered the room
  than he cried out, “Mr Fitzpatrick, what the devil is the maning of
  this?” Upon which the other immediately answered, “O, Mr Maclachlan! I
  am rejoiced you are here.--This villain hath debauched my wife, and is
  got into bed with her.”--“What wife?” cries Maclachlan; “do not I know
  Mrs Fitzpatrick very well, and don't I see that the lady, whom the
  gentleman who stands here in his shirt is lying in bed with, is none
  of her?”
  
  Fitzpatrick, now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had of the
  lady, as by her voice, which might have been distinguished at a
  greater distance than he now stood from her, that he had made a very
  unfortunate mistake, began to ask many pardons of the lady; and then,
  turning to Jones, he said, “I would have you take notice I do not ask
  your pardon, for you have bate me; for which I am resolved to have
  your blood in the morning.”
  
  Jones treated this menace with much contempt; and Mr Maclachlan
  answered, “Indeed, Mr Fitzpatrick, you may be ashamed of your own
  self, to disturb people at this time of night; if all the people in
  the inn were not asleep, you would have awakened them as you have me.
  The gentleman has served you very rightly. Upon my conscience, though
  I have no wife, if you had treated her so, I would have cut your
  throat.”
  
  Jones was so confounded with his fears for his lady's reputation, that
  he knew neither what to say or do; but the invention of women is, as
  hath been observed, much readier than that of men. She recollected
  that there was a communication between her chamber and that of Mr
  Jones; relying, therefore, on his honour and her own assurance, she
  answered, “I know not what you mean, villains! I am wife to none of
  you. Help! Rape! Murder! Rape!”--And now, the landlady coming into the
  room, Mrs Waters fell upon her with the utmost virulence, saying, “She
  thought herself in a sober inn, and not in a bawdy-house; but that a
  set of villains had broke into her room, with an intent upon her
  honour, if not upon her life; and both, she said, were equally dear to
  her.”
  
  The landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman in bed had
  done before. She cried, “She was undone, and that the reputation of
  her house, which was never blown upon before, was utterly destroyed.”
   Then, turning to the men, she cried, “What, in the devil's name, is
  the reason of all this disturbance in the lady's room?” Fitzpatrick,
  hanging down his head, repeated, “That he had committed a mistake, for
  which he heartily asked pardon,” and then retired with his countryman.
  Jones, who was too ingenious to have missed the hint given him by his
  fair one, boldly asserted, “That he had run to her assistance upon
  hearing the door broke open, with what design he could not conceive,
  unless of robbing the lady; which, if they intended, he said, he had
  the good fortune to prevent.” “I never had a robbery committed in my
  house since I have kept it,” cries the landlady; “I would have you to
  know, sir, I harbour no highwaymen here; I scorn the word, thof I say
  it. None but honest, good gentlefolks, are welcome to my house; and, I
  thank good luck, I have always had enow of such customers; indeed as
  many as I could entertain. Here hath been my lord--,” and then she
  repeated over a catalogue of names and titles, many of which we might,
  perhaps, be guilty of a breach of privilege by inserting.
  
  Jones, after much patience, at length interrupted her, by making an
  apology to Mrs Waters, for having appeared before her in his shirt,
  assuring her “That nothing but a concern for her safety could have
  prevailed on him to do it.” The reader may inform himself of her
  answer, and, indeed, of her whole behaviour to the end of the scene,
  by considering the situation which she affected, it being that of a
  modest lady, who was awakened out of her sleep by three strange men in
  her chamber. This was the part which she undertook to perform; and,
  indeed, she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses
  could exceed her, in any of their performances, either on or off the
  stage.
  
  And hence, I think, we may very fairly draw an argument, to prove how
  extremely natural virtue is to the fair sex; for, though there is not,
  perhaps, one in ten thousand who is capable of making a good actress,
  and even among these we rarely see two who are equally able to
  personate the same character, yet this of virtue they can all
  admirably well put on; and as well those individuals who have it not,
  as those who possess it, can all act it to the utmost degree of
  perfection.
  
  When the men were all departed, Mrs Waters, recovering from her fear,
  recovered likewise from her anger, and spoke in much gentler accents
  to the landlady, who did not so readily quit her concern for the
  reputation of the house, in favour of which she began again to number
  the many great persons who had slept under her roof; but the lady
  stopt her short, and having absolutely acquitted her of having had any
  share in the past disturbance, begged to be left to her repose, which,
  she said, she hoped to enjoy unmolested during the remainder of the
  night. Upon which the landlady, after much civility and many
  courtsies, took her leave.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chamber-maid, proper to
  be read by all inn-keepers and their servants; with the arrival, and
  affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which may teach persons
  of condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world.
  
  
  The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of
  bed when the door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to
  enquire into the first occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the
  strange gentleman was, and when and how he arrived.
  
  Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already, varying
  the truth only in some circumstances, as she saw convenient, and
  totally concealing the money which she had received. But whereas her
  mistress had, in the preface to her enquiry, spoken much in compassion
  for the fright which the lady had been in concerning any intended
  depredations on her virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring to quiet
  the concern which her mistress seemed to be under on that account, by
  swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed.
  
  The landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. “A likely story,
  truly,” cried she, “that a woman should cry out, and endeavour to
  expose herself, if that was the case! I desire to know what better
  proof any lady can give of her virtue than her crying out, which, I
  believe, twenty people can witness for her she did? I beg, madam, you
  would spread no such scandal of any of my guests; for it will not only
  reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no vagabonds, nor
  wicked beggarly people, come here.”
  
  “Well,” says Susan, “then I must not believe my own eyes.” “No,
  indeed, must you not always,” answered her mistress; “I would not have
  believed my own eyes against such good gentlefolks. I have not had a
  better supper ordered this half-year than they ordered last night; and
  so easy and good-humoured were they, that they found no fault with my
  Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for champagne; and to be sure
  it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best champagne in the
  kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it 'em; and they drank me two
  bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such sober good sort
  of people.”
  
  Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other matters.
  “And so you tell me,” continued she, “that the strange gentleman came
  post, and there is a footman without with the horses; why, then, he is
  certainly some of your great gentlefolks too. Why did not you ask him
  whether he'd have any supper? I think he is in the other gentleman's
  room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps he'll order something
  when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it. Now don't
  commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the fire's out, and
  the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton, don't blab out that we
  have none. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to
  bed, and he never refuses to cut it up warm when I desire it. Go,
  remember there's all sorts of mutton and fowls; go, open the door
  with, Gentlemen, d'ye call? and if they say nothing, ask what his
  honour will be pleased to have for supper? Don't forget his honour.
  Go; if you don't mind all these matters better, you'll never come to
  anything.”
  
  Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the two
  gentlemen were got both into the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” says the
  landlady, “in the same bed! that's impossible; they are two arrant
  scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe young Squire Allworthy guessed
  right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had
  broke open the lady's door with any of the wicked designs of a
  gentleman, he would never have sneaked away to another room to save
  the expense of a supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly
  thieves, and their searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence.”
  
  In these censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great injustice; for
  he was really born a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and though,
  perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his heart as well as in his
  head, yet being a sneaking or a niggardly fellow was not one of them.
  In reality, he was so generous a man, that, whereas he had received a
  very handsome fortune with his wife, he had now spent every penny of
  it, except some little pittance which was settled upon her; and, in
  order to possess himself of this, he had used her with such cruelty,
  that, together with his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it
  had forced the poor woman to run away from him.
  
  This gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from
  Chester in one day, with which, and some good dry blows he had
  received in the scuffle, his bones were so sore, that, added to the
  soreness of his mind, it had quite deprived him of any appetite for
  eating. And being now so violently disappointed in the woman whom, at
  the maid's instance, he had mistaken for his wife, it never once
  entered into his head that she might nevertheless be in the house,
  though he had erred in the first person he had attacked. He therefore
  yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from searching any farther
  after her that night, and accepted the kind offer of part of his bed.
  
  The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They were
  more ready to order than the landlady was to provide; however, after
  being pretty well satisfied by them of the real truth of the case, and
  that Mr Fitzpatrick was no thief, she was at length prevailed on to
  set some cold meat before them, which they were devouring with great
  greediness, when Partridge came into the kitchen. He had been first
  awaked by the hurry which we have before seen; and while he was
  endeavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a screech-owl had
  given him such a serenade at his window, that he leapt in a most
  horrible affright from his bed, and, huddling on his cloaths with
  great expedition, ran down to the protection of the company, whom he
  heard talking below in the kitchen.
  
  His arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she
  was just about to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but
  the friend of young Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected,
  especially as he called for a pint of wine to be mulled. She
  immediately obeyed, by putting the same quantity of perry to the fire;
  for this readily answered to the name of every kind of wine.
  
  The Irish footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going to
  follow; but Partridge invited him to stay and partake of his wine,
  which the lad very thankfully accepted. The schoolmaster was indeed
  afraid to return to bed by himself; and as he did not know how soon he
  might lose the company of my landlady, he was resolved to secure that
  of the boy, in whose presence he apprehended no danger from the devil
  or any of his adherents.
  
  And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan, being
  ordered out, returned, introducing two young women in riding habits,
  one of which was so very richly laced, that Partridge and the post-boy
  instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell to her
  courtsies, and her ladyships, with great eagerness.
  
  The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great condescension,
  “If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm myself a few minutes at
  your kitchen fire, for it is really very cold; but I must insist on
  disturbing no one from his seat.” This was spoken on account of
  Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of the room, struck with
  the utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of the lady's dress.
  Indeed, she had a much better title to respect than this; for she was
  one of the most beautiful creatures in the world.
  
  The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but could
  not prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to the fire
  two hands, which had every property of snow in them, except that of
  melting. Her companion, who was indeed her maid, likewise pulled off
  her gloves, and discovered what bore an exact resemblance, in cold and
  colour, to a piece of frozen beef.
  
  “I wish, madam,” quoth the latter, “your ladyship would not think of
  going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid your ladyship will
  not be able to bear the fatigue.”
  
  “Why sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship's honour can never
  intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech your
  ladyship not to think on't----But, to be sure, your ladyship can't.
  What will your honour be pleased to have for supper? I have mutton of
  all kinds, and some nice chicken.”
  
  “I think, madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather breakfast than
  supper; but I can't eat anything; and, if I stay, shall only lie down
  for an hour or two. However, if you please, madam, you may get me a
  little sack whey, made very small and thin.”
  
  “Yes, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have some excellent
  white wine.”--“You have no sack, then?” says the lady. “Yes, an't
  please your honour, I have; I may challenge the country for that--but
  let me beg your ladyship to eat something.”
  
  “Upon my word, I can't eat a morsel,” answered the lady; “and I shall
  be much obliged to you if you will please to get my apartment ready as
  soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on horseback again in three
  hours.”
  
  “Why, Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit yet in the
  Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full. Several
  people of the first quality are now in bed. Here's a great young
  squire, and many other great gentlefolks of quality.” Susan answered,
  “That the Irish gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose.”
  
  “Was ever anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the devil would
  you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, when you know
  scarce a day passes without some calling here?----If they be
  gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is for her ladyship, they
  will get up again.”
  
  “Not upon my account,” says the lady; “I will have no person disturbed
  for me. If you have a room that is commonly decent, it will serve me
  very well, though it be never so plain. I beg, madam, you will not
  give yourself so much trouble on my account.” “O, madam!” cries the
  other, “I have several very good rooms for that matter, but none good
  enough for your honour's ladyship. However, as you are so
  condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a fire
  in the Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now,
  or stay till the fire is lighted?” “I think I have sufficiently warmed
  myself,” answered the lady; “so, if you please, I will go now; I am
  afraid I have kept people, and particularly that gentleman (meaning
  Partridge), too long in the cold already. Indeed, I cannot bear to
  think of keeping any person from the fire this dreadful weather.”--She
  then departed with her maid, the landlady marching with two lighted
  candles before her.
  
  When that good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was all
  upon the charms of the young lady. There is indeed in perfect beauty a
  power which none almost can withstand; for my landlady, though she was
  not pleased at the negative given to the supper, declared she had
  never seen so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out into the most
  extravagant encomiums on her face, though he could not refrain from
  paying some compliments to the gold lace on her habit; the post-boy
  sung forth the praises of her goodness, which were likewise echoed by
  the other post-boy, who was now come in. “She's a true good lady, I
  warrant her,” says he; “for she hath mercy upon dumb creatures; for
  she asked me every now and tan upon the journey, if I did not think
  she should hurt the horses by riding too fast? and when she came in
  she charged me to give them as much corn as ever they would eat.”
  
  Such charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract the
  praises of all kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the
  celebrated Mrs Hussey.[*] It is equally sure to set off every female
  perfection to the highest advantage, and to palliate and conceal every
  defect. A short reflection, which we could not forbear making in this
  place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of an affable
  deportment; and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing
  the reverse.
  
    [*] A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off
    the shapes of women.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal disesteem and
  hatred.
  
  
  The lady had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the
  waiting-woman returned to the kitchen to regale with some of those
  dainties which her mistress had refused.
  
  The company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect which they
  had before paid to her mistress, by rising; but she forgot to imitate
  her, by desiring them to sit down again. Indeed, it was scarce
  possible they should have done so, for she placed her chair in such a
  posture as to occupy almost the whole fire. She then ordered a chicken
  to be broiled that instant, declaring, if it was not ready in a
  quarter of an hour, she would not stay for it. Now, though the said
  chicken was then at roost in the stable, and required the several
  ceremonies of catching, killing, and picking, before it was brought to
  the gridiron, my landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all
  within the time; but the guest, being unfortunately admitted behind
  the scenes, must have been witness to the _fourberie_; the poor woman
  was therefore obliged to confess that she had none in the house; “but,
  madam,” said she, “I can get any kind of mutton in an instant from the
  butcher's.”
  
  “Do you think, then,” answered the waiting-gentlewoman, “that I have
  the stomach of a horse, to eat mutton at this time of night? Sure you
  people that keep inns imagine your betters are like yourselves.
  Indeed, I expected to get nothing at this wretched place. I wonder my
  lady would stop at it. I suppose none but tradesmen and grasiers ever
  call here.” The landlady fired at this indignity offered to her house;
  however, she suppressed her temper, and contented herself with saying,
  “Very good quality frequented it, she thanked heaven!” “Don't tell
  me,” cries the other, “of quality! I believe I know more of people of
  quality than such as you.--But, prithee, without troubling me with any
  of your impertinence, do tell me what I can have for supper; for,
  though I cannot eat horse-flesh, I am really hungry.” “Why, truly,
  madam,” answered the landlady, “you could not take me again at such a
  disadvantage; for I must confess I have nothing in the house, unless a
  cold piece of beef, which indeed a gentleman's footman and the
  post-boy have almost cleared to the bone.” “Woman,” said Mrs Abigail
  (so for shortness we will call her), “I entreat you not to make me
  sick. If I had fasted a month, I could not eat what had been touched
  by the fingers of such fellows. Is there nothing neat or decent to be
  had in this horrid place?” “What think you of some eggs and bacon,
  madam?” said the landlady. “Are your eggs new laid? are you certain
  they were laid to-day? and let me have the bacon cut very nice and
  thin; for I can't endure anything that's gross.--Prithee try if you
  can do a little tolerably for once, and don't think you have a
  farmer's wife, or some of those creatures, in the house.”--The
  landlady began then to handle her knife; but the other stopt her,
  saying, “Good woman, I must insist upon your first washing your hands;
  for I am extremely nice, and have been always used from my cradle to
  have everything in the most elegant manner.”
  
  The landlady, who governed herself with much difficulty, began now the
  necessary preparations; for as to Susan, she was utterly rejected, and
  with such disdain, that the poor wench was as hard put to it to
  restrain her hands from violence as her mistress had been to hold her
  tongue. This indeed Susan did not entirely; for, though she literally
  kept it within her teeth, yet there it muttered many “marry-come-ups,
  as good flesh and blood as yourself;” with other such indignant
  phrases.
  
  While the supper was preparing, Mrs Abigail began to lament she had
  not ordered a fire in the parlour; but, she said, that was now too
  late. “However,” said she, “I have novelty to recommend a kitchen; for
  I do not believe I ever eat in one before.” Then, turning to the
  post-boys, she asked them, “Why they were not in the stable with their
  horses? If I must eat my hard fare here, madam,” cries she to the
  landlady, “I beg the kitchen may be kept clear, that I may not be
  surrounded with all the blackguards in town: as for you, sir,” says
  she to Partridge, “you look somewhat like a gentleman, and may sit
  still if you please; I don't desire to disturb anybody but mob.”
  
  “Yes, yes, madam,” cries Partridge, “I am a gentleman, I do assure
  you, and I am not so easily to be disturbed. _Non semper vox casualis
  est verbo nominativus_.” This Latin she took to be some affront, and
  answered, “You may be a gentleman, sir; but you don't show yourself as
  one to talk Latin to a woman.” Partridge made a gentle reply, and
  concluded with more Latin; upon which she tossed up her nose, and
  contented herself by abusing him with the name of a great scholar.
  
  The supper being now on the table, Mrs Abigail eat very heartily for
  so delicate a person; and, while a second course of the same was by
  her order preparing, she said, “And so, madam, you tell me your house
  is frequented by people of great quality?”
  
  The landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, “There were a great
  many very good quality and gentlefolks in it now. There's young Squire
  Allworthy, as that gentleman there knows.”
  
  “And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young Squire
  Allworthy?” said Abigail.
  
  “Who should he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and heir of the
  great Squire Allworthy, of Somersetshire!”
  
  “Upon my word,” said she, “you tell me strange news; for I know Mr
  Allworthy of Somersetshire very well, and I know he hath no son
  alive.”
  
  The landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked a
  little confounded. However, after a short hesitation, he answered,
  “Indeed, madam, it is true, everybody doth not know him to be Squire
  Allworthy's son; for he was never married to his mother; but his son
  he certainly is, and will be his heir too, as certainly as his name is
  Jones.” At that word, Abigail let drop the bacon which she was
  conveying to her mouth, and cried out, “You surprize me, sir! Is it
  possible Mr Jones should be now in the house?” “_Quare non?_” answered
  Partridge, “it is possible, and it is certain.”
  
  Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal, and then
  repaired back to her mistress, when the conversation passed which may
  be read in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid, were.
  
  
  As in the month of June, the damask rose, which chance hath planted
  among the lilies, with their candid hue mixes his vermilion; or as
  some playsome heifer in the pleasant month of May diffuses her
  odoriferous breath over the flowery meadows; or as, in the blooming
  month of April, the gentle, constant dove, perched on some fair bough,
  sits meditating on her mate; so, looking a hundred charms and
  breathing as many sweets, her thoughts being fixed on her Tommy, with
  a heart as good and innocent as her face was beautiful, Sophia (for it
  was she herself) lay reclining her lovely head on her hand, when her
  maid entered the room, and, running directly to the bed, cried,
  “Madam--madam--who doth your ladyship think is in the house?” Sophia,
  starting up, cried, “I hope my father hath not overtaken us.” “No,
  madam, it is one worth a hundred fathers; Mr Jones himself is here at
  this very instant.” “Mr Jones!” says Sophia, “it is impossible! I
  cannot be so fortunate.” Her maid averred the fact, and was presently
  detached by her mistress to order him to be called; for she said she
  was resolved to see him immediately.
  
  Mrs Honour had no sooner left the kitchen in the manner we have before
  seen than the landlady fell severely upon her. The poor woman had
  indeed been loading her heart with foul language for some time, and
  now it scoured out of her mouth, as filth doth from a mud-cart, when
  the board which confines it is removed. Partridge likewise shovelled
  in his share of calumny, and (what may surprize the reader) not only
  bespattered the maid, but attempted to sully the lily-white character
  of Sophia herself. “Never a barrel the better herring,” cries he,
  “_Noscitur a socio_, is a true saying. It must be confessed, indeed,
  that the lady in the fine garments is the civiller of the two; but I
  warrant neither of them are a bit better than they should be. A couple
  of Bath trulls, I'll answer for them; your quality don't ride about at
  this time o' night without servants.” “Sbodlikins, and that's true,”
   cries the landlady, “you have certainly hit upon the very matter; for
  quality don't come into a house without bespeaking a supper, whether
  they eat or no.”
  
  While they were thus discoursing, Mrs Honour returned and discharged
  her commission, by bidding the landlady immediately wake Mr Jones, and
  tell him a lady wanted to speak with him. The landlady referred her to
  Partridge, saying, “he was the squire's friend: but, for her part, she
  never called men-folks, especially gentlemen,” and then walked
  sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour applied herself to Partridge; but
  he refused, “for my friend,” cries he, “went to bed very late, and he
  would be very angry to be disturbed so soon.” Mrs Honour insisted
  still to have him called, saying, “she was sure, instead of being
  angry, that he would be to the highest degree delighted when he knew
  the occasion.” “Another time, perhaps, he might,” cries Partridge;
  “but _non omnia possumus omnes_. One woman is enough at once for a
  reasonable man.” “What do you mean by one woman, fellow?” cries
  Honour. “None of your fellow,” answered Partridge. He then proceeded
  to inform her plainly that Jones was in bed with a wench, and made use
  of an expression too indelicate to be here inserted; which so enraged
  Mrs Honour, that she called him jackanapes, and returned in a violent
  hurry to her mistress, whom she acquainted with the success of her
  errand, and with the account she had received; which, if possible, she
  exaggerated, being as angry with Jones as if he had pronounced all the
  words that came from the mouth of Partridge. She discharged a torrent
  of abuse on the master, and advised her mistress to quit all thoughts
  of a man who had never shown himself deserving of her. She then ripped
  up the story of Molly Seagrim, and gave the most malicious turn to his
  formerly quitting Sophia herself; which, I must confess, the present
  incident not a little countenanced.
  
  The spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by concern to enable
  her to stop the torrent of her maid. At last, however, she interrupted
  her, saying, “I never can believe this; some villain hath belied him.
  You say you had it from his friend; but surely it is not the office of
  a friend to betray such secrets.” “I suppose,” cries Honour, “the
  fellow is his pimp; for I never saw so ill-looked a villain. Besides,
  such profligate rakes as Mr Jones are never ashamed of these matters.”
  
  To say the truth, this behaviour of Partridge was a little
  inexcusable; but he had not slept off the effect of the dose which he
  swallowed the evening before; which had, in the morning, received the
  addition of above a pint of wine, or indeed rather of malt spirits;
  for the perry was by no means pure. Now, that part of his head which
  Nature designed for the reservoir of drink being very shallow, a small
  quantity of liquor overflowed it, and opened the sluices of his heart;
  so that all the secrets there deposited run out. These sluices were
  indeed, naturally, very ill-secured. To give the best-natured turn we
  can to his disposition, he was a very honest man; for, as he was the
  most inquisitive of mortals, and eternally prying into the secrets of
  others, so he very faithfully paid them by communicating, in return,
  everything within his knowledge.
  
  While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor
  what resolution to take, Susan arrived with the sack-whey. Mrs Honour
  immediately advised her mistress, in a whisper, to pump this wench,
  who probably could inform her of the truth. Sophia approved it, and
  began as follows: “Come hither, child; now answer me truly what I am
  going to ask you, and I promise you I will very well reward you. Is
  there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young gentleman,
  that----.” Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. “A young
  gentleman,” cries Honour, “that came hither in company with that saucy
  rascal who is now in the kitchen?” Susan answered, “There was.”--“Do
  you know anything of any lady?” continues Sophia, “any lady? I don't
  ask you whether she is handsome or no; perhaps she is not; that's
  nothing to the purpose; but do you know of any lady?” “La, madam,”
   cries Honour, “you will make a very bad examiner. Hark'ee, child,”
   says she, “is not that very young gentleman now in bed with some nasty
  trull or other?” Here Susan smiled, and was silent. “Answer the
  question, child,” says Sophia, “and here's a guinea for you.”--“A
  guinea! madam,” cries Susan; “la, what's a guinea? If my mistress
  should know it I shall certainly lose my place that very instant.”
   “Here's another for you,” says Sophia, “and I promise you faithfully
  your mistress shall never know it.” Susan, after a very short
  hesitation, took the money, and told the whole story, concluding with
  saying, “If you have any great curiosity, madam, I can steal softly
  into his room, and see whether he be in his own bed or no.” She
  accordingly did this by Sophia's desire, and returned with an answer
  in the negative.
  
  Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs Honour begged her to be
  comforted, and not to think any more of so worthless a fellow. “Why
  there,” says Susan, “I hope, madam, your ladyship won't be offended;
  but pray, madam, is not your ladyship's name Madam Sophia Western?”
   “How is it possible you should know me?” answered Sophia. “Why that
  man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who is in the kitchen, told about
  you last night. But I hope your ladyship is not angry with me.”
   “Indeed, child,” said she, “I am not; pray tell me all, and I promise
  you I'll reward you.” “Why, madam,” continued Susan, “that man told us
  all in the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western--indeed I don't know how
  to bring it out.”--Here she stopt, till, having received encouragement
  from Sophia, and being vehemently pressed by Mrs Honour, she proceeded
  thus:--“He told us, madam, though to be sure it is all a lie, that
  your ladyship was dying for love of the young squire, and that he was
  going to the wars to get rid of you. I thought to myself then he was a
  false-hearted wretch; but, now, to see such a fine, rich, beautiful
  lady as you be, forsaken for such an ordinary woman; for to be sure so
  she is, and another man's wife into the bargain. It is such a strange
  unnatural thing, in a manner.”
  
  Sophia gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would certainly
  be her friend if she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor
  informed any one who she was, dismissed the girl, with orders to the
  post-boy to get the horses ready immediately.
  
  Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty waiting-woman,
  “That she never was more easy than at present. I am now convinced,”
   said she, “he is not only a villain, but a low despicable wretch. I
  can forgive all rather than his exposing my name in so barbarous a
  manner. That renders him the object of my contempt. Yes, Honour, I am
  now easy; I am indeed; I am very easy;” and then she burst into a
  violent flood of tears.
  
  After a short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and
  assuring her maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an
  account that the horses were ready, when a very extraordinary thought
  suggested itself to our young heroine, by which Mr Jones would be
  acquainted with her having been at the inn, in a way which, if any
  sparks of affection for her remained in him, would be at least some
  punishment for his faults.
  
  The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had
  the honour of being more than once remembered already in this history.
  This muff, ever since the departure of Mr Jones, had been the constant
  companion of Sophia by day, and her bedfellow by night; and this muff
  she had at this very instant upon her arm; whence she took it off with
  great indignation, and, having writ her name with her pencil upon a
  piece of paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the maid to convey
  it into the empty bed of Mr Jones, in which, if he did not find it,
  she charged her to take some method of conveying it before his eyes in
  the morning.
  
  Then, having paid for what Mrs Honour had eaten, in which bill was
  included an account for what she herself might have eaten, she mounted
  her horse, and, once more assuring her companion that she was
  perfectly easy, continued her journey.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of Partridge, the
  madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
  
  
  It was now past five in the morning, and other company began to rise
  and come to the kitchen, among whom were the serjeant and the
  coachman, who, being thoroughly reconciled, made a libation, or, in
  the English phrase, drank a hearty cup together.
  
  In this drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour
  of Partridge, who, when the serjeant drank a health to King George,
  repeated only the word King; nor could he be brought to utter more;
  for though he was going to fight against his own cause, yet he could
  not be prevailed upon to drink against it.
  
  Mr Jones, being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he
  returned we must beg to be excused from relating), summoned Partridge
  from this agreeable company, who, after a ceremonious preface, having
  obtained leave to offer his advice, delivered himself as follows:--
  
  “It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may
  sometimes learn counsel from a fool; I wish, therefore, I might be so
  bold as to offer you my advice, which is to return home again, and
  leave these _horrida bella_, these bloody wars, to fellows who are
  contented to swallow gunpowder, because they have nothing else to eat.
  Now, everybody knows your honour wants for nothing at home; when
  that's the case, why should any man travel abroad?”
  
  “Partridge,” cries Jones, “thou art certainly a coward; I wish,
  therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and trouble me no more.”
  
  “I ask your honour's pardon,” cries Partridge; “I spoke on your
  account more than my own; for as to me, Heaven knows my circumstances
  are bad enough, and I am so far from being afraid, that I value a
  pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such thing, no more than a pop-gun.
  Every man must die once, and what signifies the manner how? besides,
  perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a leg. I assure
  you, sir, I was never less afraid in my life; and so, if your honour
  is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in that case,
  I wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way of
  travelling, for a great gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here are
  two or three good horses in the stable, which the landlord will
  certainly make no scruple of trusting you with; but, if he should, I
  can easily contrive to take them; and, let the worst come to the
  worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you are going to fight
  in his cause.”
  
  Now, as the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and
  both dealt only in small matters, he would never have attempted a
  roguery of this kind, had he not imagined it altogether safe; for he
  was one of those who have more consideration of the gallows than of
  the fitness of things; but, in reality, he thought he might have
  committed this felony without any danger; for, besides that he doubted
  not but the name of Mr Allworthy would sufficiently quiet the
  landlord, he conceived they should be altogether safe, whatever turn
  affairs might take; as Jones, he imagined, would have friends enough
  on one side, and as his friends would as well secure him on the other.
  
  When Mr Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal, he
  very severely rebuked him, and that in such bitter terms, that the
  other attempted to laugh it off, and presently turned the discourse to
  other matters; saying, he believed they were then in a bawdy house,
  and that he had with much ado prevented two wenches from disturbing
  his honour in the middle of the night. “Heyday!” says he, “I believe
  they got into your chamber whether I would or no; for here lies the
  muff of one of them on the ground.” Indeed, as Jones returned to his
  bed in the dark, he had never perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in
  leaping into his bed, he had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge
  now took up, and was going to put into his pocket, when Jones desired
  to see it. The muff was so very remarkable, that our heroe might
  possibly have recollected it without the information annexed. But his
  memory was not put to that hard office; for at the same instant he saw
  and read the words Sophia Western upon the paper which was pinned to
  it. His looks now grew frantic in a moment, and he eagerly cried out,
  “Oh Heavens! how came this muff here?” “I know no more than your
  honour,” cried Partridge; “but I saw it upon the arm of one of the
  women who would have disturbed you, if I would have suffered them.”
   “Where are they?” cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and laying hold of
  his cloaths. “Many miles off, I believe, by this time,” said
  Partridge. And now Jones, upon further enquiry, was sufficiently
  assured that the bearer of this muff was no other than the lovely
  Sophia herself.
  
  The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks, his
  words, his actions, were such as beggar all description. After many
  bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he ordered
  the poor fellow, who was frightened out of his wits, to run down and
  hire him horses at any rate; and a very few minutes afterwards, having
  shuffled on his clothes, he hastened down-stairs to execute the orders
  himself, which he had just before given.
  
  But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the kitchen, it
  will be necessary to recur to what had there happened since Partridge
  had first left it on his master's summons.
  
  The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish
  gentlemen arose, and came downstairs; both complaining that they had
  been so often waked by the noises in the inn, that they had never once
  been able to close their eyes all night.
  
  The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, and which,
  perhaps, the reader may have hitherto concluded was her own, was,
  indeed, a returned coach belonging to Mr King, of Bath, one of the
  worthiest and honestest men that ever dealt in horse-flesh, and whose
  coaches we heartily recommend to all our readers who travel that road.
  By which means they may, perhaps, have the pleasure of riding in the
  very coach, and being driven by the very coachman, that is recorded in
  this history.
  
  The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr Maclachlan was
  going to Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very moderate price.
  He was induced to this by the report of the hostler, who said that the
  horse which Mr Maclachlan had hired from Worcester would be much more
  pleased with returning to his friends there than to prosecute a long
  journey; for that the said horse was rather a two-legged than a
  four-legged animal.
  
  Mr Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman,
  and, at the same time, persuaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of
  the fourth place in the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his
  bones made more agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured
  of meeting with his wife at Bath, he thought a little delay would be
  of no consequence.
  
  Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard
  that this lady came from Chester, with the other circumstances which
  he learned from the hostler, than it came into his head that she might
  possibly be his friend's wife; and presently acquainted him with this
  suspicion, which had never once occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. To
  say the truth, he was one of those compositions which nature makes up
  in too great a hurry, and forgets to put any brains into their head.
  
  Now it happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never hit
  off a fault themselves; but no sooner doth a dog of sagacity open his
  mouth than they immediately do the same, and, without the guidance of
  any scent, run directly forwards as fast as they are able. In the same
  manner, the very moment Mr Maclachlan had mentioned his apprehension,
  Mr Fitzpatrick instantly concurred, and flew directly up-stairs, to
  surprize his wife, before he knew where she was; and unluckily (as
  Fortune loves to play tricks with those gentlemen who put themselves
  entirely under her conduct) ran his head against several doors and
  posts to no purpose. Much kinder was she to me, when she suggested
  that simile of the hounds, just before inserted; since the poor wife
  may, on these occasions, be so justly compared to a hunted hare. Like
  that little wretched animal, she pricks up her ears to listen after
  the voice of her pursuer; like her, flies away trembling when she
  hears it; and, like her, is generally overtaken and destroyed in the
  end.
  
  This was not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless
  search, Mr Fitzpatrick returned to the kitchen, where, as if this had
  been a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when
  the hounds are at a fault. He was just alighted from his horse, and
  had many attendants at his heels.
  
  Here, reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some matters,
  which, if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to
  be. And this information thou shalt receive in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which are concluded the adventures that happened at the inn at
  Upton.
  
  
  In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other
  person than Squire Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit of
  his daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours earlier, he had
  not only found her, but his niece into the bargain; for such was the
  wife of Mr Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five years before,
  out of the custody of that sage lady, Madam Western.
  
  Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with
  Sophia; for, having been waked by the voice of her husband, she had
  sent up for the landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter, had
  bribed the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her with
  horses for her escape. Such prevalence had money in this family; and
  though the mistress would have turned away her maid for a corrupt
  hussy, if she had known as much as the reader, yet she was no more
  proof against corruption herself than poor Susan had been.
  
  Mr Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed
  would the former have taken any notice of the latter if he had known
  him; for, this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one
  in the opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her
  committing it, abandoned the poor young creature, who was then no more
  than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her to be
  named in his presence.
  
  The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western enquiring
  after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his wife, when
  Jones entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia's muff in his
  hand.
  
  As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by
  sportsmen when their game is in view. He then immediately run up and
  laid hold of Jones, crying, “We have got the dog fox, I warrant the
  bitch is not far off.” The jargon which followed for some minutes,
  where many spoke different things at the same time, as it would be
  very difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to read.
  
  Jones having, at length, shaken Mr Western off, and some of the
  company having interfered between them, our heroe protested his
  innocence as to knowing anything of the lady; when Parson Supple
  stepped up, and said, “It is folly to deny it; for why, the marks of
  guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by an
  oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam
  Sophia; for I have frequently observed her, of later days, to bear it
  about her.” “My daughter's muff!” cries the squire in a rage. “Hath he
  got my daughter's muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him.
  I'll have him before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my
  daughter, villain?” “Sir,” said Jones, “I beg you would be pacified.
  The muff, I acknowledge, is the young lady's; but, upon my honour, I
  have never seen her.” At these words Western lost all patience, and
  grew inarticulate with rage.
  
  Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr Western was.
  The good Irishman, therefore, thinking he had now an opportunity to do
  an act of service to his uncle, and by that means might possibly
  obtain his favour, stept up to Jones, and cried out, “Upon my
  conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying your having seen the
  gentleman's daughter before my face, when you know I found you there
  upon the bed together.” Then, turning to Western, he offered to
  conduct him immediately to the room where his daughter was; which
  offer being accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others,
  ascended directly to Mrs Waters's chamber, which they entered with no
  less violence than Mr Fitzpatrick had done before.
  
  The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror,
  and beheld at her bedside a figure which might very well be supposed
  to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the
  looks of Mr Western; who no sooner saw the lady than he started back,
  shewing sufficiently by his manner, before he spoke, that this was not
  the person sought after.
  
  So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than their
  persons, that, though the latter seemed now in more danger than
  before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not with such
  violence as she had done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner
  found herself alone than she abandoned all thoughts of further repose;
  and, as she had sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with her present
  lodging, she dressed herself with all possible expedition.
  
  Mr Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little
  purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs Waters. He then returned
  disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the custody of
  his servants.
  
  This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it
  was yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who had
  the honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county of
  Worcester. Of which Mr Western was no sooner informed than he offered
  to lay his complaint before him. The justice declined executing his
  office, as he said he had no clerk present, nor no book about justice
  business; and that he could not carry all the law in his head about
  stealing away daughters, and such sort of things.
  
  Here Mr Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing the
  company that he had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he had
  served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland,
  when, chusing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his master, came
  over to England, and set up that business which requires no
  apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had
  succeeded, as hath been already partly mentioned.)
  
  Mr Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of
  the present case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and the
  goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the
  fact.
  
  The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and
  upon the violent intercession of the squire, was at length prevailed
  upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon
  viewing the muff which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the
  parson's swearing it to be the property of Mr Western, he desired Mr
  Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment, which he said he would sign.
  
  Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty,
  granted him. He then produced the evidence of Mr Partridge, as to the
  finding it; but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia
  herself had delivered the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey
  it into the chamber where Mr Jones had found it.
  
  Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of
  Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, I will not
  determine; but such were the effects of her evidence, that the
  magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair, declared that the
  matter was now altogether as clear on the side of the prisoner as it
  had before been against him: with which the parson concurred, saying,
  the Lord forbid he should be instrumental in committing an innocent
  person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and
  broke up the court.
  
  Mr Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately
  ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his daughter, without
  taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any
  answer to his claim of kindred, notwithstanding all the obligations he
  had just received from that gentleman. In the violence, moreover, of
  his hurry, and of his passion, he luckily forgot to demand the muff of
  Jones: I say luckily; for he would have died on the spot rather than
  have parted with it.
  
  Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he
  had paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now
  resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring
  himself even to take leave of Mrs Waters; of whom he detested the very
  thoughts, as she had been, though not designedly, the occasion of his
  missing the happiest interview with Sophia, to whom he now vowed
  eternal constancy.
  
  As for Mrs Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was
  going to Bath; for which place she set out in company with the two
  Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her cloaths; in
  return for which she was contented only to receive about double their
  value, as a recompence for the loan. Upon the road she was perfectly
  reconciled to Mr Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow, and
  indeed did all she could to console him in the absence of his wife.
  
  Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr Jones encountered at his
  inn at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the beauty and lovely
  behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire
  angel.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  In which the history goes backward.
  
  
  Before we proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to look
  a little back, in order to account for the extraordinary appearance of
  Sophia and her father at the inn at Upton.
  
  The reader may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter of
  the seventh book of our history, we left Sophia, after a long debate
  between love and duty, deciding the cause, as it usually, I believe,
  happens, in favour of the former.
  
  This debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which her
  father had just before made her, in order to force her consent to a
  marriage with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully implied
  in her acknowledgment “that she neither must nor could refuse any
  absolute command of his.”
  
  Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation,
  overjoyed at the success he had gained with his daughter; and, as he
  was of a social disposition, and willing to have partakers in his
  happiness, the beer was ordered to flow very liberally into the
  kitchen; so that before eleven in the evening there was not a single
  person sober in the house except only Mrs Western herself and the
  charming Sophia.
  
  Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr Blifil;
  for, though the squire imagined that young gentleman had been much
  less acquainted than he really was with the former aversion of his
  daughter, as he had not, however, yet received her consent, he longed
  impatiently to communicate it to him, not doubting but that the
  intended bride herself would confirm it with her lips. As to the
  wedding, it had the evening before been fixed, by the male parties, to
  be celebrated on the next morning save one.
  
  Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr Blifil attended,
  and where the squire and his sister likewise were assembled; and now
  Sophia was ordered to be called.
  
  O, Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then would
  I draw the picture of the poor serving-man, who, with pale
  countenance, staring eyes, chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and
  trembling limbs,
  
       (E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
       So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
       Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
       And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd)
  
  entered the room, and declared--That Madam Sophia was not to be found.
  
  “Not to be found!” cries the squire, starting from his chair; “Zounds
  and d--nation! Blood and fury! Where, when, how, what--Not to be
  found! Where?”
  
  “La! brother,” said Mrs Western, with true political coldness, “you
  are always throwing yourself into such violent passions for nothing.
  My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the garden. I protest you
  are grown so unreasonable, that it is impossible to live in the house
  with you.”
  
  “Nay, nay,” answered the squire, returning as suddenly to himself, as
  he had gone from himself; “if that be all the matter, it signifies not
  much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me when the fellow said she
  was not to be found.” He then gave orders for the bell to be rung in
  the garden, and sat himself contentedly down.
  
  No two things could be more the reverse of each other than were the
  brother and sister in most instances; particularly in this, That as
  the brother never foresaw anything at a distance, but was most
  sagacious in immediately seeing everything the moment it had happened;
  so the sister eternally foresaw at a distance, but was not so
  quick-sighted to objects before her eyes. Of both these the reader may
  have observed examples: and, indeed, both their several talents were
  excessive; for, as the sister often foresaw what never came to pass,
  so the brother often saw much more than was actually the truth.
  
  This was not however the case at present. The same report was brought
  from the garden as before had been brought from the chamber, that
  Madam Sophia was not to be found.
  
  The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the name
  of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whilome did Hercules
  that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole shore echoed
  back the name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the garden,
  and all the neighbouring fields resound nothing but the name of
  Sophia, in the hoarse voices of the men, and in the shrill pipes of
  the women; while echo seemed so pleased to repeat the beloved sound,
  that, if there is really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her
  sex.
  
  Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last the
  squire, having sufficiently spent his breath, returned to the parlour,
  where he found Mrs Western and Mr Blifil, and threw himself, with the
  utmost dejection in his countenance, into a great chair.
  
  Here Mrs Western began to apply the following consolation:
  
  “Brother, I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece should
  have behaved herself in a manner so unbecoming her family; but it is
  all your own doings, and you have nobody to thank but yourself. You
  know she hath been educated always in a manner directly contrary to my
  advice, and now you see the consequence. Have I not a thousand times
  argued with you about giving my niece her own will? But you know I
  never could prevail upon you; and when I had taken so much pains to
  eradicate her headstrong opinions, and to rectify your errors in
  policy, you know she was taken out of my hands; so that I have nothing
  to answer for. Had I been trusted entirely with the care of her
  education, no such accident as this had ever befallen you; so that you
  must comfort yourself by thinking it was all your own doing; and,
  indeed, what else could be expected from such indulgence?”
  
  “Zounds! sister,” answered he, “you are enough to make one mad. Have I
  indulged her? Have I given her her will?----It was no longer ago than
  last night that I threatened, if she disobeyed me, to confine her to
  her chamber upon bread and water as long as she lived.----You would
  provoke the patience of Job.”
  
  “Did ever mortal hear the like?” replied she. “Brother, if I had not
  the patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all decency and
  decorum. Why would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not intreat
  you, to leave the whole conduct to me? You have defeated all the
  operations of the campaign by one false step. Would any man in his
  senses have provoked a daughter by such threats as these? How often
  have I told you that English women are not to be treated like
  Ciracessian[*] slaves. We have the protection of the world; we are to
  be won by gentle means only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and
  beat into compliance. I thank Heaven no Salique law governs here.
  Brother, you have a roughness in your manner which no woman but myself
  would bear. I do not wonder my niece was frightened and terrified into
  taking this measure; and, to speak honestly, I think my niece will be
  justified to the world for what she hath done. I repeat it to you
  again, brother, you must comfort yourself by rememb'ring that it is
  all your own fault. How often have I advised--” Here Western rose
  hastily from his chair, and, venting two or three horrid imprecations,
  ran out of the room.
  
    [*] Possibly Circassian.
  
  When he was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if
  possible) against him than she had done while he was present; for the
  truth of which she appealed to Mr Blifil, who, with great complacence,
  acquiesced entirely in all she said; but excused all the faults of Mr
  Western, “as they must be considered,” he said, “to have proceeded
  from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which must be allowed
  the name of an amiable weakness.” “So much the more inexcuseable,”
   answered the lady; “for whom doth he ruin by his fondness but his own
  child?” To which Blifil immediately agreed.
  
  Mrs Western then began to express great confusion on the account of Mr
  Blifil, and of the usage which he had received from a family to which
  he intended so much honour. On this subject she treated the folly of
  her niece with great severity; but concluded with throwing the whole
  on her brother, who, she said, was inexcuseable to have proceeded so
  far without better assurances of his daughter's consent: “But he was
  (says she) always of a violent, headstrong temper; and I can scarce
  forgive myself for all the advice I have thrown away upon him.”
  
  After much of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not
  greatly entertain the reader, was it here particularly related, Mr
  Blifil took his leave and returned home, not highly pleased with his
  disappointment: which, however, the philosophy which he had acquired
  from Square, and the religion infused into him by Thwackum, together
  with somewhat else, taught him to bear rather better than more
  passionate lovers bear these kinds of evils.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  The escape of Sophia.
  
  
  It is now time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves her
  half so well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the clutches
  of her passionate father, and from those of her dispassionate lover.
  
  Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous
  bell-metal, summoning the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly
  round.----In plainer language, it was twelve o'clock, and all the
  family, as we have said, lay buried in drink and sleep, except only
  Mrs Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet,
  and except our heroine, who now softly stole down-stairs, and, having
  unbarred and unlocked one of the house-doors, sallied forth, and
  hastened to the place of appointment.
  
  Notwithstanding the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes practise,
  to display their fears on every little occasion (almost as many as the
  other sex uses to conceal theirs), certainly there is a degree of
  courage which not only becomes a woman, but is often necessary to
  enable her to discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea of
  fierceness, and not of bravery, which destroys the female character;
  for who can read the story of the justly celebrated Arria without
  conceiving as high an opinion of her gentleness and tenderness as of
  her fortitude? At the same time, perhaps, many a woman who shrieks at
  a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of poisoning a husband; or, what is
  worse, of driving him to poison himself.
  
  Sophia, with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all the
  spirit which she ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the place
  of appointment, and, instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed, saw a
  man ride directly up to her, she neither screamed out nor fainted
  away: not that her pulse then beat with its usual regularity; for she
  was, at first, under some surprize and apprehension: but these were
  relieved almost as soon as raised, when the man, pulling off his hat,
  asked her, in a very submissive manner, “If her ladyship did not
  expect to meet another lady?” and then proceeded to inform her that he
  was sent to conduct her to that lady.
  
  Sophia could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this
  account: she therefore mounted resolutely behind the fellow, who
  conveyed her safe to a town about five miles distant, where she had
  the satisfaction of finding the good Mrs Honour: for, as the soul of
  the waiting-woman was wrapt up in those very habiliments which used to
  enwrap her body, she could by no means bring herself to trust them out
  of her sight. Upon these, therefore, she kept guard in person, while
  she detached the aforesaid fellow after her mistress, having given him
  all proper instructions.
  
  They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the pursuit of
  Mr Western, who they knew would send after them in a few hours. The
  London road had such charms for Honour, that she was desirous of going
  on directly; alleging that, as Sophia could not be missed till eight
  or nine the next morning, her pursuers would not be able to overtake
  her, even though they knew which way she had gone. But Sophia had too
  much at stake to venture anything to chance; nor did she dare trust
  too much to her tender limbs, in a contest which was to be decided
  only by swiftness. She resolved, therefore, to travel across the
  country, for at least twenty or thirty miles, and then to take the
  direct road to London. So, having hired horses to go twenty miles one
  way, when she intended to go twenty miles the other, she set forward
  with the same guide behind whom she had ridden from her father's
  house; the guide having now taken up behind him, in the room of
  Sophia, a much heavier, as well as much less lovely burden; being,
  indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with those outside ornaments,
  by means of which the fair Honour hoped to gain many conquests, and,
  finally, to make her fortune in London city.
  
  When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the London
  road, Sophia rode up to the guide, and, with a voice much fuller of
  honey than was ever that of Plato, though his mouth is supposed to
  have been a bee-hive, begged him to take the first turning which led
  towards Bristol.
  
  Reader, I am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern
  miracles. I do not, therefore, deliver the following as a certain
  truth; for, indeed, I can scarce credit it myself: but the fidelity of
  an historian obliges me to relate what hath been confidently asserted.
  The horse, then, on which the guide rode, is reported to have been so
  charmed by Sophia's voice, that he made a full stop, and expressed an
  unwillingness to proceed any farther.
  
  Perhaps, however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than it
  hath been represented; since the natural cause seems adequate to the
  effect: for, as the guide at that moment desisted from a constant
  application of his armed right heel (for, like Hudibras, he wore but
  one spur), it is more than possible that this omission alone might
  occasion the beast to stop, especially as this was very frequent with
  him at other times.
  
  But if the voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had
  very little on the rider. He answered somewhat surlily, “That measter
  had ordered him to go a different way, and that he should lose his
  place if he went any other than that he was ordered.”
  
  Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to add
  irresistible charms to her voice; charms which, according to the
  proverb, makes the old mare trot, instead of standing still; charms!
  to which modern ages have attributed all that irresistible force which
  the antients imputed to perfect oratory. In a word, she promised she
  would reward him to his utmost expectation.
  
  The lad was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked their
  being indefinite; for, though perhaps he had never heard that word,
  yet that, in fact, was his objection. He said, “Gentlevolks did not
  consider the case of poor volks; that he had like to have been turned
  away the other day, for riding about the country with a gentleman from
  Squire Allworthy's, who did not reward him as he should have done.”
  
  “With whom?” says Sophia eagerly. “With a gentleman from Squire
  Allworthy's,” repeated the lad; “the squire's son, I think they call
  'un.”--“Whither? which way did he go?” says Sophia.--“Why, a little o'
  one side o' Bristol, about twenty miles off,” answered the
  lad.--“Guide me,” says Sophia, “to the same place, and I'll give thee
  a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient.”--“To be certain,” said
  the boy, “it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship considers what
  a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two
  guineas, I'll e'en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride
  about my measter's horses; but one comfort is, I can only be turned
  away, and two guineas will partly make me amends.”
  
  The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol
  road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to
  the remonstrances of Mrs Honour, who had much more desire to see London
  than to see Mr Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with her
  mistress, as he had been guilty of some neglect in certain pecuniary
  civilities, which are by custom due to the waiting-gentlewoman in all
  love affairs, and more especially in those of a clandestine kind. This
  we impute rather to the carelessness of his temper than to any want of
  generosity; but perhaps she derived it from the latter motive. Certain
  it is that she hated him very bitterly on that account, and resolved to
  take every opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was
  therefore highly unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same
  town and inn whence Jones had started, and still more unlucky was she
  in having stumbled on the same guide, and on this accidental discovery
  which Sophia had made.
  
  Our travellers arrived at Hambrook[*] at the break of day, where
  Honour was against her will charged to enquire the route which Mr
  Jones had taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have
  informed them; but Sophia, I know not for what reason, never asked him
  the question.
  
   [*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
  
  When Mrs Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with
  much difficulty, procured some indifferent horses, which brought her
  to the inn where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of
  meeting with a surgeon than by having met with a broken head.
  
  Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no
  sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had described the person
  of Mr Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase, to
  smell a rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room, instead of
  answering the maid, the landlady, addressing herself to the mistress,
  began the following speech: “Good lack-a-day! why there now, who would
  have thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld.
  I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so about your
  ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the world, and
  to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I
  did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it his dear Madam
  Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I
  told him there were men enow that were good for nothing else but to be
  killed, that had not the love of such fine ladies.” “Sure,” says
  Sophia, “the good woman is distracted.” “No, no,” cries the landlady,
  “I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I don't know
  then? I assure you he told me all.” “What saucy fellow,” cries Honour,
  “told you anything of my lady?” “No saucy fellow,” answered the
  landlady, “but the young gentleman you enquired after, and a very
  pretty young gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the
  bottom of his soul.” “He love my lady! I'd have you to know, woman,
  she is meat for his master.”--“Nay, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting
  her, “don't be angry with the good woman; she intends no harm.” “No,
  marry, don't I,” answered the landlady, emboldened by the soft accents
  of Sophia; and then launched into a long narrative too tedious to be
  here set down, in which some passages dropt that gave a little offence
  to Sophia, and much more to her waiting-woman, who hence took occasion
  to abuse poor Jones to her mistress the moment they were alone
  together, saying, “that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could
  have no love for a lady, whose name he would thus prostitute in an
  ale-house.”
  
  Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light,
  and was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures of his love
  (which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other
  circumstance) than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she
  imputed the whole to the extravagance, or rather ebullience, of his
  passion, and to the openness of his heart.
  
  This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and
  placed in the most odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and
  give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the
  waiting-woman in her endeavours to make her mistress depart from that
  inn without seeing Jones.
  
  The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her
  horses were ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon
  withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed
  she used great freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she
  reminded her of her intention to go to London, and gave frequent hints
  of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded
  with this serious exhortation: “For heaven's sake, madam, consider
  what you are about, and whither you are going.”
  
  This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no
  very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be supposed she
  had well considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs Honour, by the
  hints she threw out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the
  opinion of many readers, who have, I make no doubt, been long since
  well convinced of the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily
  condemned her for it as a wanton baggage.
  
  But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so
  distracted between hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her
  hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the
  truth?) her love for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of
  her aunt, of every one else, and more particularly of Jones himself,
  had blown into a flame, that her mind was in that confused state which
  may be truly said to make us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go,
  or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of either.
  
  The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool
  reflection; and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and
  thence to proceed directly to London.
  
  But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met the
  hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with Mr
  Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs Honour, stopt and spoke to
  her; of which Sophia at that time took little notice, more than to
  enquire who he was.
  
  But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man
  afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he
  usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed)
  he was particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had
  overheard Mrs Honour inform him that they were going to Gloucester,
  she began to fear lest her father might, by this fellow's means, be
  able to trace her to that city; wherefore, if she should there strike
  into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be able to
  overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and, having hired
  horses to go a week's journey a way which she did not intend to
  travel, she again set forward after a light refreshment, contrary to
  the desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to the no less
  vehement remonstrances of Mrs Whitefield, who, from good breeding, or
  perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady appeared much
  fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that evening at
  Gloucester.
  
  Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two
  hours on the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely
  left Mrs Whitefield's about eleven at night, and, striking directly
  into the Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that
  very inn where we last saw her.
  
  Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her
  departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words
  bring her father to the same place; who, having received the first
  scent from the post-boy, who conducted his daughter to Hambrook, very
  easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; whence he pursued her to
  Upton, as he had learned Mr Jones had taken that route (for Partridge,
  to use the squire's expression, left everywhere a strong scent behind
  him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia travelled, or, as he
  phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a very coarse
  expression, which need not be here inserted; as fox-hunters, who alone
  will understand it, will easily suggest it to themselves.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XI.
  
  CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  A crust for the critics.
  
  
  In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that
  formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than
  becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great
  condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the
  reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall,
  perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been
  seen.
  
  This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence
  I presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have
  seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it
  meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as
  equivalent to condemnation.
  
  I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number
  of critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of
  these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in
  Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the
  playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have
  given judgment, _i.e._, condemned without mercy.
  
  The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to
  leave them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable
  offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their
  favour, we would do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and
  plainly too with them, we must remind them of another officer of
  justice of a much lower rank; to whom, as they not only pronounce, but
  execute, their own judgment, they bear likewise some remote
  resemblance.
  
  But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics
  may, with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a
  common slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others,
  with no other design but to discover their faults, and to publish them
  to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of
  men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view,
  be as properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation of books?
  
  Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a
  more odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of
  him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I
  am afraid, regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he
  deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal
  lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the thief looks
  innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand
  in competition with his guilt: for slander is a more cruel weapon than
  a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable.
  One method, indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most
  execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here
  disclaimed against, and that is poison: a means of revenge so base,
  and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely distinguished by our laws
  from all other murders, in the peculiar severity of the punishment.
  
  Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of
  the means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances
  that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds
  from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless
  some black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of
  having procured the ruin and misery of another.
  
  Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says--
  
   “Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;
    'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:
    But he that filches from me my good name
    Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM,
    BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED.”
  
  With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will
  probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But
  let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked
  disposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation.
  Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when
  we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child
  of his brain.
  
  The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin
  state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal
  fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff,
  “Alas! Thou hast written no book.” But the author whose muse hath
  brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me
  with tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while I
  mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden,
  the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care,
  the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite,
  till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the world.
  
  Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of
  absolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly
  wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of
  their father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed their
  parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the
  interest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers,
  whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.
  
  Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author:
  for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother a
  whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid
  nonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead;
  which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that
  of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.
  
  Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt
  not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps,
  think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely
  a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to
  depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very
  ill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be
  suspected to be a bad man.
  
  I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to
  explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here
  intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very
  persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of
  writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of
  literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned
  world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and
  Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and
  some perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorised to
  execute at least a judicial authority _in foro literario_.
  
  But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic,
  which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to
  the censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself
  read. Such censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess
  or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others, may properly
  be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn.
  
  Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who,
  without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general
  defamatory terms; such as vile, dull, d--d stuff, &c., and
  particularly by the use of the monosyllable low; a word which becomes
  the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.
  
  Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work,
  yet, if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are
  compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice
  of a slanderer than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe
  sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This
  is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace:
  
       _Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
       Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
       Aut humana parum cavit natura----_
  
       But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
       I am not angry, when a casual line
       (That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
       A careless hand or human frailty shows.--MR FRANCIS.
  
  For, as Martial says, _Aliter non fit, Avite, liber_. No book can be
  otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of
  countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this
  manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which
  hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be
  liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps
  chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And
  yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books
  supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and
  that they are not always), do by no means go to the merit of the
  whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which doth not
  coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic
  of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one scene which should be
  disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To write within such severe
  rules as these is as impossible as to live up to some splenetic
  opinions: and if we judge according to the sentiments of some critics,
  and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no
  man in the next.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton.
  
  
  Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel
  backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the
  inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature,
  and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck,
  or rather his ill-conduct.
  
  Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across
  the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile
  from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several
  horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and
  she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible.
  
  He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the
  faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses
  behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at
  length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears,
  joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits; but she was
  now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the
  softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as
  soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility, and with the
  highest satisfaction to herself, returned.
  
  The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror,
  consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two
  parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered
  again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got
  the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the
  other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and
  had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange
  lady in a most obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find
  they were both travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost,
  only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was
  entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and
  was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had
  perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology,
  in keeping pace with her.” More civilities passed between these two
  ladies; for Mrs Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the
  stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though Sophia had great
  curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on through
  the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this gave her some
  uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration,
  restrained her from asking the question.
  
  The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost
  below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown
  from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could
  she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When
  Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a
  handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her
  pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse,
  for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his
  fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.
  
  Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received
  not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps
  contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane
  which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with
  trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light, and was
  moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was almost
  perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty, which was
  extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she
  was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm
  than a little fright by her fall.
  
  Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two
  ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly
  at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both
  their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy
  pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.
  
  This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I
  believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the
  strange lady could be no other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of
  Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn a
  few minutes after her.
  
  So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at
  this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance
  and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western),
  that it is impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed
  between them, before either asked a very natural question of the
  other, namely, whither she was going?
  
  This at last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and
  natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it
  a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to
  suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, “which I
  suppose,” says she, “can hardly be far distant; and, believe me,
  Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I
  believe our astonishment is pretty equal.”
  
  The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I
  apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between
  the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their
  compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from
  the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and the
  other obliged to bring up the rear.
  
  In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide
  and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought
  them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so
  fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last
  five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of
  dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had
  hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his
  arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his
  service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the
  blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than
  the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in
  his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely
  handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no
  less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his
  charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall;
  for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock
  given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from
  the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the
  bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what
  we shall not here relate for the indulgence of those readers who are
  capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's delicacy.
  Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor
  will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the
  modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to
  so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.
  
  This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her
  mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent
  constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to
  totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no
  sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour,
  very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in
  bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale
  and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself
  with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her
  apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the same
  advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long journey
  through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she
  was herself perfectly easy on that account.
  
  Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend,
  which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise
  offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much
  complacence, accepted.
  
  The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her
  example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for
  leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt
  her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the
  honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a
  share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after
  many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the
  waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.
  
  It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole
  fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen,
  postboys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their
  estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at that
  the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and
  especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual
  an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,
  therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who
  the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they
  faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction.
  On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished
  it.
  
  This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a
  very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into
  things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted.
  Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure him this
  reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully wise and
  significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth; which,
  indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly
  assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he
  was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he
  always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though his sentences
  were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay
  ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words
  with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the
  head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his hearers
  to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a
  hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This
  last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his
  character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship what
  they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on
  mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds.
  
  This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she
  thought of the ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?” said the wife,
  “why, what should I think of them?” “I know,” answered he, “what I
  think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from
  Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what I
  can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever travel
  across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And one of
  the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this
  was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances
  together, and whom do you think I have found them out to be?” “Nay,”
   answered she, “you know I never pretend to guess at your
  discoveries.”----“It is a good girl,” replied he, chucking her under
  the chin; “I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of
  these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say--depend upon
  it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel
  with the young Chevalier; and have taken a roundabout way to escape
  the duke's army.”
  
  “Husband,” quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it; for one of them
  is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks for all
  the world like one.----But yet, when I consider one thing”----“When
  you consider,” cries the landlord contemptuously----“Come, pray let's
  hear what you consider.”----“Why, it is,” answered the wife, “that she
  is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our Betty was
  warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and
  sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and
  stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her
  the trouble.”
  
  “Pugh!” answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost think, because
  you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below
  them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come
  before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see
  them--I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she
  came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know
  they would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a
  fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now,
  would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon
  some such extraordinary occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries
  she, “you know these matters better than I, or most folk.” “I think I
  do know something,” said he. “To be sure,” answered the wife, “the
  poor little heart looked so piteous, when she sat down in the chair, I
  protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as much as
  if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? If an she
  be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the court. Well,
  she's a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and
  I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or
  beheaded.” “Pooh!” answered the husband.----“But, as to what's to be
  done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes
  away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should
  get the better, she may gain us interest at court, and make our
  fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that's true,” replied the wife;
  “and I heartily hope she will have it in her power. Certainly she's a
  sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her come to
  any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the landlord, “women are always so
  tender-hearted. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you?” “No,
  certainly,” answered the wife; “and as for betraying her, come what
  will on't, nobody can blame us. It is what anybody would do in our
  case.”
  
  While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the
  reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in
  debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the
  opinion of his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke
  the slip, and had got a day's march towards London; and soon after
  arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his
  countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, “All's our own,
  boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England
  for ever! ten thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away
  directly.”
  
  This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to
  make his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he
  said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron
  herself.
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a moon, a star, and
  an angel.
  
  
  The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had
  been some time retired to rest when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by
  her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue
  could have occasioned; for, though she had told her maid, and perhaps
  herself too, that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it
  is certain her mind was a little affected with that malady which is
  attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the
  very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the
  fever on the spirits.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having
  summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very
  pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that of
  Sophia, might have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs Honour of her
  own accord attended (for her mistress would not suffer her to be
  waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs Fitzpatrick,
  who had performed the office of the morning-star, and had preceded
  greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally
  eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth.
  
  Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this
  instant. We ought not, therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for
  her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire,
  declared, and ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an
  angel upon earth, she was now above-stairs.
  
  Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and
  Mrs Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of her
  husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to
  her aunt Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea than
  Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then shining extremely bright,
  and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she any of those
  apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt at travelling by
  night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little degree of
  natural courage; and this, her present sensations, which bordered
  somewhat on despair, greatly encreased. Besides, as she had already
  travelled twice with safety by the light of the moon, she was the
  better emboldened to trust to it a third time.
  
  The disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the
  greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her
  husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton,
  yet, being now arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from
  his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what operated so
  strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till the
  next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by
  night.
  
  Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh
  nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to
  them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at Upton,
  it might have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as to
  Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of being
  overtaken by him; nay, to confess the truth, I believe she rather
  wished than feared it; though I might honestly enough have concealed
  this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous
  emotions of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger.
  
  When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in
  their inn they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know what
  their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the
  voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that
  she ravished the landlady to the highest degree; and that good woman,
  concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a
  stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young Pretender's
  cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been
  treated by his supposed mistress.
  
  The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal
  curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides
  occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs
  Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating
  likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he is
  desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
  
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep
  sigh, thus began:
  
  “It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting
  those periods of their lives which have been most delightful to them.
  The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of tender
  grief, like what we suffer for departed friends; and the ideas of both
  may be said to haunt our imaginations.
  
  “For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the
  happiest far of my life) which we spent together when both were under
  the care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss
  Giddy no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no
  other names. Indeed, you gave the latter appellation with too much
  cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved it. You, my
  Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope you
  will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the wise and matronly
  advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball,
  though you could not be then fourteen years old.----O my Sophy, how
  blest must have been my situation, when I could think such a
  disappointment a misfortune; and when indeed it was the greatest I had
  ever known!”
  
  “And yet, my dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “it was then a serious
  matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking, that
  whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and
  contemptible as a ball would at this time.”
  
  “Alas, my Sophia,” replied the other lady, “you yourself will think
  otherwise of my present situation; for greatly must that tender heart
  be altered if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a
  tear, from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from
  relating what I am convinced will so much affect you.” Here Mrs
  Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she
  thus proceeded:
  
  “Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may
  probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very
  commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband;
  which was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to
  your father.
  
  “Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr
  Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, _dégagé,_ extremely gallant, and
  in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was
  unluckily to see him now, I could describe him no better than by
  telling you he was the very reverse of everything which he is: for he
  hath rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild
  Irishman. But to proceed in my story: the qualifications which he then
  possessed so well recommended him, that, though the people of quality
  at that time lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded
  them from all their parties, Mr Fitzpatrick found means to gain
  admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he
  required very little or no invitation; and as, being handsome and
  genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to ingratiate himself
  with the ladies, so, he having frequently drawn his sword, the men did
  not care publickly to affront him. Had it not been for some such
  reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own sex; for
  surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English gentry;
  nor did they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary favour. They
  all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed from
  envy; for by the women he was well received, and very particularly
  distinguished by them.
  
  “My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived
  about the court, was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever means
  you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is
  sufficient merit for you that you are there. This observation, young
  as you was, you could scarce avoid making from my aunt, who was free,
  or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or less of this
  merit.
  
  “And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr
  Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was
  always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning
  such distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his behaviour
  to her, that the scandal club first began to take notice of it, and
  the better-disposed persons made a match between them. For my own
  part, I confess, I made no doubt but that his designs were strictly
  honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by
  way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor
  handsome enough to attract much wicked inclination; but she had
  matrimonial charms in great abundance.
  
  “I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary
  respect which he showed to myself from the first moment of our
  acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible,
  that disinclination which my interest might be supposed to give me
  towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it had that
  effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all
  people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be
  violently the enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was greatly
  pleased; and the more so, as I was the only object of such respect;
  for he behaved at the same time to many women of quality without any
  respect at all.
  
  “Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of
  behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and
  tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times, indeed,
  whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual
  loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in general company, and
  with other women; for even in a country-dance, when he was not my
  partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the
  moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all things so very
  particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have
  discovered it. And, and, and----” “And you was more pleased still, my
  dear Harriet,” cries Sophia; “you need not be ashamed,” added she,
  sighing; “for sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness, which
  too many men are able to affect.” “True,” answered her cousin; “men,
  who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels in
  the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.--Well, scandal
  now began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt;
  and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr Fitzpatrick had
  an intrigue with us both.
  
  “But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least
  seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both
  our behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the
  eyes of an old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses
  which are made to them, that, like an outrageous glutton, they are not
  at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the same table.
  This I have observed in more cases than my own; and this was so
  strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she often found us together
  at her return from the pump, the least canting word of his, pretending
  impatience at her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One
  artifice succeeded with her to admiration. This was his treating me
  like a little child, and never calling me by any other name in her
  presence but that of pretty miss. This indeed did him some disservice
  with your humble servant; but I soon saw through it, especially as in
  her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a different manner.
  However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a conduct of which I had
  discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it; for my aunt
  really conceived me to be what her lover (as she thought him) called
  me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say the
  truth, I wonder she had not insisted on my again wearing
  leading-strings.
  
  “At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn
  manner, to disclose a secret which I had known long before. He now
  placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account.
  He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given
  him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in which he had
  undergone her conversation.--What shall I tell you, my dear
  Sophia?--Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I
  was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to rival
  so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave
  as I should do, even upon the very first declaration--I wish I did not
  almost give him positive encouragement before we parted.
  
  “The Bath now talked loudly--I might almost say, roared against me.
  Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much,
  perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me
  from a company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man. And
  here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude to the kindness intended me
  by Mr Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I
  had followed, I had been a happy woman. `Child,' says he, `I am sorry
  to see the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is
  altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As
  for your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my
  pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his words), I should be
  heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to
  her. I never advise old women: for, if they take it into their heads
  to go to the devil, it is no more possible than worth while to keep
  them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy a better
  fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let me advise you
  therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with
  you again.' Many more things he said to me, which I have now
  forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at the time; for
  inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I could not be
  persuaded that women of quality would condescend to familiarity with
  such a person as he described.
  
  “But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many
  minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married;
  imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine
  the maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination
  will suggest to you no more than what really happened.
  
  “The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr
  Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one
  else; for, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly,
  I believe she was then a little confounded at her disappointment.
  Since that time, I have written to her many letters, but never could
  obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the heavier, as she
  herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings:
  for, had it not been under the colour of paying his addresses to her,
  Mr Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have
  engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances, I still flatter
  myself would not have been an easy conquest to such a person. Indeed,
  I believe I should not have erred so grossly in my choice if I had
  relied on my own judgment; but I trusted totally to the opinion of
  others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man for granted whom I
  saw so universally well received by the women. What is the reason, my
  dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the wisest and
  greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest
  fellows for companions and favourites? It raises my indignation to the
  highest pitch to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have
  been undone by fools.” Here she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no
  answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
  
  
  “We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding; for
  as to any reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of my
  fortune not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which
  I now wanted more than two years. My husband therefore was resolved to
  set out for Ireland; against which I remonstrated very earnestly, and
  insisted on a promise which he had made me before our marriage that I
  should never take this journey against my consent; and indeed I never
  intended to consent to it; nor will anybody, I believe, blame me for
  that resolution; but this, however, I never mentioned to my husband,
  and petitioned only for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the
  day, and to that day he obstinately adhered.
  
  “The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point
  with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his
  chair, and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was
  hardly out of the house when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which,
  I suppose, he had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together with his
  handkerchief. This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a letter, I
  made no scruple to open and read it; and indeed I read it so often
  that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then was the
  letter:
  
    _'To Mr Brian Fitzpatrick._
  
    'SIR,
  
    'YOURS received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner,
    as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one linsey-woolsey
    coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider, sir, how often
    you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this
    lady and t'other lady; but I can neither live on hopes or promises,
    nor will my woollen-draper take any such in payment. You tell me you
    are secure of having either the aunt or the niece, and that you
    might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you say is
    immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready
    money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for once, and marry the first
    you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I
    sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour
    of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which doubt
    not your honouring, and am,
  
    Sir, your humble servant, 'SAM. COSGRAVE.'
  
  “This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl--guess how
  this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready
  money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with
  pleasure have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount my
  frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears
  before his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in my
  swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long
  time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, `I
  hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; for the
  coach will be ready by six in the morning.' My patience was totally
  subdued by this provocation, and I answered, `No, sir, there is a
  letter still remains unpacked;' and then throwing it on the table I
  fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I could invent.
  
  “Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him I cannot say;
  but, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on
  this occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the
  most gentle means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I
  principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He
  owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that preference
  which he had given to myself, but denied with many oaths the having
  mentioned any such matter at all on account of the straits he was in
  for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his
  estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to
  discover to me, was the only reason of his having so strenuously
  insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing
  expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many violent
  protestations of love.
  
  “There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had
  much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word jointure in
  the taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this
  Mr Fitzpatrick well knew.----As I imagined, therefore, that the fellow
  must have inserted this of his own head, or from hearsay, I persuaded
  myself he might have ventured likewise on that odious line on no
  better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not an
  advocate rather than a judge?--But why do I mention such a
  circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of my
  forgiveness?--In short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much,
  half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on
  me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our
  setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little more than
  a week arrived at the seat of Mr Fitzpatrick.
  
  “Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which
  past during our journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to
  travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.
  
  “This seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of
  those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could
  describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been
  formerly inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the
  less room on account of the furniture; for indeed there was very
  little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and
  greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us
  at the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me unintelligible,
  welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and
  melancholy, that it threw my spirits into the lowest dejection; which
  my husband discerning, instead of relieving, encreased by two or three
  malicious observations. `There are good houses, madam,' says he, `as
  you find, in other places besides England; but perhaps you had rather
  be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.'
  
  “Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a
  cheerful good-natured companion to support and comfort her! But why do
  I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my
  companion, far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced
  me that I must have been wretched with him in any place, and in any
  condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you
  have never seen; for, indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but in
  a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though you have a father, he
  is not of that character. This surly fellow had formerly appeared to
  me the very reverse, and so he did still to every other person. Good
  heaven! how is it possible for a man to maintain a constant lie in his
  appearance abroad and in company, and to content himself with shewing
  disagreeable truth only at home? Here, my dear, they make themselves
  amends for the uneasy restraint which they put on their tempers in the
  world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay and good-humoured
  my husband hath at any time been in company, the more sullen and
  morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I
  describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible. My
  little comical ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others, have
  called so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious
  moments he sung and whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected
  and miserable he was angry, and abused me: for, though he was never
  pleased with my good-humour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in
  him, yet my low spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to
  my repentance of having (as he said) married an Irishman.
  
  “You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I
  really forgot myself), that, when a woman makes an imprudent match in
  the sense of the world, that is, when she is not an arrant prostitute
  to pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and
  affection for her man. You will as easily believe that this affection
  may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly
  eradicate it. This contempt I now began to entertain for my husband,
  whom I now discovered to be--I must use the expression--an arrant
  blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long
  before; but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for
  the folly of those they like: besides, give me leave to tell you, it
  requires a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the
  disguises of gaiety and good breeding.
  
  “It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as
  I confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his company;
  and indeed I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it;
  for our house was now most elegantly furnished, our cellars well
  stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great abundance. As my
  gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with great hospitality,
  so his neighbours resorted to him with great alacrity; and sports and
  drinking consumed so much of his time, that a small part of his
  conversation, that is to say, of his ill-humours, fell to my share.
  
  “Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided all
  other disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some which
  constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being
  relieved from them. These companions were my own racking thoughts,
  which plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In this
  situation I past through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be
  painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you can, to yourself,
  what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the man I scorned,
  hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a
  lying-in (ten times more painful in such a circumstance than the worst
  labour can be when one endures it for a man one loves) in a desert, or
  rather, indeed, a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a
  companion, or without any of those agreeable circumstances which often
  alleviate, and perhaps sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings
  of our sex at that season.”
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful
  consternation.
  
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was
  interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of
  Sophia; for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety, and
  left her no appetite but what Mrs Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her
  relation.
  
  The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the
  same respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on
  had the ladies arrived in a coach and six.
  
  The married lady seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than
  was her cousin; for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter
  could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and
  sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having
  observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted,
  saying, “Perhaps all may yet end better than either you or I expect.”
  
  Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and
  was resolved not to omit it. “I am sorry, madam,” cries he, “that your
  ladyship can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after so long
  fasting. I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything, for, as madam
  there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A gentleman who
  was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps some folks who
  have given other folks the slip may get to London before they are
  overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they will find people
  who will be very ready to receive them.”
  
  All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see
  and hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore
  immediately concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was known,
  and pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost
  consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of the power of speech;
  which she no sooner recovered than she desired the landlord to send
  his servants out of the room, and then, addressing herself to him,
  said, “I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech you--nay, I
  am convinced, if you have any compassion or goodness, you will not
  betray us.”
  
  “I betray your ladyship!” quoth the landlord; “no (and then he swore
  several very hearty oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten thousand
  pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my life
  yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your
  ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it
  will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife can
  witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the
  house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your horse,
  and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's service to the
  grave; but what signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To
  be sure some people this morning would have thought of getting a
  reward; but no such thought ever entered into my head. I would sooner
  starve than take any reward for betraying your ladyship.”
  
  “I promise you, sir,” says Sophia, “if it be ever in my power to
  reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity.”
  
  “Alack-a-day, madam!” answered the landlord; “in your ladyship's
  power! Heaven put it as much into your will! I am only afraid your
  honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your
  ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I
  refused--refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may
  be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure
  you might have been in some houses;--but, for my part, would not
  methinks for the world have your ladyship wrong me so much as to
  imagine I ever thought of betraying you, even before I heard the good
  news.”
  
  “What news, pray?” says Sophia, something eagerly.
  
  “Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?” cries the landlord; “nay,
  like enough, for I heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I had never
  heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would have
  betrayed your honour! no, if I would, may I--” Here he subjoined
  several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted, and
  begged to know what he meant by the news.--He was going to answer,
  when Mrs Honour came running into the room, all pale and breathless,
  and cried out, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they are come,
  they are come!” These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but
  Mrs Fitzpatrick asked Honour who were come?--“Who?” answered she,
  “why, the French; several hundred thousands of them are landed, and we
  shall be all murdered and ravished.”
  
  As a miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value twenty
  shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire,
  turns pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful
  palaces only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes
  instantly to himself, and smiles at his good fortunes: or as (for we
  dislike something in the former simile) the tender mother, when
  terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is
  struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but when she is
  told that little master is safe, and the Victory only, with twelve
  hundred brave men, gone to the bottom, life and sense again return,
  maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the
  general benevolence which at another time would have deeply felt the
  dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in her mind;--so Sophia, than
  whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling the general calamity of
  her country, found such immediate satisfaction from the relief of
  those terrors she had of being overtaken by her father, that the
  arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently
  chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown her, and said
  “she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared somebody else
  was come.”
  
  “Ay, ay,” quoth the landlord, smiling, “her ladyship knows better
  things; she knows the French are our very best friends, and come over
  hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make Old
  England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was
  coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to
  tell your ladyship the news.--His honour's majesty, Heaven bless him,
  hath given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to
  London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road.”
  
  Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman
  who related it; but, as she still imagined he knew her (for she could
  not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show
  any dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the cloth from the
  table, withdrew; but at his departure frequently repeated his hopes of
  being remembered hereafter.
  
  The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being
  known at this house; for she still applied to herself many things
  which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore
  ordered her maid to pump out of him by what means he had become
  acquainted with her person, and who had offered him the reward for
  betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in readiness by
  four in the morning, at which hour Mrs Fitzpatrick promised to bear
  her company; and then, composing herself as well as she could, she
  desired that lady to continue her story.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
  
  
  While Mrs Honour, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress,
  ordered a bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to
  partake of it, Mrs Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.
  
  “Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our
  neighbourhood were of my husband's acquaintance. Among these there was
  a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a
  woman, so agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our
  first knowing each other, which was soon after my lying-in, we were
  almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to make
  myself equally agreeable to her.
  
  “The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was frequently
  of our parties; indeed he was very little with my husband, and no more
  than good breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost
  constantly at our house. My husband often expressed much
  dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to his; he
  was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty
  curse for drawing away his companions; saying, `I ought to be d--n'd
  for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by
  making a milksop of him.'
  
  “You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger
  of my husband arose from my depriving him of a companion; for the
  lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be
  pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little
  right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that I
  am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to
  come to the house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most
  rancorous kind of envy, the envy of superiority of understanding. The
  wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his, by a
  man of whom he could not entertain the least jealousy. O my dear
  Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a man, as is most
  probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent
  trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to
  submit to such a superiority.--Promise me, Sophy, you will take this
  advice; for you will hereafter find its importance.” “It is very
  likely I shall never marry at all,” answered Sophia; “I think, at
  least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any
  defects before marriage; and I promise you I would rather give up my
  own than see any such afterwards.” “Give up your understanding!”
   replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “oh, fie, child! I will not believe so meanly
  of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up; but
  never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the
  wife in so many instances, if she had intended we should all of us
  have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of sense never
  expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one
  notable example; for though he had a very good understanding, he
  always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better.
  And this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.
  
  “Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an
  ugly b-- (for, indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very
  agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon
  earth at the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said,
  he wondered what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company:
  since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your
  beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could
  not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country;
  and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way;
  for the ladies there are at least no better than the mere country
  ladies here; and I think I need make no other excuse to you for
  declining any intimacy with them.
  
  “This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the
  while the lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was
  contented to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner
  above mentioned by my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he was
  frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin, and once made a journey
  of two months to London: in all which journeys I thought it a very
  singular happiness that he never once desired my company; nay, by his
  frequent censures on men who could not travel, as he phrased it,
  without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that,
  had I been never so desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have
  been in vain; but, Heaven knows, such wishes were very far from my
  thoughts.
  
  “At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my
  solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and
  to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day long.
  How many books do you think I read in three months?” “I can't guess,
  indeed, cousin,” answered Sophia. “Perhaps half a score.” “Half a
  score! half a thousand, child!” answered the other. “I read a good
  deal in Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's
  Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the
  Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.
  
  “During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I thought,
  moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to any of
  them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application.” Here
  she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia, said, “Methinks, my dear,
  I read something in your eyes which reproaches me of a neglect in
  another place, where I should have met with a kinder return.” “Indeed,
  dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “your story is an apology for any
  neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of a remissness,
  without so good an excuse.--Yet pray proceed; for I long, though I
  tremble, to hear the end.”
  
  Thus, then, Mrs Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:--“My husband now
  took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of three
  months; during the greater part of this time I led a life which
  nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable; for
  perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind, like mine,
  but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate. What
  added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not that I
  pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which I
  believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I
  resolved, in every instance, to discharge the duty of the tenderest
  mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that
  heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie heavy on our
  hands.
  
  “I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen
  nobody all that time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when
  a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of
  Ireland to visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and
  then I gave her a pressing invitation to return; for she was a very
  agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper
  education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest.
  
  “A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits,
  without enquiring the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the
  young lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, `Though
  politeness had prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations
  of his behaviour, yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt
  great concern upon that account; but none more than herself.' And
  after some more general discourse on this head, which I own I could
  not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution and
  enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound
  secret--that my husband kept a mistress.
  
  “You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost
  insensibility--Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead
  you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that
  hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this?
  Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at others
  having possession even of what we despise? Or are we not rather
  abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our
  vanity? What think you, Sophia?”
  
  “I don't know, indeed,” answered Sophia; “I have never troubled myself
  with any of these deep contemplations; but I think the lady did very
  ill in communicating to you such a secret.”
  
  “And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural,” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick;
  “and, when you have seen and read as much as myself, you will
  acknowledge it to be so.”
  
  “I am sorry to hear it is natural,” returned Sophia; “for I want
  neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very
  dishonourable and very ill-natured: nay, it is surely as ill-bred to
  tell a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them of
  their own.”
  
  “Well,” continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, “my husband at last returned; and,
  if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him now
  more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly nothing
  so much weakens our contempt, as an injury done to our pride or our
  vanity.
  
  “He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had
  lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behaviour the first week of
  our marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he
  might, possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though
  hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of it,
  love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too
  restless to remain contented without the gratification which it
  receives from its object; and one can no more be inclined to love
  without loving than we can have eyes without seeing. When a husband,
  therefore, ceases to be the object of this passion, it is most
  probable some other man--I say, my dear, if your husband grows
  indifferent to you--if you once come to despise him--I say--that
  is--if you have the passion of love in you--Lud! I have bewildered
  myself so--but one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose
  the concatenation of ideas, as Mr Locke says:--in short, the truth
  is--in short, I scarce know what it is; but, as I was saying, my
  husband returned, and his behaviour, at first, greatly surprized me;
  but he soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me to account
  for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of
  my fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was
  now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by
  selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do without my
  assistance; and to obtain this favour was the whole and sole motive of
  all the fondness which he now put on.
  
  “With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told
  him truly, that, had I been possessed of the Indies at our first
  marriage, he might have commanded it all; for it had been a constant
  maxim with me, that where a woman disposes of her heart, she should
  always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind, long ago, to
  restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to
  retain what little remained of the latter.
  
  “I will not describe to you the passion into which these words, and
  the resolute air in which they were spoken, threw him: nor will I
  trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came,
  you may be well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it did
  come, with all the embellishments which anger and disdain could bestow
  upon it.
  
  “Mr Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more
  confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused
  enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate
  himself; but took a method which almost equally confounded me. What
  was this but recrimination? He affected to be jealous:--he may, for
  aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper;
  nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have put it
  into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my
  character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure
  my reputation. My fame, I thank heaven, hath been always as spotless
  as my life; and let falsehood itself accuse that if it dare. No, my
  dear Graveairs, however provoked, however ill-treated, however injured
  in my love, I have firmly resolved never to give the least room for
  censure on this account.--And yet, my dear, there are some people so
  malicious, some tongues so venomous, that no innocence can escape
  them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look, the least
  familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and
  magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear
  Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you,
  ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all
  that.--But where was I? O let me see, I told you my husband was
  jealous--And of whom, I pray?--Why, of whom but the lieutenant I
  mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a year and
  more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if,
  indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit in
  order to abuse me.
  
  “But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now
  bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short, then, after many
  scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so
  heartily on my side, that Mr Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of
  doors; when he found I was neither to be soothed nor bullied into
  compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will
  conclude he beat me; but this, though he hath approached very near to
  it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room, without
  suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a servant
  every day made my bed, and brought me my food.
  
  “When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a
  visit, and, with the voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much
  the same, of a tyrant, asked me, `If I would yet comply?' I answered,
  very stoutly, `That I would die first.' `Then so you shall, and be
  d--nd!' cries he; `for you shall never go alive out of this room.'
  
  “Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my
  constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission;
  when, one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for
  some short time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an
  accident happened.--I--at a time when I began to give way to the
  utmost despair----everything would be excusable at such a time--at
  that very time I received----But it would take up an hour to tell you
  all particulars.--In one word, then (for I will not tire you with
  circumstances), gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door,
  and set me at liberty.
  
  “I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage to
  England; and was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself into the
  protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would
  afford it me. My husband overtook me last night at the inn where I
  lay, and which you left a few minutes before me; but I had the good
  luck to escape him, and to follow you.
  
  “And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it is
  to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its
  dullness.”
  
  Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity you
  from my soul!----But what could you expect? Why, why, would you marry
  an Irishman?”
  
  “Upon my word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is unjust. There
  are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any among the
  English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more
  common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good
  husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me,
  rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you
  a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”--“Can no man,” said
  Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, “do you think, make a bad
  husband, who is not a fool?” “That,” answered the other, “is too
  general a negative; but none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to
  prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the worst
  husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of sense
  rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well.”
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an unexpected friend
  of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
  
  
  Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related--not what follows,
  but what hath gone before in this history: for which reason the reader
  will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.
  
  One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative, namely,
  that she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning to the end,
  than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither
  endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called
  a kind of dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent
  openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady.--But so it was.
  
  Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived
  in the room where the two ladies were sitting a noise, not unlike, in
  loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel;
  nor, in shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to screech owls;
  or, indeed, more like (for what animal can resemble a human voice?) to
  those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems
  to derive its name from a duplicity of tongues, issue from the mouths,
  and sometimes from the nostrils, of those fair river nymphs, ycleped
  of old the Naïades; in the vulgar tongue translated oyster-wenches;
  for when, instead of the antient libations of milk and honey and oil,
  the rich distillation from the juniper-berry, or, perhaps, from malt,
  hath, by the early devotion of their votaries, been poured forth in
  great abundance, should any daring tongue with unhallowed license
  prophane, _i.e._, depreciate, the delicate fat Milton oyster, the
  plaice sound and firm, the flounder as much alive as when in the
  water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine cod alive but a few
  hours ago, or any other of the various treasures which those
  water-deities who fish the sea and rivers have committed to the care
  of the nymphs, the angry Naïades lift up their immortal voices, and
  the prophane wretch is struck deaf for his impiety.
  
  Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below; and
  soon the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to
  approach nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs,
  it at last entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to
  drop all metaphor and figure, Mrs Honour, having scolded violently
  below-stairs, and continued the same all the way up, came in to her
  mistress in a most outrageous passion, crying out, “What doth your
  ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the
  master of this house, hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand
  it out to my face, that your ladyship is that nasty, stinking wh--re
  (Jenny Cameron they call her), that runs about the country with the
  Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy villain had the assurance to tell me
  that your ladyship had owned yourself to be so; but I have clawed the
  rascal; I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My
  lady! says I, you saucy scoundrel; my lady is meat for no pretenders.
  She is a young lady of as good fashion, and family, and fortune, as
  any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great Squire Western,
  sirrah? She is his only daughter; she is----, and heiress to all his
  great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch wh--re by such a
  varlet!--To be sure I wish I had knocked his brains out with the
  punch-bowl.”
  
  The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this
  occasion Honour had herself caused, by having in her passion
  discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord
  sufficiently accounted for those passages which Sophia had before
  mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account; nor could she, upon
  the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour, and she cried,
  “Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship would have made a
  laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an impudent low
  rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know, for
  taking your part, since proffered service, they say, stinks; but to be
  sure I could never bear to hear a lady of mine called whore.--Nor will
  I bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat
  foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes out who
  dares for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the
  contrary. Nobody ever could say the least ill of the character of any
  lady that ever I waited upon.”
  
  _Hinc illae lachrymae;_ in plain truth, Honour had as much love for
  her mistress as most servants have, that is to say--But besides this,
  her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited
  on; for she thought her own was in a very close manner connected with
  it. In proportion as the character of her mistress was raised, hers
  likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it; and, on the contrary,
  she thought the one could not be lowered without the other.
  
  On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story.
  “The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day, from a house where she had
  made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her
  footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his mistress
  the reason of his being in that condition, answered, `I have been
  fighting, madam, with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a
  wh--re.' `You blockhead,' replied Mrs Gwynn, `at this rate you must
  fight every day of your life; why, you fool, all the world knows it.'
  `Do they?' cries the fellow, in a muttering voice, after he had shut
  the coach-door, `they shan't call me a whore's footman for all that.'”
  
  Thus the passion of Mrs Honour appears natural enough, even if it were
  to be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was another
  cause of her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind our reader
  of a circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed
  certain liquors, which, being applied to our passions, or to fire,
  produce effects the very reverse of those produced by water, as they
  serve to kindle and inflame, rather than to extinguish. Among these,
  the generous liquor called punch is one. It was not, therefore,
  without reason, that the learned Dr Cheney used to call drinking punch
  pouring liquid fire down your throat.
  
  Now, Mrs Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down
  her throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her pericranium
  and blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed to keep her
  residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the
  heart, and there inflamed the noble passion of pride. So that, upon
  the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage of the
  waiting-woman; though at first sight we must confess the cause seems
  inadequate to the effect.
  
  Sophia and her cousin both did all in their power to extinguish these
  flames which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at length
  prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the fire,
  having consumed all the fuel which the language affords, to wit, every
  reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.
  
  But, though tranquillity was restored above-stairs, it was not so
  below; where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the
  beauty of her husband by the flesh-spades of Mrs Honour, called aloud
  for revenge and justice. As to the poor man, who had principally
  suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the blood
  which he lost might have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not only
  applied her nails to his cheeks, but likewise her fist to his
  nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood in great
  abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake; but indeed
  nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as the manner in which
  he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour of Mrs Honour, it
  had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was now assured by a
  person of great figure, and who was attended by a great equipage, that
  one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate
  acquaintance.
  
  By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and
  acquainted our fair travellers that a great gentleman below desired to
  do them the honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled
  at this message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil,
  notwithstanding the landlord's blunder, to have come from her father;
  but fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace, and is apt to
  conclude hastily from every slight circumstance, without examining the
  evidence on both sides.
  
  To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his
  apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer had arrived
  very late that evening at the inn, in his way to London. This
  nobleman, having sallied from his supper at the hurricane before
  commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and upon a
  short enquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very
  particularly acquainted, was above. This information he had no sooner
  received than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified him, and
  sent him upstairs with compliments rather civiller than those which
  were delivered.
  
  It may perhaps be wondered at that the waiting-woman herself was not
  the messenger employed on this occasion; but we are sorry to say she
  was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office.
  The rum (for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt)
  had basely taken the advantage of the fatigue which the poor woman had
  undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties,
  at a time when they were very unable to resist the attack.
  
  We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we thought
  ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity which we profess,
  shortly to hint a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to
  have spared. Many historians, indeed, for want of this integrity, or
  of diligence, to say no worse, often leave the reader to find out
  these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to his great
  confusion and perplexity.
  
  Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the
  noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs
  Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To
  say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been enabled to
  escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same gallant
  disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic
  story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was
  indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised
  by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex,
  as ever knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay,
  to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with
  which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the
  husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the
  enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.
  
  This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and
  had been for some time acquainted with the lady. No sooner, therefore,
  did he hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to
  procure her liberty; which he presently effected, not by storming the
  castle, according to the example of antient heroes, but by corrupting
  the governor, in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft
  is held to be preferable to valour, and gold is found to be more
  irresistible than either lead or steel.
  
  This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material
  enough to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to
  the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition
  that she had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps
  supernatural means, had possessed herself of the money with which she
  had bribed her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a
  hint of what seemed to her of too little importance to be mentioned.
  
  The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing
  some surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor could he refrain
  from telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs
  Fitzpatrick very freely answered, “That she had been prevented in her
  purpose by the arrival of a person she need not mention. In short,”
   says she, “I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not affect to
  conceal what the world knows too well already). I had the good fortune
  to escape in a most surprizing manner, and am now going to London with
  this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped
  from as great a tyrant as my own.”
  
  His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made
  a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of
  invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique
  glances at the matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust
  powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more meritorious
  part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of his
  protection, and of his coach and six, which was instantly accepted by
  Mrs Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her persuasions, by Sophia.
  
  Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the
  ladies retired to rest, where Mrs Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin
  with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peer, and
  enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for his wife; saying,
  she believed he was almost the only person of high rank who was
  entirely constant to the marriage bed. “Indeed,” added she, “my dear
  Sophy, that is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never
  expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will
  certainly be deceived.”
  
  A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps
  contributed to form a dream of no very pleasant kind; but, as she
  never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to
  see it related here.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stagecoach. The
  civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of Sophia. Her generosity.
  The return to it. The departure of the company, and their arrival at
  London; with some remarks for the use of travellers.
  
  
  Those members of society who are born to furnish the blessings of life
  now began to light their candles, in order to pursue their daily
  labours for the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings.
  The sturdy hind now attends the levee of his fellow-labourer the ox;
  the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from their hard
  mattress; and now the bonny housemaid begins to repair the disordered
  drum-room, while the riotous authors of that disorder, in broken
  interrupted slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the hardness of down
  disquieted their repose.
  
  In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven than the ladies
  were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his lordship and
  his equipage were prepared to attend them.
  
  And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his
  lordship himself should be conveyed; for though in stage-coaches,
  where passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the
  ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place
  of four; for well he contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed
  alderman, may take up no more room than the slim miss, or taper
  master; it being the nature of guts, when well squeezed, to give way,
  and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in these vehicles, which are
  called, for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they are
  often larger than the others, this method of packing is never
  attempted.
  
  His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very
  gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no
  means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails
  should, by turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship's horses,
  which was presently equipped with a side-saddle for that purpose.
  
  Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their
  former guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to
  repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on
  account of what he had suffered under the hands of her enraged
  waiting-woman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her
  some uneasiness; and this was of the hundred-pound bank-bill which her
  father had given her at their last meeting; and which, within a very
  inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present worth.
  She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things to no
  purpose, the bill was not to be found: and she was at last fully
  persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the
  misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before
  recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she now recollected
  some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time, and
  the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her handkerchief
  the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the distress of
  Mrs Fitzpatrick.
  
  Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be
  attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is any
  strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though
  nothing could be worse timed than this accident at such a season,
  immediately got the better of her concern, and, with her wonted
  serenity and cheerfulness of countenance, returned to her company. His
  lordship conducted the ladies into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs
  Honour, who, after many civilities, and more dear madams, at last
  yielded to the well-bred importunities of her sister Abigail, and
  submitted to be complimented with the first ride in the coach; in
  which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to have pursued
  her whole journey, had not her mistress, after several fruitless
  intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on horseback.
  
  The coach, now having received its company, began to move forwards,
  attended by many servants, and led by two captains, who had before
  rode with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the
  vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of
  accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as gentlemen; but
  they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman,
  or indeed would have condescended lower, for the honour of his
  lordship's company, and for the convenience of his table.
  
  My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from
  Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his
  scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the _quantum_ of
  this present; but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it
  satisfied the landlord for his bodily hurt; but he lamented he had not
  known before how little the lady valued her money; “For to be sure,”
   says he, “one might have charged every article double, and she would
  have made no cavil at the reckoning.”
  
  His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she
  really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I
  will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the
  generosity of Sophia. “Indeed,” cries she, “my dear, the lady knows
  better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might very
  well think we should not put up such a business without some
  satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite deal more
  than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take.” “You are
  always so bloodily wise,” quoth the husband: “it would have cost her
  more, would it? dost fancy I don't know that as well as thee? but
  would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets?
  Indeed, if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad
  to have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a
  good picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer,
  and why should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?” “Nay, to be
  sure,” answered she, “you must know best.” “I believe I do,” replied
  he. “I fancy, when money is to be got, I can smell it out as well as
  another. Everybody, let me tell you, would not have talked people out
  of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not have cajoled this out
  of her, mind that.” The wife then joined in the applause of her
  husband's sagacity; and thus ended the short dialogue between them on
  this occasion.
  
  We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his
  lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition that
  they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the
  second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one
  adventure on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate.
  Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes,
  and our history shall keep pace with the travellers who are its
  subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious
  traveller in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any
  place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which it affords.
  At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's Park, days
  are too short for the ravished imagination; while we admire the
  wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of these, art
  chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend for
  our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here
  Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the
  modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature
  indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on
  this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which
  can be exceeded only in the other.
  
  The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these
  elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The
  woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye
  of the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he
  afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of
  Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from
  Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in
  sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in
  compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions
  to our prospect.
  
  Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice,
  the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the numerous
  offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through
  the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring
  four miles and a half per hour with the utmost exactness; the eyes of
  the beast and of his master being alike directed forwards, and
  employed in contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With
  equal rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the
  architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath
  adorned the rich cloathing town; where heaps of bricks are piled up as
  a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have been piled there
  before.
  
  And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will
  leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and
  to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly
  able to perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this
  occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper assistance in
  difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use
  the arts of divination to discover our meaning, yet we shall not
  indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is required;
  for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended,
  when we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do; or
  that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to
  travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning
  suspicion.
  
  
  Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship's
  house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of
  their journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the
  two ladies; for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick
  would by no means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer.
  
  Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I
  may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must make
  allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very
  ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we
  must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right
  side, and which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do
  well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only
  an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations, seem
  to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this
  formality; but it will, however, be always more commended; and this, I
  believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in some
  very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or
  the other.
  
  A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that
  evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady
  into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had
  determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And
  this she was the more eager in doing from some observations she had
  made during her journey in the coach.
  
  Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on
  Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which
  filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly
  entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to
  enter into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think proper not to
  mention more plainly till we have first suggested a word or two to our
  reader touching suspicion in general.
  
  Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first
  of these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of
  its discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the
  rather as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees
  what is not, and always more than really exists. This is that
  quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil can
  escape; which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words
  and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart of the observer,
  so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies evil, as
  it were, in the first embryo; nay, sometimes before it can be said to
  be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible; but, as this
  degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being;
  so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have arisen many sad
  mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches to innocence and virtue. I
  cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast quick-sightedness into evil
  as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious evil in itself. And I am
  the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid it always proceeds
  from a bad heart, for the reasons I have above mentioned, and for one
  more, namely, because I never knew it the property of a good one. Now,
  from this degree of suspicion I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.
  
  A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is,
  indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes,
  and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is
  unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no
  less certain and necessary a consequence of our having any brains.
  This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to
  innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though,
  through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For
  instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in the
  lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who
  profess the art of cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame
  him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the
  familiarities which he really had seen, and which we are at least
  favourable enough to when we call them innocent freedoms. The reader
  will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I shall add
  but one more, which, however unchristian it may be thought by some, I
  cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a
  suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done already,
  and that it is possible for one who hath been a villain once to act
  the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this degree of
  suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion
  she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was really not
  better than she should be.
  
  The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely considered that
  the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation
  with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to
  meet its enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner
  therefore was she determined to take the first opportunity of quitting
  the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast herself under
  the protection of some other man; and whom could she so properly
  choose to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune, of
  honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to
  knight-errantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies in distress,
  had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already
  given her all the instances of it in his power?
  
  But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or
  guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to denominate him by
  a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship
  should perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and
  without publickly assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to
  prevent any other person from seeing him in this light, it was agreed
  that the lady should proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship
  should first go to London, and thence should go down to that place by
  the advice of his physicians.
  
  Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or
  behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely
  less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps
  the exact secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in
  her narrative served not a little to heighten those suspicions which
  were now risen in the mind of her cousin.
  
  Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was
  not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known;
  and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing
  invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did
  not desire her cousin to stay with her with more earnestness than
  civility required. Whether she had discerned and resented the
  suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other motive it arose, I
  cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of parting
  with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of going.
  
  The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not
  avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for heaven's
  sake, to take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a
  situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of
  reconciling her to her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” says
  she, “the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us
  both; That whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war
  declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a
  disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my
  aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in the
  world.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, “Never
  fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than I. I
  will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me give
  you one piece of advice: leave the character of Graveairs in the
  country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this
  town.”
  
  Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady
  Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite,
  welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her
  formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see
  her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her
  to leave the squire and to fly to London than she highly applauded her
  sense and resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in
  the opinion which Sophia had declared she entertained of her ladyship,
  by chusing her house for an asylum, she promised her all the
  protection which it was in her power to give.
  
  As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I
  apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a
  little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we
  have left long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as
  is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him
  themselves.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XII.
  
  CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what
  is to be considered as lawful prize.
  
  
  The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this
  mighty work, I have often translated passages out of the best antient
  authors, without quoting the original, or without taking the least
  notice of the book from whence they were borrowed.
  
  This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the
  ingenious Abbé Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work of
  great erudition and of equal judgment. “It will be easy,” says he,
  “for the reader to observe that I have frequently had greater regard
  to him than to my own reputation: for an author certainly pays him a
  considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned
  quotations that come in his way, and which would have cost him but the
  bare trouble of transcribing.”
  
  To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a
  downright cheat on the learned world, who are by such means imposed
  upon to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what they have
  already in gross, if not in their memories, upon their shelves; and it
  is still more cruel upon the illiterate, who are drawn in to pay for
  what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who intermixes great
  quantity of Greek and Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and
  fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which they are treated
  by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up
  their lots, that, in order to purchase the commodity you want, you are
  obliged at the same time to purchase that which will do you no
  service.
  
  And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested but that it
  may be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I
  have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the
  expense of my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to
  quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use either of the
  thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that I
  have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by suppressing
  the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of plagiarism
  than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly
  celebrated Frenchman.
  
  Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess
  and justify the fact. The antients may be considered as a rich common,
  where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a
  free right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clearer light, we
  moderns are to the antients what the poor are to the rich. By the poor
  here I mean that large and venerable body which, in English, we call
  the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree
  of intimacy with this mob, must well know that it is one of their
  established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours
  without any reluctance; and that this is held to be neither sin nor
  shame among them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this
  maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of
  confederacy ever carrying on against a certain person of opulence
  called the squire, whose property is considered as free-booty by all
  his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner of
  guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of honour and
  moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from
  punishment on all such occasions.
  
  In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace,
  Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many
  wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an
  immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I
  demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor neighbours in
  their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to
  maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob show to
  one another. To steal from one another is indeed highly criminal and
  indecent; for this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor
  (sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than ourselves), or, to set it
  under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spittal.
  
  Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience
  cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to
  plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to
  take to myself any passage which I shall find in an antient author to
  my purpose, without setting down the name of the author from whence it
  was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments
  the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I expect all
  readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my own.
  This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that
  I preserve strict honesty towards my poor brethren, from whom, if ever
  I borrow any of that little of which they are possessed, I shall never
  fail to put their mark upon it, that it may be at all times ready to
  be restored to the right owner.
  
  The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who, having
  formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to
  transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope,
  however, very luckily found them in the said play, and, laying violent
  hands on his own property, transferred it back again into his own
  works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the
  loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now
  remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper punishment for such
  his unjust dealings in the poetical trade.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is
  found which puts an end to his pursuit.
  
  
  The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first
  trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at
  an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our
  heroe.
  
  The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed
  from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter.
  The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he
  likewise past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed,
  vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should but
  overtake her.
  
  He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a
  short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he
  at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck
  directly into the Worcester road.
  
  In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan
  himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure
  never was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley
  of oaths and execrations.
  
  The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion.
  “Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope. Howbeit we have
  not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good
  fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure
  she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will tarry in some
  inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case,
  in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be _compos voti_.”
  
  “Pogh! d--n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lamenting the loss
  of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of
  the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this
  season, and especially after so long a frost.”
  
  Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her
  wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had
  determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to
  make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly
  uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at
  their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious
  throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's horse and
  his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and
  the squire, crying, “She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not
  gone!” instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it,
  having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole
  company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds,
  with much hallowing and whooping, while the poor parson, blessing
  himself, brought up the rear.
  
  Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire
  of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no
  sooner perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former sport, and still
  retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband
  to pursue the little animal.
  
  What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased
  with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have
  remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too
  will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the
  sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep reflections,
  that, “if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the
  window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the
  same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for
  his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to
  consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply
  the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.
  
  The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over
  hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and
  with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once
  intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace,
  which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore
  was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his
  daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress;
  and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to
  himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the
  young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a
  portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.
  
  The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of
  his brother squire and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their
  own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor
  did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice,
  and to animate the hunt with his holla.
  
  Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to
  any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if
  any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a
  river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his
  fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though often close
  to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt,
  however, often saw and approved the great judgment of the stranger in
  drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very
  high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants
  inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the
  sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned
  it, the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each
  other.
  
  The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps
  relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise
  concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a
  place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an
  invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a hearty
  bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire
  Western.
  
  Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson
  Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue of
  mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well account,
  without the least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according
  to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had swallowed the
  third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered that though he was not
  carried off to bed till long after, the parson considered him as
  absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to
  Sophia, he obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he
  intended to urge the next morning for Mr Western's return.
  
  No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and
  began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in
  order to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began his dissuasives,
  which the host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed,
  and Mr Western agreed to return home; being principally moved by one
  argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might probably
  be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He then
  took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the
  frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his
  hastening home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire;
  but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue in quest of
  his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter
  execrations which he could invent.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and
  Partridge on the road.
  
  
  At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we
  have been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the
  condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have
  concluded we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in
  that situation in which prudent people usually desist from enquiring
  any farther after their friends, lest they should be shocked by
  hearing such friends had hanged themselves.
  
  But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say,
  neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and though it is
  not easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable than those of
  poor Jones at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him
  with the same diligence as if he was wantoning in the brightest beams
  of fortune.
  
  Mr Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few
  minutes after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued the same
  road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses were by any
  means to be at that time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy
  hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from very different
  reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly,
  Partridge grunted altogether as sadly at every step.
  
  When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take
  counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his
  opinion which track they should pursue. “Ah, sir,” answered Partridge,
  “I wish your honour would follow my advice.” “Why should I not?”
   replied Jones; “for it is now indifferent to me whither I go, or what
  becomes of me.” “My advice, then,” said Partridge, “is, that you
  immediately face about and return home; for who that hath such a home
  to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the country like
  a vagabond? I ask pardon, _sed vox ea sola reperta est_.”
  
  “Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to return to;--but if my friend,
  my father, would receive me, could I bear the country from which
  Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself!--No;
  let me blame thee. D--nation seize thee--fool--blockhead! thou hast
  undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy body.”--At which words he
  laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and shook him more
  heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done before.
  
  Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he
  had meant no harm--when Jones, after staring wildly on him for a
  moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself, that, had
  it fallen on the other, would certainly have put an end to his being,
  which indeed the very apprehension of it had almost effected.
  
  We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad
  pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured
  that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we
  are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in
  painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it
  entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth,
  we have, from this reason alone, often done great violence to the
  luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent descriptions
  out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this
  suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the case, from our
  own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most
  horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the pages of
  voluminous historians.
  
  Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the
  part of a madman for many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which
  no sooner happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly
  begged his pardon for the attack he had made on him in the violence of
  his passion; but concluded, by desiring him never to mention his
  return again; for he was resolved never to see that country any more.
  
  Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the
  injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out,
  “Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the
  steps of my angel--I will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave
  lad, now for the army:--it is a glorious cause, and I would willingly
  sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my preserving.” And
  so saying, he immediately struck into the different road from that
  which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same
  through which Sophia had before passed.
  
  Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to
  each other, though Jones, indeed, muttered many things to himself. As
  to Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps,
  perfectly recovered from his former fright; besides, he had
  apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit of wrath,
  especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not,
  perhaps, create any great wonder in the reader. In short, he began now
  to suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.
  
  At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his
  companion, and blamed him for his taciturnity; for which the poor man
  very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now this
  fear being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises of
  indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue; which,
  perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt,
  when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into
  the pastures.
  
  As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first
  suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his
  mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” says he, “that
  could never be a man, who dresses himself and lives after such a
  strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the
  old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a
  horse than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the
  neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs
  strangely in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps,
  might be sent to forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter which
  he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner,
  and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended
  as a warning to us, considering what we are going about? besides, I
  dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and methought the
  blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir,
  _infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem_.”
  
  “Thy story, Partridge,” answered Jones, “is almost as ill applied as
  thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men who
  go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it--and what then?”
   “What then?” replied Partridge; “why then there is an end of us, is
  there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause
  to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy
  any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and
  bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end
  of poor Partridge.” “And an end of poor Partridge,” cries Jones,
  “there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat
  you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into a
  coward.
  
       `_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
       Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
       Nec parcit imbellis juventae
       Poplitibus, timidoque tergo._'”
  
  “I wish you would construe them,” cries Partridge; “for Horace is a
  hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them.”
  
  “I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own,”
   said Jones; “for I am but an indifferent poet:
  
  `Who would not die in his dear country's cause? Since, if base fear
  his dastard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly:--One common
  grave Receives, at last, the coward and the brave.'”
  
  “That's very certain,” cries Partridge. “Ay, sure, _Mors omnibus
  communis:_ but there is a great difference between dying in one's bed
  a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends
  crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog;
  or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword, and that too
  before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us!
  to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to
  have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to
  look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and
  swearing among them. I wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish
  you would repent before it is too late; and not think of going among
  them.--Evil communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal
  reason. For as for that matter, I am no more afraid than another man,
  not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh must die; but yet
  a man may live many years, for all that. Why, I am a middle-aged man
  now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of
  several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal
  above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to
  live to any such age as that, neither.--But if it be only to eighty or
  ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways off yet; and I am not
  afraid of dying then, no more than another man; but, surely, to tempt
  death before a man's time is come seems to me downright wickedness and
  presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but, let the
  cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people do?
  and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun
  above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets.
  And for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the
  matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be
  thought the highest presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a
  madman--I ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not
  throw your honour into another passion.”
  
  “Be under no apprehension, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I am now so well
  convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any
  account.” “Your honour,” answered he, “may call me coward, or anything
  else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a
  coward, _non immunes ab illis malis sumus_. I never read in my grammar
  that a man can't be a good man without fighting. _Vir bonus est quis?
  Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat_. Not a word of
  fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a
  man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
  Christian blood.”
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  The adventure of a beggar-man.
  
  
  Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which
  the last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross-way, when a
  lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him
  a severe rebuke, saying, “Every parish ought to keep their own poor.”
   Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, “if he was not
  ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his
  heart. Your religion,” says he, “serves you only for an excuse for
  your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is
  really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such
  a miserable condition?” And at the same time, putting his hand in his
  pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.
  
  “Master,” cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have a curious
  thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your
  worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to
  every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the
  poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he is
  poor.” He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it
  into the hands of Jones.
  
  Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in
  the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand.
  He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips; nor
  could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures,
  notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made
  him forget he was not alone.
  
  While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an
  excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had really
  been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to eat but his own
  works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which
  Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived it
  to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western had
  given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would
  have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than £100.
  
  The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now
  proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect)
  those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from
  a principle of honesty) had never opened it: but we should not deal
  honestly by the reader if we omitted to inform him of a circumstance
  which may be here a little material, viz. that the fellow could not
  read.
  
  Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the
  finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new
  discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him that the
  owner of the bill might possibly want it before he should be able to
  convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder that he knew the lady
  to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon
  as possible, and return it her.
  
  The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it
  had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated
  toyman; but the real value of the silver which it contained in its
  clasp was about eighteen-pence; and that price the said toyman, as it
  was altogether as good as when it first issued from his shop, would
  now have given for it. A prudent person would, however, have taken
  proper advantage of the ignorance of this fellow, and would not have
  offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay, some
  perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his action of
  trover, which some learned serjeants may doubt whether he could, under
  these circumstances, have maintained.
  
  Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of
  generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly have been suspected of
  extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the
  book. The poor man, who had not for a long time before been possessed
  of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks, and discovered
  little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had before shown
  when he had first read the name of Sophia Western.
  
  The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place
  where he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they
  proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr Jones desired; for
  his guide unfortunately happened to be lame, and could not possibly
  travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place, therefore, was at
  above three miles' distance, though the fellow had said otherwise, the
  reader need not be acquainted how long they were in walking it.
  
  Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as
  often, talked much to himself, and very little to his companions. At
  all which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge;
  who more than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! _orandum
  est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano._
  
  At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt
  the pocket-book, and where the fellow had as happily found it. Here
  Jones offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but
  the fellow, in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first
  receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now considerably abated, and
  who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a
  discontented look, and, scratching his head, said, “He hoped his
  worship would give him something more. Your worship,” said he, “will,
  I hope, take it into your consideration that if I had not been honest
  I might have kept the whole.” And, indeed, this the reader must
  confess to have been true. “If the paper there,” said he, “be worth
  £100, I am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides,
  suppose your worship should never see the lady, nor give it her--and,
  though your worship looks and talks very much like a gentleman, yet I
  have only your worship's bare word; and, certainly, if the right owner
  ben't to be found, it all belongs to the first finder. I hope your
  worship will consider of all these matters: I am but a poor man, and
  therefore don't desire to have all; but it is but reasonable I should
  have my share. Your worship looks like a good man, and, I hope, will
  consider my honesty; for I might have kept every farthing, and nobody
  ever the wiser.” “I promise thee, upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that
  I know the right owner, and will restore it her.” “Nay, your worship,”
   answered the fellow, “may do as you please as to that; if you will but
  give me my share, that is, one-half of the money, your honour may keep
  the rest yourself if you please;” and concluded with swearing, by a
  very vehement oath, “that he would never mention a syllable of it to
  any man living.”
  
  “Lookee, friend,” cries Jones, “the right owner shall certainly have
  again all that she lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I really
  cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where
  you live, and it is more than possible you may hereafter have further
  reason to rejoice at this morning's adventure.”
  
  “I don't know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow; “it seems I
  must venture whether you will return the lady her money or no; but I
  hope your worship will consider--” “Come, come,” said Partridge, “tell
  his honour your name, and where you may be found; I warrant you will
  never repent having put the money into his hands.” The fellow, seeing
  no hopes of recovering the possession of the pocket-book, at last
  complied in giving in his name and place of abode, which Jones writ
  upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and then, placing the
  paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he cried out,
  “There, friend, you are the happiest man alive; I have joined your
  name to that of an angel.” “I don't know anything about angels,”
   answered the fellow; “but I wish you would give me a little more
  money, or else return me the pocket-book.” Partridge now waxed wrath:
  he called the poor cripple by several vile and opprobrious names, and
  was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would not suffer any
  such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would certainly find some
  opportunity of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast as his heels
  would carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hundred
  pound had infused new spirits, followed his leader; while the man, who
  was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his
  parents; “for had they,” says he, “sent me to charity-school to learn
  to write and read and cast accounts, I should have known the value of
  these matters as well as other people.”
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his companion met on the
  road.
  
  
  Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or
  breath for conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and
  Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure,
  caused him at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his
  walks, had never given him such an opportunity of showing his honesty.
  They had proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any
  longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and begged him a little
  to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to comply, as he
  had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had
  enabled him to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a wide
  common, where were several roads.
  
  He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should
  pursue; when on a sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed
  at no great distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of
  Partridge, and he cried out, “Lord have mercy upon us all; they are
  certainly a coming!” “Who is coming?” cries Jones; for fear had long
  since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure
  with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia,
  without entertaining one thought of an enemy. “Who?” cries Partridge,
  “why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be very
  honest gentlemen, for anything I know to the contrary. The devil take
  him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have nothing to say
  to me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a civil way. For
  Heaven's sake, sir, don't affront them if they should come, and
  perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the wiser way to
  creep into some of yonder bushes, till they are gone by? What can two
  unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a
  madman; I hope your honour is not offended; but certainly no man who
  hath _mens sana in corpore sano_----” Here Jones interrupted this
  torrent of eloquence, which fear had inspired, saying, “That by the
  drum he perceived they were near some town.” He then made directly
  towards the place whence the noise proceeded, bidding Partridge “take
  courage, for that he would lead him into no danger;” and adding, “it
  was impossible the rebels should be so near.”
  
  Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though
  he would more gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed his
  leader, his heart beating time, but not after the manner of heroes, to
  the music of the drum, which ceased not till they had traversed the
  common, and were come into a narrow lane.
  
  And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something
  painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying
  to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir,
  here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw
  anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them already.”
  
  Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which
  Partridge had thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I fancy you will
  be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess
  what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats up for
  recruits to a puppet-show.”
  
  “A puppet-show!” answered Partridge, with most eager transport. “And
  is it really no more than that? I love a puppet-show of all the
  pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I
  am quite famished to death; for it is now almost dark, and I have not
  eat a morsel since three o'clock in the morning.”
  
  They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones was
  prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer any assurance
  of being in the road he desired. They walked both directly into the
  kitchen, where Jones began to enquire if no ladies had passed that way
  in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the state of
  their provisions; and indeed his enquiry met with the better success;
  for Jones could not hear news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great
  satisfaction, found good reason to expect very shortly the agreeable
  sight of an excellent smoaking dish of eggs and bacon.
  
  In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect
  from what it causes in the puny part of the species. In the latter it
  generally destroys all that appetite which tends towards the
  conservation of the individual; but in the former, though it often
  induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well as of everything
  else; yet place a good piece of well-powdered buttock before a hungry
  lover, and he seldom fails very handsomely to play his part. Thus it
  happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps wanted a
  prompter, and might have travelled much farther, had he been alone,
  with an empty stomach; yet no sooner did he sit down to the bacon and
  eggs, than he fell to as heartily and voraciously as Partridge
  himself.
  
  Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as
  the moon was now past the full, it was extremely dark. Partridge
  therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see the puppet-show, which
  was just going to begin, and to which they were very eagerly invited
  by the master of the said show, who declared that his figures were the
  finest which the world had ever produced, and that they had given
  great satisfaction to all the quality in every town in England.
  
  The puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency. It
  was called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it
  was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low wit
  or humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without
  anything which could provoke a laugh. The audience were all highly
  pleased. A grave matron told the master she would bring her two
  daughters the next night, as he did not show any stuff; and an
  attorney's clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the characters
  of Lord and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature.
  Partridge likewise concurred with this opinion.
  
  The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could
  not refrain from adding some more of his own. He said, “The present
  age was not improved in anything so much as in their puppet-shows;
  which, by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such idle
  trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational entertainment. I
  remember,” said he, “when I first took to the business, there was a
  great deal of low stuff that did very well to make folks laugh; but
  was never calculated to improve the morals of young people, which
  certainly ought to be principally aimed at in every puppet-show: for
  why may not good and instructive lessons be conveyed this way, as well
  as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and they represent
  the life in every particular; and I question not but people rise from
  my little drama as much improved as they do from the great.” “I would
  by no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession,” answered Jones,
  “but I should have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance master
  Punch, for all that; and so far from improving, I think, by leaving
  out him and his merry wife Joan, you have spoiled your puppet-show.”
  
  The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for
  Jones, from these words. And with much disdain in his countenance, he
  replied, “Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I have the
  satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and it is
  impossible to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some of the
  quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring
  Punch again upon the stage. I believe I lost some money for not
  agreeing to it; but let others do as they will; a little matter shall
  never bribe me to degrade my own profession, nor will I ever willingly
  consent to the spoiling the decency and regularity of my stage, by
  introducing any such low stuff upon it.”
  
  “Right, friend,” cries the clerk, “you are very right. Always avoid
  what is low. There are several of my acquaintance in London, who are
  resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage.” “Nothing
  can be more proper,” cries the exciseman, pulling his pipe from his
  mouth. “I remember,” added he, “(for I then lived with my lord) I was
  in the footman's gallery, the night when this play of the Provoked
  Husband was acted first. There was a great deal of low stuff in it
  about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for parliament-man;
  and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the stage, his
  coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen in our gallery
  could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe, friend,
  you have left all that matter out, and you are to be commended for
  it.”
  
  “Nay, gentlemen,” cries Jones, “I can never maintain my opinion
  against so many; indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike
  him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done very
  right in dismissing Punch from his service.”
  
  The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of
  the great force of example, and how much the inferior part of mankind
  would be deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in their
  superiors; when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident, which,
  though perhaps we might have omitted it at another time, we cannot
  help relating at present, but not in this chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to be
  misunderstood and misinterpreted.
  
  
  A violent uproar now arose in the entry, where my landlady was well
  cuffing her maid both with her fist and tongue. She had indeed missed
  the wench from her employment, and, after a little search, had found
  her on the puppet-show stage in company with the Merry Andrew, and in
  a situation not very proper to be described.
  
  Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to
  modesty; yet had she not impudence enough to deny a fact in which she
  was actually surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and
  attempted to mitigate the offence. “Why do you beat me in this manner,
  mistress?” cries the wench. “If you don't like my doings, you may turn
  me away. If I am a w--e” (for the other had liberally bestowed that
  appellation on her), “my betters are so as well as I. What was the
  fine lady in the puppet-show just now? I suppose she did not lie all
  night out from her husband for nothing.”
  
  The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her
  husband and the poor puppet-mover. “Here, husband,” says she, “you see
  the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one doth
  draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made amends for
  the litter they make; and then to have one's house made a bawdy-house
  of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be gone
  to-morrow morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is only
  the way to teach our servants idleness and nonsense; for to be sure
  nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I remember
  when puppet-shows were made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah's
  Rash Vow, and such good things, and when wicked people were carried
  away by the devil. There was some sense in those matters; but as the
  parson told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil now-a-days;
  and here you bring about a parcel of puppets drest up like lords and
  ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches; and when their
  heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no wonder everything else is so.”
  
  Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a
  riotous and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly
  about, if a man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the
  tumult is presently appeased, and the mob, which when collected into
  one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their long ears at the
  grave man's discourse.
  
  On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are
  disputing; when wisdom herself may in a manner be considered as
  present, and administering arguments to the disputants; should a
  tumult arise among the mob, or should one scold, who is herself equal
  in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said philosophers; their
  disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her ministerial
  office, and the attention of every one is immediately attracted by the
  scold alone.
  
  Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced
  the master of the puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to that
  grave and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a
  sufficient taste already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very
  inopportune as this accident; the most wanton malice of fortune could
  not have contrived such another stratagem to confound the poor fellow,
  while he was so triumphantly descanting on the good morals inculcated
  by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopt, as that of
  quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the great virtues
  of his pills and powders, the corpse of one of his martyrs should be
  brought forth, and deposited before the stage, as a testimony of his
  skill.
  
  Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man ran
  out to punish his Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to put
  forth her silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at
  that time more like a piece of copper), Jones called for his
  reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had just awaked
  from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having
  lately carried two points, as my reader hath seen before, was
  emboldened to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take
  up a lodging that evening in the house where he then was. He
  introduced this with an affected surprize at the intention which Mr
  Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many excellent arguments
  against it, he at last insisted strongly that it could be to no manner
  of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which way the lady
  was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the farther
  from her; “for you find, sir,” said he, “by all the people in the
  house, that she is not gone this way. How much better, therefore,
  would it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to meet with
  somebody to enquire of?”
  
  This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was
  weighing it the landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was master
  into the same scale. “Sure, sir,” said he, “your servant gives you
  most excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this time of
  the year?” He then began in the usual stile to trumpet forth the
  excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my landlady
  likewise opened on the occasion----But, not to detain the reader with
  what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to tell him
  Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few
  hours' rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut
  his eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of the broken
  head had happened.
  
  As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that
  night, he presently retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the
  pocket-book and the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had
  refreshed himself with several naps, was more inclined to eating than
  to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.
  
  And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my
  landlady being again reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side
  forgave the indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion
  had cast on his performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity
  reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled round the fire the
  landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the puppet-show, the
  attorney's clerk, the exciseman, and the ingenious Mr Partridge; in
  which company past the agreeable conversation which will be found in
  the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of the good
  company assembled in the kitchen.
  
  
  Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a
  servant, yet he condescended in most particulars to imitate the
  manners of that rank. One instance of this was, his greatly magnifying
  the fortune of his companion, as he called Jones: such is a general
  custom with all servants among strangers, as none of them would
  willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the higher the
  situation of the master is, the higher consequently is that of the man
  in his own opinion; the truth of which observation appears from the
  behaviour of all the footmen of the nobility.
  
  But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them,
  and the footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves
  entitled to a part of that respect which is paid to the quality and
  estate of their masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to virtue
  and understanding. These advantages are strictly personal, and swallow
  themselves all the respect which is paid to them. To say the truth,
  this is so very little, that they cannot well afford to let any others
  partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour on the
  domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most deplorable
  want of both in his master. Indeed it is otherwise in the want of what
  is called virtue in a mistress, the consequence of which we have
  before seen: for in this dishonour there is a kind of contagion,
  which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all who approach
  it.
  
  Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among
  the men only) should have so great regard for the reputation of the
  wealth of their masters, and little or none at all for their character
  in other points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the
  footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend upon a rogue or a
  blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the fame of
  the iniquities and follies of their said masters as far as possible,
  and this often with great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman
  is often a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman
  whose livery he wears.
  
  After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune
  to which Mr Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an
  apprehension, which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for
  which, as we hinted at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed
  to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short, he was now pretty
  well confirmed in an opinion that his master was out of his wits, with
  which opinion he very bluntly acquainted the good company round the
  fire.
  
  With this sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. “I
  own,” said he, “the gentleman surprized me very much, when he talked
  so absurdly about puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived
  that any man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say
  now accounts very well for all his monstrous notions. Poor gentleman!
  I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange wildness
  about his eyes, which I took notice of before, though I did not
  mention it.”
  
  The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the
  sagacity of having observed it. “And certainly,” added he, “it must be
  so; for no one but a madman would have thought of leaving so good a
  house to ramble about the country at that time of night.”
  
  The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, “He thought the
  gentleman looked and talked a little wildly;” and then turning to
  Partridge, “if he be a madman,” says he, “he should not be suffered to
  travel thus about the country; for possibly he may do some mischief.
  It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his relations.”
  
  Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of
  Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded that Jones had run away from
  Mr Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he could by
  any means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose fierceness and
  strength he had seen, and indeed felt, some instances, had however
  represented any such scheme as impossible to be executed, and had
  discouraged him from applying himself to form any regular plan for the
  purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments of the exciseman
  than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed
  a hearty wish that such a matter could be brought about.
  
  “Could be brought about!” says the exciseman: “why, there is nothing
  easier.”
  
  “Ah! sir,” answered Partridge, “you don't know what a devil of a
  fellow he is. He can take me up with one hand, and throw me out at
  window; and he would, too, if he did but imagine--”
  
  “Pogh!” says the exciseman, “I believe I am as good a man as he.
  Besides, here are five of us.”
  
  “I don't know what five,” cries the landlady, “my husband shall have
  nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent hands be laid upon anybody
  in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young gentleman as
  ever I saw in my life, and I believe he is no more mad than any of us.
  What do you tell of his having a wild look with his eyes? they are the
  prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the prettiest look with them;
  and a very modest civil young man he is. I am sure I have bepitied him
  heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he was
  crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially
  such a sweet young gentleman as he is, to look a little otherwise than
  he did before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better
  than such a handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of
  your quality folks, one of your Townly ladies that we saw last night
  in the puppet-show, who don't know what they would be at.”
  
  The attorney's clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the
  business without the advice of counsel. “Suppose,” says he, “an action
  of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what defence could
  we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of madness to a
  jury? But I only speak upon my own account; for it don't look well for
  a lawyer to be concerned in these matters, unless it be as a lawyer.
  Juries are always less favourable to us than to other people. I don't
  therefore dissuade you, Mr Thomson (to the exciseman), nor the
  gentleman, nor anybody else.”
  
  The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man
  said, “Madness was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to decide:
  for I remember,” says he, “I was once present at a tryal of madness,
  where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as a March
  hare; and twenty others, that he was as much in his senses as any man
  in England.--And indeed it was the opinion of most people, that it was
  only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his right.”
  
  “Very likely!” cries the landlady. “I myself knew a poor gentleman who
  was kept in a mad-house all his life by his family, and they enjoyed
  his estate, but it did them no good; for though the law gave it them,
  it was the right of another.”
  
  “Pogh!” cries the clerk, with great contempt, “who hath any right but
  what the law gives them? If the law gave me the best estate in the
  country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right.”
  
  “If it be so,” says Partridge, “_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula
  cautum.”_
  
  My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at
  the gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an affrighted
  countenance cried out, “What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have
  given the duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is certainly
  true, for a man on horseback just now told me so.”
  
  “I am glad of it with all my heart,” cries Partridge; “then there will
  be no fighting in these parts.”
  
  “I am glad,” cries the clerk, “for a better reason; for I would always
  have right take place.”
  
  “Ay, but,” answered the landlord, “I have heard some people say this
  man hath no right.”
  
  “I will prove the contrary in a moment,” cries the clerk: “if my
  father dies seized of a right; do you mind me, seized of a right, I
  say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one right
  descend as well as another?”
  
  “But how can he have any right to make us papishes?” says the
  landlord.
  
  “Never fear that,” cries Partridge. “As to the matter of right, the
  gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to the
  matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists
  themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know
  very well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and
  honour they had no such design.”
  
  “And another priest, of my acquaintance,” said the landlady, “hath
  told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of
  papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of
  people, and spend their money very freely; and it is always a maxim
  with me, that one man's money is as good as another's.”
  
  “Very true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man, “I don't care what
  religion comes; provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they
  are enemies to puppet-shows.”
  
  “And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest,” cries the
  exciseman; “and are desirous to see popery brought in, are you?”
  
  “Not I, truly,” answered the other; “I hate popery as much as any man;
  but yet it is a comfort to one, that one should be able to live under
  it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure, every man
  values his livelihood first; that must be granted; and I warrant, if
  you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of losing your place
  than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be an excise
  under another government as well as under this.”
  
  “Why, certainly,” replied the exciseman, “I should be a very ill man
  if I did not honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no more than
  natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that there
  would be an excise-office under another government, since my friends
  would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow them? No,
  no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes only
  of keeping my place under another government; for I should certainly
  be no better, and very probably might be worse.”
  
  “Why, that is what I say,” cries the landlord, “whenever folks say who
  knows what may happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead to lend my
  money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it again? I am
  sure it is safe in my own bureau, and there I will keep it.”
  
  The attorney's clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of
  Partridge. Whether this proceeded from the great discernment which the
  former had into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the
  sympathy between their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in
  principle; they now shook hands heartily, and drank bumpers of strong
  beer to healths which we think proper to bury in oblivion.
  
  These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my
  landlord himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the
  menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his
  house again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this
  occasion soon put an end to the conversation. Here, therefore, we will
  put an end to the chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than
  we have hitherto seen her.
  
  
  As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping
  potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very
  large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already
  slept nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been
  awakened by a most violent noise at his chamber-door, where the sound
  of many heavy blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder.
  Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the
  puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry-Andrew,
  without either mercy or moderation.
  
  Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and
  pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man
  was no more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-coloured
  jester had been to contend with this puppet-man.
  
  But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong,
  he had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no sooner
  found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him
  with the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first
  discharged a volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded to
  some particular accusations--“D--n your bl--d, you rascal,” says he,
  “I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you
  get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to rob
  the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in
  the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in
  a wood to strip her--to strip one of the prettiest ladies that ever
  was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have
  almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as myself,
  only because she likes me better than you.”
  
  Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him
  at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any
  further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch
  with him into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his
  Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his master with his drum
  the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to
  show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge, he
  departed with the utmost expedition.
  
  It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready
  for his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the
  reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and
  over, Jones would not quit the place before he had perfectly
  reconciled all differences between the master and the man.
  
  When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the
  trusty Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past;
  and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on
  with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the
  extraordinary manner in which he received his intelligence. Of this
  Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness,
  began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have good
  success in the end: for, he said, “two such accidents could never have
  happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not
  designed to bring them together at last.” And this was the first time
  that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of his
  companion.
  
  They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain
  overtook them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight
  of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with
  Jones to enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed
  it may be called one) which partakes more of the English than of the
  French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it
  will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was
  no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same
  questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this
  was an excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which
  not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast,
  though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the
  house could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia.
  
  Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally,
  notwithstanding the violence of the storm still continued; but
  Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting his
  eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the kitchen, and who
  at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to
  Jones, and cried, “Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan't
  serve the turn this bout. Why, here's more news of Madam Sophia come
  to town. The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that rode
  before her. I can swear to my own plaister on his face.”--“Heavens
  bless you, sir,” cries the boy, “it is your own plaister sure enough;
  I shall have always reason to remember your goodness; for it hath
  almost cured me.”
  
  At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy
  follow him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private
  apartment; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he
  never willingly mentioned her name in the presence of many people;
  and, though he had, as it were, from the overflowings of his heart,
  given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was
  impossible she should be known; yet, even there, the reader may
  remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her surname.
  
  Hard therefore was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious
  readers, very absurd and monstrous, that he should principally owe his
  present misfortune to the supposed want of that delicacy with which he
  so abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much more offended at the
  freedoms which she thought (and not without good reason) he had taken
  with her name and character, than at any freedoms, in which, under his
  present circumstances, he had indulged himself with the person of
  another woman; and to say truth, I believe Honour could never have
  prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not
  been for those two strong instances of a levity in his behaviour, so
  void of respect, and indeed so highly inconsistent with any degree of
  love and tenderness in great and delicate minds.
  
  But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader
  is shocked at their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I must
  remind such persons that I am not writing a system, but a history, and
  I am not obliged to reconcile every matter to the received notions
  concerning truth and nature. But if this was never so easy to do,
  perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For instance, as
  the fact at present before us now stands, without any comment of mine
  upon it, though it may at first sight offend some readers, yet, upon
  more mature consideration, it must please all; for wise and good men
  may consider what happened to Jones at Upton as a just punishment for
  his wickedness with regard to women, of which it was indeed the
  immediate consequence; and silly and bad persons may comfort
  themselves in their vices by flattering their own hearts that the
  characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue. Now,
  perhaps the reflections which we should be here inclined to draw would
  alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these
  incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon
  doctrine, which it is the purpose of this whole work to inculcate, and
  which we must not fill up our pages by frequently repeating, as an
  ordinary parson fills his sermon by repeating his text at the end of
  every paragraph.
  
  We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had
  erred in her opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her
  opinion; since, I believe, every other young lady would, in her
  situation, have erred in the same manner. Nay, had she followed her
  lover at this very time, and had entered this very alehouse the moment
  he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well
  acquainted with her name and person as the wench at Upton had appeared
  to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner
  room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in
  the kitchen very openly catechising the other guide who had attended
  Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose ears were open on
  all such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted with the tumble
  of Sophia from her horse, &c., with the mistake concerning Jenny
  Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in short, with
  almost everything which had happened at the inn whence we despatched
  our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our leaves of them.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing little more than a few odd observations.
  
  
  Jones had been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into the
  kitchen in a hurry, desiring the landlord to let him know that instant
  what was to pay. And now the concern which Partridge felt at being
  obliged to quit the warm chimney-corner, and a cup of excellent
  liquor, was somewhat compensated by hearing that he was to proceed no
  farther on foot, for Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed with
  the boy to attend him back to the inn whither he had before conducted
  Sophia; but to this however the lad consented, upon condition that the
  other guide would wait for him at the alehouse; because, as the
  landlord at Upton was an intimate acquaintance of the landlord at
  Gloucester, it might some time or other come to the ears of the latter
  that his horses had been let to more than one person; and so the boy
  might be brought to account for money which he wisely intended to put
  in his own pocket.
  
  We were obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may seem,
  since it retarded Mr Jones a considerable time in his setting out; for
  the honesty of this latter boy was somewhat high--that is, somewhat
  high-priced, and would indeed have cost Jones very dear, had not
  Partridge, who, as we have said, was a very cunning fellow, artfully
  thrown in half-a-crown to be spent at that very alehouse, while the
  boy was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the landlord no
  sooner got scent of, than he opened after it with such vehement and
  persuasive outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and consented to
  take half-a-crown more for his stay. Here we cannot help observing,
  that as there is so much of policy in the lowest life, great men often
  overvalue themselves on those refinements in imposture, in which they
  are frequently excelled by some of the lowest of the human species.
  
  The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the
  side-saddle, on which his dear Sophia had rid. The lad, indeed, very
  civilly offered him the use of his; but he chose the side-saddle,
  probably because it was softer. Partridge, however, though full as
  effeminate as Jones, could not bear the thoughts of degrading his
  manhood; he therefore accepted the boy's offer: and now, Jones being
  mounted on the side-saddle of his Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs
  Honour, and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on
  their journey, and within four hours arrived at the inn where the
  reader hath already spent so much time. Partridge was in very high
  spirits during the whole way, and often mentioned to Jones the many
  good omens of his future success which had lately befriended him; and
  which the reader, without being the least superstitious, must allow to
  have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better
  pleased with the present pursuit of his companion than he had been
  with his pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured
  the pedagogue of success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of
  the amour between Jones and Sophia; to which he had before given very
  little attention, as he had originally taken a wrong scent concerning
  the reasons of Jones's departure; and as to what happened at Upton, he
  was too much frightened just before and after his leaving that place
  to draw any other conclusions from thence than that poor Jones was a
  downright madman: a conceit which was not at all disagreeable to the
  opinion he before had of his extraordinary wildness, of which, he
  thought, his behaviour on their quitting Gloucester so well justified
  all the accounts he had formerly received. He was now, however, pretty
  well satisfied with his present expedition, and henceforth began to
  conceive much worthier sentiments of his friend's understanding.
  
  The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones
  immediately bespoke post-horses; but unluckily there was not a horse
  to be procured in the whole place; which the reader will not wonder at
  when he considers the hurry in which the whole nation, and especially
  this part of it, was at this time engaged, when expresses were passing
  and repassing every hour of the day and night.
  
  Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to
  escorte him to Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing
  with the boy in the inn-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting
  him by his name, enquired how all the good family did in
  Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes upon this person,
  presently discovered him to be Mr Dowling, the lawyer, with whom he
  had dined at Gloucester, and with much courtesy returned the
  salutation.
  
  Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr Jones to go no further that night;
  and backed his solicitations with many unanswerable arguments, such
  as, that it was almost dark, that the roads were very dirty, and that
  he would be able to travel much better by day-light, with many others
  equally good, some of which Jones had probably suggested to himself
  before; but as they were then ineffectual, so they were still: and he
  continued resolute in his design, even though he should be obliged to
  set out on foot.
  
  When the good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to stay, he
  as strenuously applied himself to persuade the guide to accompany him.
  He urged many motives to induce him to undertake this short journey,
  and at last concluded with saying, “Do you think the gentleman won't
  very well reward you for your trouble?”
  
  Two to one are odds at every other thing as well as at foot-ball. But
  the advantage which this united force hath in persuasion or entreaty
  must have been visible to a curious observer; for he must have often
  seen, that when a father, a master, a wife, or any other person in
  authority, have stoutly adhered to a denial against all the reasons
  which a single man could produce, they have afterwards yielded to the
  repetition of the same sentiments by a second or third person, who
  hath undertaken the cause, without attempting to advance anything new
  in its behalf. And hence, perhaps, proceeds the phrase of seconding an
  argument or a motion, and the great consequence this is of in all
  assemblies of public debate. Hence, likewise, probably it is, that in
  our courts of law we often hear a learned gentleman (generally a
  serjeant) repeating for an hour together what another learned
  gentleman, who spoke just before him, had been saying.
  
  Instead of accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner
  to exemplify it in the conduct of the lad above mentioned, who
  submitted to the persuasions of Mr Dowling, and promised once more to
  admit Jones into his side-saddle; but insisted on first giving the
  poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had travelled a great way,
  and been rid very hard. Indeed this caution of the boy was needless;
  for Jones, notwithstanding his hurry and impatience, would have
  ordered this of himself; for he by no means agreed with the opinion of
  those who consider animals as mere machines, and when they bury their
  spurs in the belly of their horse, imagine the spur and the horse to
  have an equal capacity of feeling pain.
  
  While the beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed to
  eat it (for, as the boy was taking care of himself in the kitchen, the
  ostler took great care that his corn should not be consumed in the
  stable), Mr Jones, at the earnest desire of Mr Dowling, accompanied
  that gentleman into his room, where they sat down together over a
  bottle of wine.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
  
  
  Mr Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the good
  Squire Allworthy; adding, “If you please, sir, we will likewise
  remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here's Mr
  Blifil to you, a very pretty young gentleman; and who, I dare swear,
  will hereafter make a very considerable figure in his country. I have
  a borough for him myself in my eye.”
  
  “Sir,” answered Jones, “I am convinced you don't intend to affront me,
  so I shall not resent it; but I promise you, you have joined two
  persons very improperly together; for one is the glory of the human
  species, and the other is a rascal who dishonours the name of man.”
  
  Dowling stared at this. He said, “He thought both the gentlemen had a
  very unexceptionable character. As for Squire Allworthy himself,” says
  he, “I never had the happiness to see him; but all the world talks of
  his goodness. And, indeed, as to the young gentleman, I never saw him
  but once, when I carried him the news of the loss of his mother; and
  then I was so hurried, and drove, and tore with the multiplicity of
  business, that I had hardly time to converse with him; but he looked
  so like a very honest gentleman, and behaved himself so prettily, that
  I protest I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I was
  born.”
  
  “I don't wonder,” answered Jones, “that he should impose upon you in
  so short an acquaintance; for he hath the cunning of the devil
  himself, and you may live with him many years, without discovering
  him. I was bred up with him from my infancy, and we were hardly ever
  asunder; but it is very lately only that I have discovered half the
  villany which is in him. I own I never greatly liked him. I thought he
  wanted that generosity of spirit, which is the sure foundation of all
  that is great and noble in human nature. I saw a selfishness in him
  long ago which I despised; but it is lately, very lately, that I have
  found him capable of the basest and blackest designs; for, indeed, I
  have at last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of the
  openness of my own temper, and hath concerted the deepest project, by
  a long train of wicked artifice, to work my ruin, which at last he
  hath effected.”
  
  “Ay! ay!” cries Dowling; “I protest, then, it is a pity such a person
  should inherit the great estate of your uncle Allworthy.”
  
  “Alas, sir,” cries Jones, “you do me an honour to which I have no
  title. It is true, indeed, his goodness once allowed me the liberty of
  calling him by a much nearer name; but as this was only a voluntary
  act of goodness, I can complain of no injustice when he thinks proper
  to deprive me of this honour; since the loss cannot be more unmerited
  than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir, I am no relation of
  Mr Allworthy; and if the world, who are incapable of setting a true
  value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me, he hath
  dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of men:
  for I--but I ask your pardon, I shall trouble you with no particulars
  relating to myself; only as you seemed to think me a relation of Mr
  Allworthy, I thought proper to set you right in a matter that might
  draw some censures upon him, which I promise you I would rather lose
  my life than give occasion to.”
  
  “I protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you talk very much like a man of
  honour; but instead of giving me any trouble, I protest it would give
  me great pleasure to know how you came to be thought a relation of Mr
  Allworthy's, if you are not. Your horses won't be ready this
  half-hour, and as you have sufficient opportunity, I wish you would
  tell me how all that happened; for I protest it seems very surprizing
  that you should pass for a relation of a gentleman, without being so.”
  
  Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his
  prudence) a little resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily prevailed
  on to satisfy Mr Dowling's curiosity, by relating the history of his
  birth and education, which he did, like Othello.
  
            ------Even from his boyish years,
        To th' very moment he was bad to tell:
  
  the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;
  
       He swore 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
       'Twas pitiful, 'twas wonderous pitiful.
  
  Mr Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for he
  had not divested himself of humanity by being an attorney. Indeed,
  nothing is more unjust than to carry our prejudices against a
  profession into private life, and to borrow our idea of a man from our
  opinion of his calling. Habit, it is true, lessens the horror of those
  actions which the profession makes necessary, and consequently
  habitual; but in all other instances, Nature works in men of all
  professions alike; nay, perhaps, even more strongly with those who
  give her, as it were, a holiday, when they are following their
  ordinary business. A butcher, I make no doubt, would feel compunction
  at the slaughter of a fine horse; and though a surgeon can feel no
  pain in cutting off a limb, I have known him compassionate a man in a
  fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath stretched the necks of
  hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first operation on a head:
  and the very professors of human blood-shedding, who, in their trade
  of war, butcher thousands, not only of their fellow-professors, but
  often of women and children, without remorse; even these, I say, in
  times of peace, when drums and trumpets are laid aside, often lay
  aside all their ferocity, and become very gentle members of civil
  society. In the same manner an attorney may feel all the miseries and
  distresses of his fellow-creatures, provided he happens not to be
  concerned against them.
  
  Jones, as the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black
  colours in which he had been represented to Mr Allworthy; and as to
  other matters, he did not shew them in the most disadvantageous light;
  for though he was unwilling to cast any blame on his former friend and
  patron; yet he was not very desirous of heaping too much upon himself.
  Dowling therefore observed, and not without reason, that very ill
  offices must have been done him by somebody: “For certainly,” cries
  he, “the squire would never have disinherited you only for a few
  faults, which any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I
  cannot properly say disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot
  claim as heir. That's certain; that nobody need go to counsel for. Yet
  when a gentleman had in a manner adopted you thus as his own son, you
  might reasonably have expected some very considerable part, if not the
  whole; nay, if you had expected the whole, I should not have blamed
  you: for certainly all men are for getting as much as they can, and
  they are not to be blamed on that account.”
  
  “Indeed you wrong me,” said Jones; “I should have been contented with
  very little: I never had any view upon Mr Allworthy's fortune; nay, I
  believe I may truly say, I never once considered what he could or
  might give me. This I solemnly declare, if he had done a prejudice to
  his nephew in my favour, I would have undone it again. I had rather
  enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another man. What is the poor
  pride arising from a magnificent house, a numerous equipage, a
  splendid table, and from all the other advantages or appearances of
  fortune, compared to the warm, solid content, the swelling
  satisfaction, the thrilling transports, and the exulting triumphs,
  which a good mind enjoys, in the contemplation of a generous,
  virtuous, noble, benevolent action? I envy not Blifil in the prospect
  of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the possession of it. I would
  not think myself a rascal half an hour, to exchange situations. I
  believe, indeed, Mr Blifil suspected me of the views you mention; and
  I suppose these suspicions, as they arose from the baseness of his own
  heart, so they occasioned his baseness to me. But, I thank Heaven, I
  know, I feel--I feel my innocence, my friend; and I would not part
  with that feeling for the world. For as long as I know I have never
  done, nor even designed, an injury to any being whatever,
  
       _Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
       Arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
       Quod latus mundi nebulae, malusque
       Jupiter urget.
  
       Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
       Solis in terra dominibus negata;
       Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
       Dulce loquentem._[*]
  
       [*] Place me where never summer breeze
       Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
       Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
       And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year.
  
       Place me beneath the burning ray,
       Where rolls the rapid car of day;
       Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
       The nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
                                            MR FRANCIS.
  
  He then filled a bumper of wine, and drunk it off to the health of his
  dear Lalage; and, filling Dowling's glass likewise up to the brim,
  insisted on his pledging him. “Why, then, here's Miss Lalage's health
  with all my heart,” cries Dowling. “I have heard her toasted often, I
  protest, though I never saw her; but they say she's extremely
  handsome.”
  
  Though the Latin was not the only part of this speech which Dowling
  did not perfectly understand; yet there was somewhat in it that made a
  very strong impression upon him. And though he endeavoured by winking,
  nodding, sneering, and grinning, to hide the impression from Jones
  (for we are as often ashamed of thinking right as of thinking wrong),
  it is certain he secretly approved as much of his sentiments as he
  understood, and really felt a very strong impulse of compassion for
  him. But we may possibly take some other opportunity of commenting
  upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr Dowling any more
  in the course of our history. At present we are obliged to take our
  leave of that gentleman a little abruptly, in imitation of Mr Jones;
  who was no sooner informed, by Partridge, that his horses were ready,
  than he deposited his reckoning, wished his companion a good night,
  mounted, and set forward towards Coventry, though the night was dark,
  and it just then began to rain very hard.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for Coventry; with
  the sage remarks of Partridge.
  
  
  No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to
  Coventry; and though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the guide, had
  ever travelled it before, it would have been almost impossible to have
  missed their way, had it not been for the two reasons mentioned in the
  conclusion of the last chapter.
  
  These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to
  intervene, our travellers deviated into a much less frequented track;
  and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately
  spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in a very dirty lane,
  where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a large city.
  
  Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but
  this the guide insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common
  conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but often
  what is really very likely, and, sometimes, what hath certainly
  happened; an hyperbolical violence like that which is so frequently
  offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former of which it
  is usual to express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a
  duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the
  impossibility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in
  fact, the case at present; for, notwithstanding all the confident
  assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no more
  in the right road to Coventry, than the fraudulent, griping, cruel,
  canting miser is in the right road to heaven.
  
  It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in those
  circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness, rain, and
  wind, fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and who,
  consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry
  cloaths, and other refreshments, to support their minds in struggling
  with the inclemencies of the weather. A very imperfect idea of this
  horror will, however, serve sufficiently to account for the conceits
  which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall presently
  be obliged to open.
  
  Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their road;
  and the boy himself at last acknowledged he believed they were not in
  the right road to Coventry; though he affirmed, at the same time, it
  was impossible they should have mist the way. But Partridge was of a
  different opinion. He said, “When they first set out he imagined some
  mischief or other would happen.--Did not you observe, sir,” said he to
  Jones, “that old woman who stood at the door just as you was taking
  horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for
  she said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began
  to rain, and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some
  people may think, I am very certain it is in the power of witches to
  raise the wind whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often
  in my time: and if ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman
  was certainly one. I thought so to myself at that very time; and if I
  had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given her some; for
  to be sure it is always good to be charitable to those sort of people,
  for fear what may happen; and many a person hath lost his cattle by
  saving a halfpenny.”
  
  Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake
  was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help smiling at the
  superstition of his friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in
  his opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by which, however, he
  received no other injury than what the dirt conferred on his cloaths.
  
  Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to his
  fall, as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones finding
  he was unhurt, answered with a smile: “This witch of yours, Partridge,
  is a most ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find, distinguish her
  friends from others in her resentment. If the old lady had been angry
  with me for neglecting her, I don't see why she should tumble you from
  your horse, after all the respect you have expressed for her.”
  
  “It is ill jesting,” cries Partridge, “with people who have power to
  do these things; for they are often very malicious. I remember a
  farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her when the time she had
  bargained with the devil for would be out; and within three months
  from that very day one of his best cows was drowned. Nor was she
  satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of
  best-drink: for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run
  all over the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it to make
  merry with some of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with
  him afterwards; for she worried the poor man so, that he took to
  drinking; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and his
  family are now come to the parish.”
  
  The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this
  discourse, that, either through want of care, or by the malice of the
  witch, they were now both sprawling in the dirt.
  
  Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the
  same cause. He told Mr Jones, “It would certainly be his turn next;
  and earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old
  woman, and pacify her. We shall very soon,” added he, “reach the inn;
  for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very certain we are in
  the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear, if
  it was daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from.”
  
  Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was
  entirely attentive to what had happened to the boy, who received no
  other hurt than what had before befallen Partridge, and which his
  cloaths very easily bore, as they had been for many years inured to
  the like. He soon regained his side-saddle, and by the hearty curses
  and blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr Jones
  that no harm was done.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice of
  Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
  
  
  They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of
  Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who firmly believed
  himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a Jack-with-a-lantern,
  or somewhat more mischievous.
  
  But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to
  this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard a confused
  sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together
  with a strange noise that seemed to proceed from some instruments; but
  could hardly be allowed the name of music! indeed, to favour a little
  the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called music
  bewitched.
  
  It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what
  now seized on Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the
  post-boy, who had been very attentive to many things that the other
  had uttered. He now, therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return;
  saying he firmly believed what Partridge had just before said, that
  though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a step forwards
  during at least the last half-hour.
  
  Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the
  fears of these poor fellows. “Either we advance,” says he, “towards
  the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now at
  a very little distance from them; but how can either of you be afraid
  of a set of people who appear only to be merry-making?”
  
  “Merry-making, sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be merry-making at
  this time of night, and in such a place, and such weather? They can be
  nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other, that's
  certain.”
  
  “Let them be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am resolved to go up to
  them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches, Partridge, are not
  such ill-natured hags as that we had the misfortune to meet with
  last.”
  
  “O Lord, sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowing what humour they
  will be in; to be sure it is always best to be civil to them; but what
  if we should meet with something worse than witches, with evil spirits
  themselves?----Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir, do. If you had read
  so many terrible accounts as I have of these matters, you would not be
  so fool-hardy.----The Lord knows whither we have got already, or
  whither we are going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon
  earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other world.”
  
  Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these
  hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for
  though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay behind
  by himself.
  
  At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and different
  noises had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other than a barn,
  where a great number of men and women were assembled, and diverting
  themselves with much apparent jollity.
  
  Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which
  were open, than a masculine and very rough voice from within demanded,
  who was there?--To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and
  immediately asked the road to Coventry.
  
  “If you are a friend,” cries another of the men in the barn, “you had
  better alight till the storm is over” (for indeed it was now more
  violent than ever;) “you are very welcome to put up your horse; for
  there is sufficient room for him at the end of the barn.”
  
  “You are very obliging,” returned Jones; “and I will accept your offer
  for a few minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here are two more
  who will be glad of the same favour.” This was accorded with more
  good-will than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have
  submitted to the utmost inclemency of the weather than have trusted to
  the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor
  post-boy was now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were
  both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the one because he durst
  not leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing so much
  as being left by himself.
  
  Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have
  had too much compassion for the reader to have left him so long in
  suspense, whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in
  person, with all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at
  present very unfortunate, and have but few, if any believers, I have
  not been much aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the
  whole furniture of the infernal regions hath long been appropriated by
  the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid them by as
  rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which
  few of our readers ever sit.
  
  However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this
  occasion, we have reason to fear some other apprehensions may here
  arise in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I
  mean that we are going to take a voyage into fairy-land, and introduce
  a set of beings into our history, which scarce any one was ever
  childish enough to believe, though many have been foolish enough to
  spend their time in writing and reading their adventures.
  
  To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the
  credit of an historian, who professes to draw his materials from
  nature only, we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these
  people were, whose sudden appearance had struck such terrors into
  Partridge, had more than half frightened the post-boy, and had a
  little surprized even Mr Jones himself.
  
  The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of
  Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and they were now
  celebrating the wedding of one of their society.
  
  It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared
  here to be met together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in
  every countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and
  decorum. Perhaps it had more than a country assembly is sometimes
  conducted with: for these people are subject to a formal government
  and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great magistrate,
  whom they call their king.
  
  Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen than what flourished
  in this barn. Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen
  appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store of bacon,
  fowls, and mutton, to which every one present provided better sauce
  himself than the best and dearest French cook can prepare.
  
  Aeneas is not described under more consternation in the temple of
  Juno,
  
  _Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno_,
  
  than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking
  everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person approached
  him with many friendly salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be
  called courtly. This was no other than the king of the gypsies
  himself. He was very little distinguished in dress from his subjects,
  nor had he any regalia of majesty to support his dignity; and yet
  there seemed (as Mr Jones said) to be somewhat in his air which
  denoted authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and
  respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and the truth
  may be, that such ideas are incident to power, and almost inseparable
  from it.
  
  There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of
  Jones which, being accompanied with much comeliness of person, greatly
  recommended him at first sight to every beholder. These were, perhaps,
  a little heightened in the present instance, by that profound respect
  which he paid to the king of the gypsies, the moment he was acquainted
  with his dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian majesty,
  as he was not used to receive such homage from any but his own
  subjects.
  
  The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their
  provisions for his accommodation; and, having placed himself at his
  right hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the
  following manner:--
  
  “Me doubt not, sir, but you have often seen some of my people, who are
  what you call de parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but me
  fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may be
  you will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly and
  well govern people as any upon face of de earth.
  
  “Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do
  boast of more dutiful subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me
  deserve deir good-will, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never
  design anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat neider:
  for what can me do oderwise dan consider of de good of dose poor
  people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey get.
  Dey love and honour me darefore, because me do love and take care of
  dem; dat is all, me know no oder reason.
  
  “About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year or
  two, as can neider write nor read, dere was a great what you call--a
  volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and
  dese lord did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king of de
  gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his subject equal vid each
  oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no tink of
  being king, and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure
  you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to do justice;
  me have often wish to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to
  punish my dear friend and relation; for dough we never put to death,
  our punishments be ver severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of demselves,
  and dat be ver terrible punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy
  so punish do harm any more.”
  
  The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such
  punishment as shame in other governments. Upon which Jones assured him
  to the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which shame was
  inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one consequence
  of all punishment. “Dat be ver strange,” said the king; “for me know
  and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live among dem; and me
  have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause too of many of
  your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments den de same ting?”
  
  While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar
  arose in the barn, and as it seems upon this occasion:--the courtesy
  of these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of
  Partridge, and he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with
  their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by degrees
  entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead
  introduced much more agreeable sensations.
  
  A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had
  decoyed the honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune. Now,
  when they were alone together in a remote part of the barn, whether it
  proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt to inflame
  inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue; or whether the fair gypsy
  herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex, and tempted
  the youth Partridge with express solicitations; but they were
  discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy, who,
  from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had
  dogged her to the place, where he found her in the arms of her
  gallant.
  
  To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the
  king; who heard the accusation, and likewise the culprit's defence,
  which was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by
  the plain evidence which appeared against him, and had very little to
  say for himself. His majesty, then turning towards Jones, said, “Sir,
  you have hear what dey say; what punishment do you tink your man
  deserve?”
  
  Jones answered, “He was sorry for what had happened, and that
  Partridge should make the husband all the amends in his power: he
  said, he had very little money about him at that time;” and, putting
  his hand into his pocket, offered the fellow a guinea. To which he
  immediately answered, “He hoped his honour would not think of giving
  him less than five.”
  
  This sum, after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones,
  having stipulated for the full forgiveness of both Partridge and the
  wife, was going to pay the money; when his majesty, restraining his
  hand, turned to the witness and asked him, “At what time he had
  discovered the criminals?” To which he answered, “That he had been
  desired by the husband to watch the motions of his wife from her first
  speaking to the stranger, and that he had never lost sight of her
  afterwards till the crime had been committed.” The king then asked,
  “if the husband was with him all that time in his lurking-place?” To
  which he answered in the affirmative. His Egyptian majesty then
  addressed himself to the husband as follows: “Me be sorry to see any
  gypsy dat have no more honour dan to sell de honour of his wife for
  money. If you had de love for your wife, you would have prevented dis
  matter, and not endeavour to make her de whore dat you might discover
  her. Me do order dat you have no money given you, for you deserve
  punishment, not reward; me do order derefore, dat you be de infamous
  gypsy, and do wear pair of horns upon your forehead for one month, and
  dat your wife be called de whore, and pointed at all dat time; for you
  be de infamous gypsy, but she be no less de infamous whore.”
  
  The gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and left
  Jones and Partridge alone with his majesty.
  
  Jones greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which the
  king, turning to him, said, “Me believe you be surprize: for me
  suppose you have ver bad opinion of my people; me suppose you tink us
  all de tieves.”
  
  “I must confess, sir,” said Jones, “I have not heard so favourable an
  account of them as they seem to deserve.”
  
  “Me vil tell you,” said the king, “how the difference is between you
  and us. My people rob your people, and your people rob one anoder.”
  
  Jones afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the happiness of
  those subjects who live under such a magistrate.
  
  Indeed their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are
  aware lest some advocate for arbitrary power should hereafter quote
  the case of those people, as an instance of the great advantages which
  attend that government above all others.
  
  And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have been
  expected from us, that no limited form of government is capable of
  rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the same
  benefits to society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as
  when the greatest part of the then known world was under the dominion
  of a single master; and this state of their felicity continued during
  the reigns of five successive princes.[*] This was the true aera of
  the golden age, and the only golden age which ever had any existence,
  unless in the warm imaginations of the poets, from the expulsion from
  Eden down to this day.
  
    [*] Nerva, Trajan, Adrian, and the two Antonini.
  
  In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute monarchy.
  The only defect in which excellent constitution seems to be, the
  difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an absolute
  monarch: for this indispensably requires three qualities very
  difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely
  natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince, to
  be contented with all the power which is possible for him to have.
  2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly,
  Goodness sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not only
  compatible with, but instrumental to his own.
  
  Now if an absolute monarch, with all these great and rare
  qualifications, should be allowed capable of conferring the greatest
  good on society; it must be surely granted, on the contrary, that
  absolute power, vested in the hands of one who is deficient in them
  all, is likely to be attended with no less a degree of evil.
  
  In short, our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the
  blessing, as well as curse, which may attend absolute power. The
  pictures of heaven and of hell will place a very lively image of both
  before our eyes; for though the prince of the latter can have no power
  but what he originally derives from the omnipotent Sovereign in the
  former, yet it plainly appears from Scripture that absolute power in
  his infernal dominions is granted to their diabolical ruler. This is
  indeed the only absolute power which can by Scripture be derived from
  heaven. If, therefore, the several tyrannies upon earth can prove any
  title to a Divine authority, it must be derived from this original
  grant to the prince of darkness; and these subordinate deputations
  must consequently come immediately from him whose stamp they so
  expressly bear.
  
  To conclude, as the examples of all ages shew us that mankind in
  general desire power only to do harm, and, when they obtain it, use it
  for no other purpose; it is not consonant with even the least degree
  of prudence to hazard an alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept
  in countenance by only two or three exceptions out of a thousand
  instances to alarm our fears. In this case it will be much wiser to
  submit to a few inconveniencies arising from the dispassionate
  deafness of laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate
  open ears of a tyrant.
  
  Nor can the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have long
  been happy under this form of government, be here urged; since we must
  remember the very material respect in which they differ from all other
  people, and to which perhaps this their happiness is entirely owing,
  namely, that they have no false honours among them, and that they look
  on shame as the most grievous punishment in the world.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiii.
  
  A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
  
  
  The honest lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long
  digression into which we were led at the close of the last chapter, to
  prevent our history from being applied to the use of the most
  pernicious doctrine which priestcraft had ever the wickedness or the
  impudence to preach.
  
  We will now proceed with Mr Jones, who, when the storm was over, took
  leave of his Egyptian majesty, after many thanks for his courteous
  behaviour and kind entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which
  place (for it was still dark) a gypsy was ordered to conduct him.
  
  Jones having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles
  instead of six, and most of those through very execrable roads, where
  no expedition could have been made in quest of a midwife, did not
  arrive at Coventry till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get again
  into the saddle till past two; for post-horses were now not easy to
  get; nor were the hostler or post-boy in half so great a hurry as
  himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil disposition of
  Partridge; who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, took all
  opportunities to supply its place with every other kind of
  nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he arrived at an
  inn, nor ever more dissatisfied than when he was again forced to leave
  it.
  
  Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according to
  our custom, and to the rules of Longinus, in the same manner. From
  Coventry he arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from
  Stratford at Dunstable, whither he came the next day a little after
  noon, and within a few hours after Sophia had left it; and though he
  was obliged to stay here longer than he wished, while a smith, with
  great deliberation, shoed the post-horse he was to ride, he doubted
  not but to overtake his Sophia before she should set out from St
  Albans; at which place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his
  lordship would stop and dine.
  
  And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably would have
  overtaken his angel at the aforesaid place; but unluckily my lord had
  appointed a dinner to be prepared for him at his own house in London,
  and, in order to enable him to reach that place in proper time, he had
  ordered a relay of horses to meet him at St Albans. When Jones
  therefore arrived there, he was informed that the coach-and-six had
  set out two hours before.
  
  If fresh post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed
  so apparently impossible to overtake the coach before it reached
  London, that Partridge thought he had now a proper opportunity to
  remind his friend of a matter which he seemed entirely to have
  forgotten; what this was the reader will guess, when we inform him
  that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached egg since he had left
  the alehouse where he had first met the guide returning from Sophia;
  for with the gypsies he had feasted only his understanding.
  
  The landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr Partridge, that
  he no sooner heard the latter desire his friend to stay and dine, than
  he very readily put in his word, and retracting his promise before
  given of furnishing the horses immediately, he assured Mr Jones he
  would lose no time in bespeaking a dinner, which, he said, could be
  got ready sooner than it was possible to get the horses up from grass,
  and to prepare them for their journey by a feed of corn.
  
  Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument of
  the landlord; and now a joint of mutton was put down to the fire.
  While this was preparing, Partridge, being admitted into the same
  apartment with his friend or master, began to harangue in the
  following manner.
  
  “Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve young
  Madam Western; for what a vast quantity of love must a man have, to be
  able to live upon it without any other food, as you do? I am positive
  I have eat thirty times as much within these last twenty-four hours as
  your honour, and yet I am almost famished; for nothing makes a man so
  hungry as travelling, especially in this cold raw weather. And yet I
  can't tell how it is, but your honour is seemingly in perfect good
  health, and you never looked better nor fresher in your life. It must
  be certainly love that you live upon.”
  
  “And a very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones. “But did not
  fortune send me an excellent dainty yesterday? Dost thou imagine I
  cannot live more than twenty-four hours on this dear pocket-book?”
  
  “Undoubtedly,” cries Partridge, “there is enough in that pocket-book
  to purchase many a good meal. Fortune sent it to your honour very
  opportunely for present use, as your honour's money must be almost out
  by this time.”
  
  “What do you mean?” answered Jones; “I hope you don't imagine that I
  should be dishonest enough, even if it belonged to any other person,
  besides Miss Western----”
  
  “Dishonest!” replied Partridge, “heaven forbid I should wrong your
  honour so much! but where's the dishonesty in borrowing a little for
  present spending, since you will be so well able to pay the lady
  hereafter? No, indeed, I would have your honour pay it again, as soon
  as it is convenient, by all means; but where can be the harm in making
  use of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a poor body, it
  would be another thing; but so great a lady, to be sure, can never
  want it, especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it can't be
  doubted, will let her have whatever she hath need of. Besides, if she
  should want a little, she can't want the whole, therefore I would give
  her a little; but I would be hanged before I mentioned the having
  found it at first, and before I got some money of my own; for London,
  I have heard, is the very worst of places to be in without money.
  Indeed, if I had not known to whom it belonged, I might have thought
  it was the devil's money, and have been afraid to use it; but as you
  know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it would be an affront to
  fortune to part with it all again, at the very time when you want it
  most; you can hardly expect she should ever do you such another good
  turn; for _fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona_. You will do as you
  please, notwithstanding all I say; but for my part, I would be hanged
  before I mentioned a word of the matter.”
  
  “By what I can see, Partridge,” cries Jones, “hanging is a matter _non
  longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis_.” “You should say _alienus_,” says
  Partridge,--“I remember the passage; it is an example under _communis,
  alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt_.” “If you do remember it,”
   cries Jones, “I find you don't understand it; but I tell thee, friend,
  in plain English, that he who finds another's property, and wilfully
  detains it from the known owner, deserves, _in foro conscientiae_, to
  be hanged, no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very
  identical bill, which is the property of my angel, and was once in her
  dear possession, I will not deliver it into any hands but her own,
  upon any consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry as thou
  art, and had no other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I
  hope to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge
  thee, if thou would'st not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock
  me any more by the bare mention of such detestable baseness.”
  
  “I should not have mentioned it now,” cries Partridge, “if it had
  appeared so to me; for I'm sure I scorn any wickedness as much as
  another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined
  that I should not have lived so many years, and have taught school so
  long, without being able to distinguish between _fas et nefas_; but it
  seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster,
  who was a prodigious great scholar, used often to say, _Polly matete
  cry town is my daskalon_. The English of which, he told us, was, That
  a child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have lived
  to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my grammar at this time
  of day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if you
  live to my years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a
  stripling of one or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always
  taught _alienus_, and my master read it so before me.”
  
  There were not many instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones,
  nor were there many in which Partridge himself could have been hurried
  out of his respect. Unluckily, however, they had both hit on one of
  these. We have already seen Partridge could not bear to have his
  learning attacked, nor could Jones bear some passage or other in the
  foregoing speech. And now, looking upon his companion with a
  contemptuous and disdainful air (a thing not usual with him), he
  cried, “Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish
  thou art not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced
  of the latter as I am of the former, thou should'st travel no farther
  in my company.”
  
  The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had already
  given to his indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase is, immediately
  drew in his horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered anything which
  might give offence, for that he had never intended it; but _Nemo
  omnibus horis sapit_.
  
  As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free
  from those of a cold one; and if his friends must have confest his
  temper to have been a little too easily ruffled, his enemies must at
  the same time have confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at
  all resemble the sea, whose swelling is more violent and dangerous
  after a storm is over than while the storm itself subsists. He
  instantly accepted the submission of Partridge, shook him by the hand,
  and with the most benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind things,
  and at the same time very severely condemned himself, though not half
  so severely as he will most probably be condemned by many of our good
  readers.
  
  Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having offended
  were at once abolished, and his pride completely satisfied by Jones
  having owned himself in the wrong, which submission he instantly
  applied to what had principally nettled him, and repeated in a
  muttering voice, “To be sure, sir, your knowledge may be superior to
  mine in some things; but as to the grammar, I think I may challenge
  any man living. I think, at least, I have that at my finger's end.”
  
  If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now
  enjoyed, he received this addition by the arrival of an excellent
  shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table.
  On which, having both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their
  horses, and set forward for London.
  
  
  
  Chapter xiv.
  
  What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St Albans.
  
  
  They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk
  of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby
  horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London;
  to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, “I
  should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company; for
  it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road.” Jones readily
  complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding
  that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.
  
  Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject
  the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had
  very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here
  Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. “Your honour,” said
  he, “may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound
  bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose
  it; but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are
  four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in
  England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but
  one of us, and a man can die but once.--That's my comfort, a man can
  die but once.”
  
  Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath
  raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory,
  there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge
  now discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was
  in the power of liquor to bestow.
  
  Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the
  stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded
  that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.
  
  Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand;
  however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman,
  all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so
  saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver
  it; but the other answered with an oath, That would not do. Jones
  answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into
  his pocket.
  
  The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note
  that moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time
  very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's
  hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it,
  and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which the
  former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both
  came from their horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his
  back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
  
  The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to
  say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones.
  “Indeed, sir,” says he, “I could have had no intention to shoot you;
  for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery
  I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this.”
  
  At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay
  another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice
  than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who,
  endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown
  from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and
  expecting every minute to be shot.
  
  In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned
  than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to
  him, and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.
  
  Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones
  stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow; which
  Partridge no sooner saw than he cried out, “Kill the villain, sir, run
  him through the body, kill him this instant!”
  
  Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more
  merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to
  be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before
  Partridge came up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that
  he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the greatest
  indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife lying in
  of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all which
  the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr
  Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which
  was not above two miles off; saying, “That he desired no favour, but
  upon condition of proving all he had all alledged.”
  
  Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word,
  and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the
  truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so
  much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity,
  and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He
  returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester
  means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for
  the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, “he wished
  he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been
  mentioned was not his own.”
  
  Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this
  action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary
  humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a
  want of regard to that justice which every man owes his country.
  Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much
  dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he
  should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they reached
  London.
  
  The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude.
  He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would
  immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit such a
  transgression: whether he kept his word or no, perhaps may appear
  hereafter.
  
  Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without
  encountering any new mishap. On the road much pleasant discourse
  passed between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their last
  adventure: in which Jones exprest a great compassion for those
  highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven, as it were, to
  such illegal courses, as generally bring them to a shameful death: “I
  mean,” said he, “those only whose highest guilt extends no farther
  than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any
  person, which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our
  country, distinguishes the robbers of England from those of all other
  nations; for murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to
  robbery.”
  
  “No doubt,” answered Partridge, “it is better to take away one's money
  than one's life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men, that they
  can't travel about their business without being in danger of these
  villains. And to be sure it would be better that all rogues were
  hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer. For my
  own part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of them
  on my own hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang them all.
  What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it
  him? Is there any honesty in such a man?”
  
  “No, surely,” cries Jones, “no more than there is in him who takes the
  horses out of another man's stable, or who applies to his own use the
  money which he finds, when he knows the right owner.”
  
  These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again
  till Jones, having thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice, he
  offered to excuse himself on the inequality of fire-arms, saying, “A
  thousand naked men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it
  will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell but that one
  may be himself?”
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XIII.
  
  CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  An Invocation.
  
  
  Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I will
  call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe
  on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but
  thee, fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nymph, first on the banks
  of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua
  charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud
  metropolis of Britain, sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the
  heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages
  yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is
  yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia, she
  reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from
  her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me
  not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future praise.
  Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in
  which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box,
  I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me, and
  whom I shall neither know nor see.
  
  And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of
  imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly
  stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte,
  in some Dutch canal, the fat ufrow gelt, impregnated by a jolly
  merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou
  suck in the elements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer
  age, taught poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the
  patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air; while tragedy
  storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its thunders. To
  soothe thy wearied limbs in slumber, Alderman History tells his
  tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs
  his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed bookseller
  obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy, unread, folio lump,
  which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into numbers,
  runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some books, like
  quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while others turn
  beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou
  jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy inspiration, but
  hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy
  quickly convertible bank-bill, big with unseen riches; thy
  often-varying stock; the warm, the comfortable house; and, lastly, a
  fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield
  redundant sustenance for all her numerous offspring, did not some too
  greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat. Come thou,
  and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm my heart
  with the transporting thought of conveying them to others. Tell me,
  that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent play hath
  often been interrupted by my labours, may one time be amply rewarded
  for them.
  
  And now, this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance,
  have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I invoke to direct
  my pen?
  
  First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we
  struggle against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the generous
  seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly
  take me by the hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding
  labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries which
  profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult
  task, to know mankind better than they know themselves. Remove that
  mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them to adore
  men for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in deceiving
  others, when they are, in reality, the objects only of ridicule, for
  deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of wisdom from
  self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from ambition.
  Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy
  Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy
  Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the
  good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility
  to grieve at their own.
  
  And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity,
  bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them
  all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while
  from their bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From
  these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting
  love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft
  compassion, the candid opinion; and all those strong energies of a
  good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing
  cheeks with blood, and swell the heart with tides of grief, joy, and
  benevolence.
  
  And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure,
  nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy
  favourite fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy
  Etonian banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy
  birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood.
  Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity
  piled up, pour forth the rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy
  Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy
  poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman
  characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous chests: give me
  a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton thou
  hast entrusted.
  
  Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the
  learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind of
  character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his
  spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind
  her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to which
  the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning
  may be, hath ever been a stranger.
  
  Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have
  undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be too
  heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours I hope
  still to bring them to a happy conclusion.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
  
  
  The learned Dr Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him
  was _To Dr_ Misaubin, _in the World_; intimating that there were few
  people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps,
  upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this
  circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of
  grandeur.
  
  The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of
  which we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the
  portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our names,
  as Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift
  beyond the power of title and wealth; and is scarce to be purchased,
  unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous
  imputation, while we yet live, of being _one whom nobody knows_ (a
  scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer[*]) will always be the
  envied portion of those, who have a legal title either to honour or
  estate.
  
    [*] See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.
  
  From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia
  to town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude,
  doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his
  house in London without knowing the particular street or square which
  he inhabited, since he must have been one _whom everybody knows_. To
  say the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are
  accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the
  great are generally no less easy to find than it is difficult to get
  entrance into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire
  stranger in London; and as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of
  the town, the inhabitants of which have very little intercourse with
  the householders of Hanover or Grosvenor-square (for he entered
  through Gray's-inn-lane), so he rambled about some time before he
  could even find his way to those happy mansions where fortune
  segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous heroes, the descendants
  of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose ancestors, being born in
  better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have entailed riches and honour
  on their posterity.
  
  Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields,
  would now soon have discovered his lordship's mansion; but the peer
  unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he
  was just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet
  sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a successless
  enquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the
  advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn,
  that being the inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired
  to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his
  circumstances.
  
  Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many
  a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last,
  whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in
  her power to disappoint him, he came into the very street which was
  honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being directed to the
  house, he gave one gentle rap at the door.
  
  The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high
  idea of the person approaching, conceived but little better from the
  appearance of Mr Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by
  his side the weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which,
  though the blade might be composed of well-tempered steel, the handle
  was composed only of brass, and that none of the brightest. When
  Jones, therefore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town
  with his lordship, this fellow answered surlily, “That there were no
  ladies there.” Jones then desired to see the master of the house; but
  was informed that his lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon
  growing more pressing the porter said, “he had positive orders to let
  no person in; but if you think proper,” said he, “to leave your name,
  I will acquaint his lordship; and if you call another time you shall
  know when he will see you.”
  
  Jones now declared, “that he had very particular business with the
  young lady, and could not depart without seeing her.” Upon which the
  porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, “that there
  was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;”
   adding, “sure you are the strangest man I ever met with, for you will
  not take an answer.”
  
  I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus,
  the porter of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might possibly intend to
  satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at
  least, resembles those who have the honour to attend at the doors of
  our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in
  his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be
  gained to his master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light,
  and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to procure
  an entrance for Aeneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with
  such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began to offer a bribe to the
  human Cerberus, which a footman, overhearing, instantly advanced, and
  declared, “if Mr Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would
  conduct him to the lady.” Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith
  conducted to the lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had
  attended the ladies thither the day before.
  
  Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good.
  The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point, laments
  his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect
  of the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to
  that which wins the great prize are apt to account themselves much
  more unfortunate than their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of
  hairbreadth missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune,
  who may be considered as thus playing tricks with us, and wantonly
  diverting herself at our expense.
  
  Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome
  disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be
  tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs
  Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now
  addressed himself to the waiting-woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick;
  who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was gone, but could
  not tell him whither; and the same answer he afterwards received from
  Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but that Mr
  Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, in pursuit of his
  daughter, so she was too generous to betray her.
  
  Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a
  cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This,
  however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his
  memory; but when the footman, who had conducted him from his
  lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy between the ladies,
  and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the
  story of the marriage which he had formerly heard; and as he was
  presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became more
  surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly
  desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she as positively
  refused him that honour.
  
  Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than
  most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to
  a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he
  retired for the present, saying to the waiting-woman, “That if this
  was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the
  afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her.”
   The civility with which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness
  of his person, made an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could
  not help answering; “Perhaps, sir, you may;” and, indeed, she
  afterwards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most
  likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young
  gentleman; for so she called him.
  
  Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her
  cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of
  what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to
  procure him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the
  door where he thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did he
  see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he
  returned to pay his visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady at
  last condescended to admit.
  
  There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in
  the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr Jones, as hath been
  before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met,
  therefore, with a reception from the lady somewhat different from what
  his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his proper
  respects, was desired to sit down.
  
  The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the
  particulars of this conversation, which ended very little to the
  satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick soon discovered
  the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet
  she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous friend of the
  lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the
  very Mr Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown; and all the answers which
  she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr Allworthy's family,
  confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any
  knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia was gone; nor could
  Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next
  evening.
  
  When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion
  concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; who answered, “Sure, madam, he is
  too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run
  away from. I had rather fancy it is Mr Jones.”--“Mr Jones!” said the
  lady, “what Jones?” For Sophia had not given the least hint of any
  such person in all their conversation; but Mrs Honour had been much
  more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the
  whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her mistress.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she
  immediately agreed with the opinion of her maid; and, what is very
  unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had
  overlooked in the slighted squire. “Betty,” says she, “you are
  certainly in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don't wonder
  that my cousin's maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I
  am sorry now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if he
  be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should ever see
  him any more; for what but her ruin can happen from marrying a rake
  and a beggar against her father's consent? I protest, if he be such a
  man as the wench described him to you, it is but an office of charity
  to keep her from him; and I am sure it would be unpardonable in me to
  do otherwise, who have tasted so bitterly of the misfortunes attending
  such marriages.”
  
  Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no
  other than his lordship; and as nothing passed at this visit either
  new or extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall
  here put an end to this chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady Bellaston.
  
  
  When Mrs Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely taken
  up by her cousin Sophia and Mr Jones. She was, indeed, a little
  offended with the former, for the disingenuity which she now
  discovered. In which meditation she had not long exercised her
  imagination before the following conceit suggested itself; that could
  she possibly become the means of preserving Sophia from this man, and
  of restoring her to her father, she should, in all human probability,
  by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself both her
  uncle and her aunt Western.
  
  As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success
  seemed so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of proper
  methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case with
  Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty had
  reported from Mrs Honour, that Sophia had a violent inclination to
  Jones, she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an
  endeavour of the same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly
  to entreat a moth not to fly into a candle.
  
  If the reader will please to remember that the acquaintance which
  Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the house of Mrs
  Western, and must have grown at the very time when Mrs Fitzpatrick
  lived with this latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs
  Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted with her likewise. They were,
  besides, both equally her distant relations.
  
  After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the
  morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and
  to acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least
  doubt, but that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic
  love, and indiscreet marriages, in her conversation, would very
  readily concur in her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend
  her utmost assistance to prevent it.
  
  This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning before
  the sun, she huddled on her cloaths, and at a very unfashionable,
  unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to whom she
  got access, without the least knowledge or suspicion of Sophia, who,
  though not asleep, lay at that time awake in her bed, with Honour
  snoring by her side.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early, abrupt visit, at an
  hour when, she said, “she should not have thought of disturbing her
  ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence.” She then
  opened the whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did
  not forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the preceding
  evening.
  
  Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, “Then you have seen this
  terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as he is
  represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with
  him. The wench I believe is in love with him by reputation.” Here the
  reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs Etoff, who
  had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received
  compleat information concerning the said Mr Jones, and had faithfully
  conveyed the same to her lady last night (or rather that morning)
  while she was undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in
  her office above the space of an hour and a half.
  
  The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the
  narratives of Mrs Etoff at those seasons, gave an extraordinary
  attention to her account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a
  very handsome fellow, and Mrs Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to
  the beauty of his person to her report, that Lady Bellaston began to
  conceive him to be a kind of miracle in nature.
  
  The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased
  by Mrs Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in favour of the person of Jones
  as she had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character, and
  fortune.
  
  When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely,
  “Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great consequence. Nothing can
  certainly be more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be
  very glad to have my share in the preservation of a young lady of so
  much merit, and for whom I have so much esteem.”
  
  “Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly, “that it
  would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and acquaint
  him where my cousin is?”
  
  The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered--“Why, no,
  madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to be
  such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power
  who hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to
  his own wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a
  right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the
  cause of my sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under
  their power.--The business, dear cousin, will be only to keep Miss
  Western from seeing this young fellow, till the good company, which
  she will have an opportunity of meeting here, give her a properer
  turn.”
  
  “If he should find her out, madam,” answered the other, “your ladyship
  may be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to come at her.”
  
  “But, madam,” replied the lady, “it is impossible he should come
  here--though indeed it is possible he may get some intelligence where
  she is, and then may lurk about the house--I wish therefore I knew his
  person.
  
  “Is there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of him? for,
  otherwise, you know, cousin, she may contrive to see him here without
  my knowledge.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, “That he had threatened her
  with another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased
  to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail
  of seeing him between six and seven; and if he came earlier she would,
  by some means or other, detain him till her ladyship's arrival.”--Lady
  Bellaston replied, “She would come the moment she could get from
  dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that it
  was absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his person.
  Upon my word, madam,” says she, “it was very good to take this care of
  Miss Western; but common humanity, as well as regard to our family,
  requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match indeed.”
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the compliment
  which Lady Bellaston had bestowed on her cousin, and, after some
  little immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she
  could into her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Which consists of visiting.
  
  
  Mr Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole
  day, which, though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of
  the longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck
  five, he returned to Mrs Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full hour
  earlier than the decent time of visiting, received him very civilly;
  but still persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia.
  
  Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon
  which Mrs Fitzpatrick said, “Then, sir, you know we are related: and,
  as we are, you will permit me the right of enquiring into the
  particulars of your business with my cousin.” Here Jones hesitated a
  good while, and at last answered, “He had a considerable sum of money
  of hers in his hands, which he desired to deliver to her.” He then
  produced the pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs Fitzpatrick with the
  contents, and with the method in which they came into his hands. He
  had scarce finished his story, when a most violent noise shook the
  whole house. To attempt to describe this noise to those who have heard
  it would be in vain; and to aim at giving any idea of it to those who
  have never heard the like, would be still more vain: for it may be
  truly said--
  
                       _--Non acuta
       Sic geminant Corybantes aera._
  
       The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.
  
  In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones
  was a little surprized at the sound, having never heard it before; but
  Mrs Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were coming,
  she could not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to stay till
  they were gone, she intimated she had something to say to him.
  
  The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop
  sideways before her, entered Lady Bellaston, who having first made a
  very low courtesy to Mrs Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr Jones,
  was ushered to the upper end of the room.
  
  We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country ladies of
  our acquaintance, who think it contrary to the rules of modesty to
  bend their knees to a man.
  
  The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer
  lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a repetition of
  ceremonials.
  
  These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is)
  extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be
  thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself,
  I shall omit the relation; the rather, as I have known some very fine
  polite conversation grow extremely dull, when transcribed into books,
  or repeated on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a dainty, of
  which those who are excluded from polite assemblies must be contented
  to remain as ignorant as they must of the several dainties of French
  cookery, which are served only at the tables of the great. To say the
  truth, as neither of these are adapted to every taste, they might both
  be often thrown away on the vulgar.
  
  Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an actor
  in it; for though, in the short interval before the peer's arrival,
  Lady Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs Fitzpatrick, had addressed
  some of their discourse to him; yet no sooner was the noble lord
  entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of the two ladies to
  himself; and as he took no more notice of Jones than if no such person
  had been present, unless by now and then staring at him, the ladies
  followed his example.
  
  The company had now staid so long, that Mrs Fitzpatrick plainly
  perceived they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore
  resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she
  thought the least ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of
  a cessation of chat, she addressed herself gravely to him, and said,
  “Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an answer to-night as
  to that business; but if you please to leave word where I may send to
  you to-morrow---”
  
  Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead therefore
  of communicating the secret of his lodgings to a servant, he
  acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and soon after very
  ceremoniously withdrew.
  
  He was no sooner gone than the great personages, who had taken no
  notice of him present, began to take much notice of him in his
  absence; but if the reader hath already excused us from relating the
  more brilliant part of this conversation, he will surely be very ready
  to excuse the repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse; though,
  perhaps, it may be material to our history to mention an observation
  of Lady Bellaston, who took her leave in a few minutes after him, and
  then said to Mrs Fitzpatrick, at her departure, “I am satisfied on the
  account of my cousin; she can be in no danger from this fellow.”
  
  Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take leave
  of the present company, which was now reduced to two persons; between
  whom, as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our reader,
  we shall not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from matters which
  must seem of more consequence to all those who are at all interested
  in the affairs of our heroe.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his lodgings, with some
  account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the mistress of
  the house, and her two daughters.
  
  
  The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs
  Fitzpatrick's door, where he was answered that the lady was not at
  home; an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked
  backwards and forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had
  gone out, he must have seen her. This answer, however, he was obliged
  to receive, and not only now, but to five several visits which he made
  her that day.
  
  To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason or
  other, perhaps from a regard for the lady's honour, insisted that she
  should not see Mr Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any more; and
  the lady had complied in making that promise to which we now see her
  so strictly adhere.
  
  But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the
  young gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have some concern,
  should it be apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from
  Sophia, he took up his residence either at an inn, or in the street;
  we shall now give an account of his lodging, which was indeed in a
  very reputable house, and in a very good part of the town.
  
  Mr Jones, then, had often heard Mr Allworthy mention the gentlewoman
  at whose house he used to lodge when he was in town. This person, who,
  as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was the widow of a
  clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in possession of two
  daughters, and of a compleat set of manuscript sermons.
  
  Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age
  of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that of ten.
  
  Hither Jones had despatched Partridge, and in this house he was
  provided with a room for himself in the second floor, and with one for
  Partridge in the fourth.
  
  The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen, who, in
  the last age, were called men of wit and pleasure about town, and
  properly enough; for as men are usually denominated from their
  business or profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the only
  business or profession of those gentlemen to whom fortune had made all
  useful occupations unnecessary. Playhouses, coffeehouses, and taverns
  were the scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were the
  entertainment of their looser hours, and love was the business of
  their more serious moments. Wine and the muses conspired to kindle the
  brightest flames in their breasts; nor did they only admire, but some
  were able to celebrate the beauty they admired, and all to judge of
  the merit of such compositions.
  
  Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure; but
  I question whether the same appellation may, with the same propriety,
  be given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have the same
  ambition to be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they have
  nothing to do with. To give them their due, they soar a step higher
  than their predecessors, and may be called men of wisdom and vertù
  (take heed you do not read virtue). Thus at an age when the gentlemen
  above mentioned employ their time in toasting the charms of a woman,
  or in making sonnets in her praise; in giving their opinion of a play
  at the theatre, or of a poem at Will's or Button's; these gentlemen
  are considering the methods to bribe a corporation, or meditating
  speeches for the House of Commons, or rather for the magazines. But
  the science of gaming is that which above all others employs their
  thoughts. These are the studies of their graver hours, while for their
  amusements they have the vast circle of connoisseurship, painting,
  music, statuary, and natural philosophy, or rather _unnatural_, which
  deals in the wonderful, and knows nothing of Nature, except her
  monsters and imperfections.
  
  When Jones had spent the whole day in vain enquiries after Mrs
  Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment. Here,
  while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar
  below-stairs; and soon after a female voice begged him for heaven's
  sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never backward on any
  occasion to help the distressed, immediately ran down-stairs; when
  stepping into the dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld
  the young gentleman of wisdom and vertù just before mentioned, pinned
  close to the wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by,
  wringing her hands, and crying out, “He will be murdered! he will be
  murdered!” and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some danger of
  being choaked, when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued
  him, just as he was breathing his last, from the unmerciful clutches
  of the enemy.
  
  Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little
  gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it a kind of
  scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have contented
  himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such
  respect; he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly handled
  by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the
  guts which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphitheatre have
  such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey but very little pleasure
  in the feeling.
  
  The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he meditated a
  most grateful return; and now ensued a combat between Jones and the
  footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more
  able to contend with Jones than his master had before been to contend
  with him.
  
  And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of
  affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the
  vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr Jones for
  his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of
  the young woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss Nancy, the
  eldest daughter of the house.
  
  The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones,
  and, with a sagacious look, cried--“O d--n me, I'll have nothing more
  to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm d--nably
  mistaken.” And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such was
  the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was, perhaps, a match
  for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have
  beaten all the muffled[*] graduates of Mr Broughton's school.
  
    [*] Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper
    to explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. 1, 1747.
  
    N.B.--Mr Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an
    academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those
    who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the
    whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the
    various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c., incident to combatants,
    will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and
    distinction may not be deterred from entering into _A course of
    those lectures_, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and
    regard to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil,
    for which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure
    them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody
    noses.
  
  The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip,
  to which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of receiving his
  wages. This condition was presently complied with, and the fellow was
  discharged.
  
  And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very
  strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle
  of wine with him; to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented,
  though more out of complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of
  his mind fitted him very little for conversation at this time. Miss
  Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma
  and sister being both gone to the play, condescended to favour them
  with her company.
  
  When the bottle and glasses were on the table the gentleman began to
  relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance.
  
  “I hope, sir,” said he to Jones, “you will not from this accident
  conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I assure
  you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance,
  and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before
  he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath happened this
  evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come
  home several hours before my usual time, when I found four gentlemen
  of the cloth at whist by my fire;--and my Hoyle, sir--my best Hoyle,
  which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a quantity of
  porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole book.
  This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the rest
  of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle
  rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a pert answer,
  `That servants must have their diversions as well as other people;
  that he was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but
  that several of his acquaintance had bought the same for a shilling,
  and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.' I now gave
  him a severer reprimand than before, when the rascal had the insolence
  to---In short, he imputed my early coming home to----In short, he cast
  a reflection----He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner--in
  such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience, and, in my
  passion, I struck him.”
  
  Jones answered, “That he believed no person living would blame him;
  for my part,” said he, “I confess I should, on the last-mentioned
  provocation, have done the same thing.”
  
  Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and
  daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent a very
  chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and
  even he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his
  natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper,
  was sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding
  the heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the
  present occasion, that, at their breaking up, the young gentleman
  earnestly desired his further acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well
  pleased with him; and the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger,
  invited him, with the other, next morning to breakfast.
  
  Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a
  very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all
  the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the
  most innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most
  chearful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had
  constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest
  of all desires in this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its
  ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her power
  was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She
  had been a most affectionate wife, and was a most fond and tender
  mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great
  characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be
  heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this excellent
  woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history.
  
  Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself, whose
  wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much good
  sense, though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but what
  recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity
  and humanity, which occasionally dropt from him; and particularly many
  expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On
  which subject the young gentleman delivered himself in a language
  which might have very well become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and
  which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a
  modern fine gentleman; but he was only one by imitation, and meant by
  nature for a much better character.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with some hints
  concerning the government of daughters.
  
  
  Our company brought together in the morning the same good inclinations
  towards each other, with which they had separated the evening before;
  but poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he had just received
  information from Partridge, that Mrs Fitzpatrick had left her lodging,
  and that he could not learn whither she was gone. This news highly
  afflicted him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in
  defiance of all his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed manifest
  indications of a disordered mind.
  
  The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr
  Nightingale again expressed many of those warm, generous, and
  disinterested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men
  call romantic, but which wise and sober women generally regard in a
  better light. Mrs Miller (for so the mistress of the house was called)
  greatly approved these sentiments; but when the young gentleman
  appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only, “That she believed the
  gentleman who had spoke the least was capable of feeling most.”
  
  This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should
  have been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her indeed a
  very polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint, that her own
  silence subjected her to a suspicion of the same kind: for indeed she
  had scarce opened her lips either now or the last evening.
  
  “I am glad, Nanny,” says Mrs Miller, “the gentleman hath made the
  observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. What can be the
  matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become
  of all your gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little
  prattler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week.”
  
  Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a
  maid-servant, who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she said, “was
  delivered by a porter for Mr Jones.” She added, “That the man
  immediately went away, saying, it required no answer.”
  
  Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must
  be some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was certain of the
  name, all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately
  opened; which operation was at length performed by little Betsy, with
  the consent of Mr Jones: and the contents were found to be a domino, a
  mask, and a masquerade ticket.
  
  Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these things
  must have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs Miller herself expressed
  some doubt, and said, “She knew not what to think.” But when Mr
  Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. “All I
  can conclude from it, sir,” said he, “is, that you are a very happy
  man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady whom you
  will have the happiness of meeting at the masquerade.”
  
  Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such
  flattering imagination; nor did Mrs Miller herself give much assent to
  what Mr Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the
  domino, a card dropt from the sleeve, in which was written as
  follows:--
  
       To MR JONES.
  
       The queen of the fairies sends you this;
       Use her favours not amiss.
  
  Mrs Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr Nightingale; nay,
  Jones himself was almost persuaded to be of the same opinion. And as
  no other lady but Mrs Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he
  began to flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her, and
  that he might possibly see his Sophia. These hopes had surely very
  little foundation; but as the conduct of Mrs Fitzpatrick, in not
  seeing him according to her promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had
  been very odd and unaccountable, he conceived some faint hopes, that
  she (of whom he had formerly heard a very whimsical character) might
  possibly intend to do him that service in a strange manner, which she
  declined doing by more ordinary methods. To say the truth, as nothing
  certain could be concluded from so odd and uncommon an incident, he
  had the greater latitude to draw what imaginary conclusions from it he
  pleased. As his temper therefore was naturally sanguine, he indulged
  it on this occasion, and his imagination worked up a thousand
  conceits, to favour and support his expectations of meeting his dear
  Sophia in the evening.
  
  Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully repay
  them by wishing thee to be possessed of this sanguine disposition of
  mind; since, after having read much and considered long on that
  subject of happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I am
  almost inclined to fix it in the possession of this temper; which puts
  us, in a manner, out of the reach of Fortune, and makes us happy
  without her assistance. Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it gives
  are much more constant as well as much keener, than those which that
  blind lady bestows; nature having wisely contrived, that some satiety
  and languor should be annexed to all our real enjoyments, lest we
  should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt from further pursuits. I
  make no manner of doubt but that, in this light, we may see the
  imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the archbishop in
  crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an opposition, more truly
  happy than those who are invested with all the power and profit of
  those respective offices.
  
  Mr Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that evening,
  Mr Nightingale offered to conduct him thither. The young gentleman, at
  the same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the
  good woman would not accept them. She said, “she did not conceive the
  harm which some people imagined in a masquerade; but that such
  extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of quality and
  fortune, and not for young women who were to get their living, and
  could, at best, hope to be married to a good tradesman.”----“A
  tradesman!” cries Nightingale, “you shan't undervalue my Nancy. There
  is not a nobleman upon earth above her merit.” “O fie! Mr
  Nightingale,” answered Mrs Miller, “you must not fill the girl's head
  with such fancies: but if it was her good luck” (says the mother with
  a simper) “to find a gentleman of your generous way of thinking, I
  hope she would make a better return to his generosity than to give her
  mind up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young ladies bring
  great fortunes themselves, they have some right to insist on spending
  what is their own; and on that account I have heard the gentlemen say,
  a man has sometimes a better bargain with a poor wife, than with a
  rich one.----But let my daughters marry whom they will, I shall
  endeavour to make them blessings to their husbands:----I beg,
  therefore, I may hear of no more masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain,
  too good a girl to desire to go; for she must remember when you
  carried her thither last year, it almost turned her head; and she did
  not return to herself, or to her needle, in a month afterwards.”
  
  Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to
  argue some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, she did not dare
  openly to oppose them. For as this good woman had all the tenderness,
  so she had preserved all the authority of a parent; and as her
  indulgence to the desires of her children was restrained only by her
  fears for their safety and future welfare, so she never suffered those
  commands which proceeded from such fears to be either disobeyed or
  disputed. And this the young gentleman, who had lodged two years in
  the house, knew so well, that he presently acquiesced in the refusal.
  
  Mr Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very
  desirous of his company that day to dinner at the tavern, where he
  offered to introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged
  to be excused, “as his cloaths,” he said, “were not yet come to town.”
  
  To confess the truth, Mr Jones was now in a situation, which sometimes
  happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much better figure than
  himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a situation in
  much greater credit among the antient philosophers than among the
  modern wise men who live in Lombard-street, or those who frequent
  White's chocolate-house. And, perhaps, the great honours which those
  philosophers have ascribed to an empty pocket may be one of the
  reasons of that high contempt in which they are held in the aforesaid
  street and chocolate-house.
  
  Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably on
  virtue only, be, as the modern wise men just above-mentioned pretend
  to have discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I apprehend,
  that position of some writers of romance, that a man can live
  altogether on love; for however delicious repasts this may afford to
  some of our senses or appetites, it is most certain it can afford none
  to others. Those, therefore, who have placed too great a confidence in
  such writers, have experienced their error when it was too late; and
  have found that love was no more capable of allaying hunger, than a
  rose is capable of delighting the ear, or a violin of gratifying the
  smell.
  
  Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set
  before him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the masquerade; on
  which, however ill-founded his imagination might be, he had
  voluptuously feasted during the whole day, the evening no sooner came
  than Mr Jones began to languish for some food of a grosser kind.
  Partridge discovered this by intuition, and took the occasion to give
  some oblique hints concerning the bank-bill; and, when these were
  rejected with disdain, he collected courage enough once more to
  mention a return to Mr Allworthy.
  
  “Partridge,” cries Jones, “you cannot see my fortune in a more
  desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin heartily to repent
  that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to
  follow me. However, I insist now on your returning home; and for the
  expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to on my
  account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would
  take as your own. I am sorry I can make you no other acknowledgment.”
  
  He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge, among
  whose vices ill-nature or hardness of heart were not numbered, burst
  into tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his distress,
  he began with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return home.
  “For heaven's sake, sir,” says he, “do but consider; what can your
  honour do?--how is it possible you can live in this town without
  money? Do what you will, sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved
  not to desert you. But pray, sir, consider--do pray, sir, for your own
  sake, take it into your consideration; and I'm sure,” says he, “that
  your own good sense will bid you return home.”
  
  “How often shall I tell thee,” answered Jones, “that I have no home to
  return to? Had I any hopes that Mr Allworthy's doors would be open to
  receive me, I want no distress to urge me--nay, there is no other
  cause upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying to his
  presence; but, alas! that I am for ever banished from. His last words
  were--O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears--his last words were,
  when he gave me a sum of money--what it was I know not, but
  considerable I'm sure it was--his last words were--`I am resolved from
  this day forward, on no account to converse with you any more.'”
  
  Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment did
  that of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of speech, and after
  a short preface, in which he declared he had no inquisitiveness in his
  temper, enquired what Jones meant by a considerable sum--he knew not
  how much--and what was become of the money.
  
  In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which he
  was proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a message from
  Mr Nightingale, who desired his master's company in his apartment.
  
  When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr
  Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be sent for, a circumstance
  of distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to
  many of my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such
  readers will reflect a little on what they have themselves felt from
  the want of a thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to
  execute a favourite scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what Mr
  Jones felt on this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied to
  Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance, and
  was the last he intended that poor fellow should advance in his
  service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer of this
  kind. Whether it was that he desired to see the bank-bill broke in
  upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to return home, or from
  what other motive it proceeded, I will not determine.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
  
  
  Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great
  Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides; and,
  like other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended
  presence of the deity, when in reality no such deity is there.
  
  Mr Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon
  left him, and walked off with a female, saying, “Now you are here,
  sir, you must beat about for your own game.”
  
  Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and
  these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, the music, and the
  company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen.
  He now accosted every woman he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore
  any resemblance to his angel. To all of whom he endeavoured to say
  something smart, in order to engage an answer, by which he might
  discover that voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake.
  Some of these answered by a question, in a squeaking voice, Do you
  know me? Much the greater number said, I don't know you, sir, and
  nothing more. Some called him an impertinent fellow; some made him no
  answer at all; some said, Indeed I don't know your voice, and I shall
  have nothing to say to you; and many gave him as kind answers as he
  could wish, but not in the voice he desired to hear.
  
  Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of
  a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping him on
  the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear, “If you
  talk any longer with that trollop, I will acquaint Miss Western.”
  
  Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former
  companion, he applied to the domino, begging and entreating her to
  show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.
  
  The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment
  before she spoke; and then, instead of answering him, sat down, and
  declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still persisted in
  his entreaties; at last the lady coldly answered, “I imagined Mr Jones
  had been a more discerning lover, than to suffer any disguise to
  conceal his mistress from him.” “Is she here, then, madam?” replied
  Jones, with some vehemence. Upon which the lady cried--“Hush, sir, you
  will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not
  here.”
  
  Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the
  most earnest manner, to acquaint him where he might find Sophia; and
  when he could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her gently
  for having disappointed him the day before; and concluded, saying,
  “Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your majesty very well,
  notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs
  Fitzpatrick, it is a little cruel to divert yourself at the expense of
  my torments.”
  
  The mask answered, “Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I
  must still speak in the same voice, lest I should be known by others.
  And do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard for my
  cousin, than to assist in carrying on an affair between you two, which
  must end in her ruin, as well as your own? Besides, I promise you, my
  cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own destruction, if you are
  so much her enemy as to tempt her to it.”
  
  “Alas, madam!” said Jones, “you little know my heart, when you call me
  an enemy of Sophia.”
  
  “And yet to ruin any one,” cries the other, “you will allow, is the
  act of an enemy; and when by the same act you must knowingly and
  certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as well
  as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very little more than her father
  will please to give her; very little for one of her fashion--you know
  him, and you know your own situation.”
  
  Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, “That he would rather
  suffer the most violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his
  desires.” He said, “he knew how unworthy he was of her, every way,
  that he had long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts, but
  that some strange accidents had made him desirous to see her once
  more, when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No,
  madam,” concluded he, “my love is not of that base kind which seeks
  its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its
  object. I would sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia,
  but Sophia herself.”
  
  Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of
  the virtue of the lady in the mask; and though possibly she may
  hereafter appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her
  sex; yet, it is certain, these generous sentiments made a strong
  impression upon her, and greatly added to the affection she had before
  conceived for our young heroe.
  
  The lady now, after silence of a few moments, said, “She did not see
  his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of presumption, as of
  imprudence. Young fellows,” says she, “can never have too aspiring
  thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have you
  cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed with those
  who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced there are
  women----but don't you think me a strange creature, Mr Jones, to be
  thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little acquainted, and
  one with whose behaviour to me I have so little reason to be pleased?”
  
  Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in
  anything he had said of her cousin.--To which the mask answered, “And
  are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a
  lady more than by entertaining her with your passion for another
  woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion of your
  gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the
  masquerade.”
  
  Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but
  gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he
  held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if
  it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made it
  necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he made no doubt but
  she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the other.
  
  He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when
  a mask, in the character of an old woman, joined them. This mask was
  one of those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent ill-nature, by
  telling people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the phrase is, to
  spoil as much sport as they are able. This good lady, therefore,
  having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well knew, in close
  consultation together in a corner of the room, concluded she could
  nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by interrupting them. She
  attacked them, therefore, and soon drove them from their retirement;
  nor was she contented with this, but pursued them to every place which
  they shifted to avoid her; till Mr Nightingale, seeing the distress of
  his friend, at last relieved him, and engaged the old woman in another
  pursuit.
  
  While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid
  themselves of the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several masks,
  with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced.
  He could not help expressing his surprize at this; saying, “Sure,
  madam, you must have infinite discernment, to know people in all
  disguises.” To which the lady answered, “You cannot conceive anything
  more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the people of fashion,
  who in general know one another as well here as when they meet in an
  assembly or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of condition converse
  with a person with whom she is not acquainted. In short, the
  generality of persons whom you see here may more properly be said to
  kill time in this place than in any other; and generally retire from
  hence more tired than from the longest sermon. To say the truth, I
  begin to be in that situation myself; and if I have any faculty at
  guessing, you are not much better pleased. I protest it would be
  almost charity in me to go home for your sake.” “I know but one
  charity equal to it,” cries Jones, “and that is to suffer me to wait
  on you home.” “Sure,” answered the lady, “you have a strange opinion
  of me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I would let you
  into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you impute the friendship
  I have shown my cousin to some other motive. Confess honestly; don't
  you consider this contrived interview as little better than a
  downright assignation? Are you used, Mr Jones, to make these sudden
  conquests?” “I am not used, madam,” said Jones, “to submit to such
  sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by surprize, the rest
  of my body hath a right to follow; so you must pardon me if I resolve
  to attend you wherever you go.” He accompanied these words with some
  proper actions; upon which the lady, after a gentle rebuke, and saying
  their familiarity would be observed, told him, “She was going to sup
  with an acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not follow her; for
  if you should,” said she, “I shall be thought an unaccountable
  creature, though my friend indeed is not censorious: yet I hope you
  won't follow me; I protest I shall not know what to say if you do.”
  
  The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones,
  notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had received, presumed to
  attend her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned
  before, namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by
  borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on after the chair in
  which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen
  present, who wisely take the best care they can to discountenance all
  walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who
  attend at the Opera-house were too busy to quit their stations, and as
  the lateness of the hour prevented him from meeting many of their
  brethren in the street, he proceeded without molestation, in a dress,
  which, at another season, would have certainly raised a mob at his
  heels.
  
  The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where
  the door being presently opened, she was carried in, and the
  gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after her.
  
  Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and
  well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her masquerade
  voice, said she was surprized at her friend, who must absolutely have
  forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she
  suddenly exprest some apprehension from Jones, and asked him what the
  world would think of their having been alone together in a house at
  that time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important a
  question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady to unmask;
  and at length having prevailed, there appeared not Mrs Fitzpatrick,
  but the Lady Bellaston herself.
  
  It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which
  consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted
  from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention
  all of it that is anywise material to this history. And this was a
  promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in a few
  days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he would
  then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and a
  second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they
  separated; the lady returned to her house, and Jones to his lodgings.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary
  to most of our readers.
  
  
  Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned
  Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty
  pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with
  sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in
  him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of his master:
  to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in
  which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad
  all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could
  possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by
  robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should
  suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly
  imagine any other.
  
  To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the
  liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her,
  who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the
  age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void
  of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a
  young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no
  improper object of this virtue.
  
  Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs
  Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen,
  with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from
  three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been
  out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the
  following account.
  
  “I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
  you knew the occasion--I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
  miles off, who now lies in.--It should be a warning to all persons
  (says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
  There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
  shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
  cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
  dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
  not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second
  son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
  with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
  Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
  for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
  health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but
  thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a
  better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is
  wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in
  the world to her mother; and yet I saw her--I saw the poor child, Mr
  Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.”
   Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and
  there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her
  in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus:
  “In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing
  manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she
  endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her
  husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of
  all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,
  and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was
  never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
  who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him
  with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the
  child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away;
  let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve
  with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't
  help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection
  in a child.--And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a
  day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all
  human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor
  man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like
  one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at
  my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
  bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
  nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
  to supply the want of blankets.--When he rose up at my entrance, I
  scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as
  you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face
  pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with
  hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
  eat.--He told me himself in a whisper--he told me--I can't repeat
  it--he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
  And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife
  has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest
  affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.--The means of
  procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from
  heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
  a single question.
  
  “This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
  match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
  couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each
  other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on my
  cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the happiest of
  women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is much
  otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender
  consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable
  part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to
  which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are
  scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
  years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most
  loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the
  happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery
  at her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you
  now tell me.”--“O child,” answered the mother, “she hath always
  endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in
  great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon
  them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and
  about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were
  all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of
  it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.--What
  must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
  
  It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
  ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and,
  delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to
  send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The
  look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be
  described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed
  out--“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”--But
  recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there
  be another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have
  common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
  can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
  were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She
  would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;”
   adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
  people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
  them.”
  
  They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
  concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he
  knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He
  inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of
  others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and
  concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate
  family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr
  Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a
  guinea with all my heart.”
  
  Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered
  the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if
  either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without
  reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an
  example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands
  who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did
  not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as
  the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
  pocket.
  
  I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity
  than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in
  general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the
  very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of
  this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little
  you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a
  great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to
  be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
  whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
  distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
  meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and
  are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely
  neglected it.
  
  To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
  add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
  receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
  preceding chapter.
  
  
  In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again
  ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary
  occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we
  despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose
  devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints,
  wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from
  desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to
  draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain
  French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us
  here under the name of translations.
  
  Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
  after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
  obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
  treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
  resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
  Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that
  some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
  Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
  servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
  
  Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor
  master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met
  with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
  disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
  of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
  having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
  reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to combat
  which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind
  her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be
  disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable
  consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had
  no hopes of ever obtaining.
  
  Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
  violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
  that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about
  town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we
  have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence
  beyond what he had ever known.
  
  Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
  their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
  woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
  proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
  believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
  especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was
  the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
  Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had
  been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to
  have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
  who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
  least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
  youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
  maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
  of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
  which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She
  had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers,
  though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a
  wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable
  to the breath of love.
  
  Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt
  his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly
  discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the
  extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady
  would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought
  himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours
  were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so
  his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This therefore
  he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself
  to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of
  some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of
  discharging his debt, to become the slave of his creditor.
  
  While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following
  note from the lady:--
  
    “A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since
    our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more
    at the usual place.  I will, if possible, contrive some other place
    by to-morrow.  In the meantime, adieu.”
  
  This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very
  great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an
  hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
  contained as follows:--
  
    “I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no
    stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I
    am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever
    may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad,
    but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
    sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
  
    “If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them
    show you into the drawing-room.”
  
  To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle
  than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from
  complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he
  had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were
  to go with that young gentleman and his company to a new play, which
  was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed
  to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a
  friend to one of Mr Nightingale's acquaintance. And this sort of fun,
  our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred
  to the above kind appointment; but his honour got the better of his
  inclination.
  
  Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we
  think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader
  may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady
  Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was
  lodged.
  
  First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto
  met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now
  become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her
  ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had
  positively declared that she would, on no account, be instrumental in
  carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
  
  The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her
  despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that
  evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at
  the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came
  into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was
  immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her
  companion. Mrs Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the
  same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the
  safe reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or
  three hours of uninterrupted conversation after her return from the
  place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a pretty
  distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she
  had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the revolution
  that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.
  
  
  Mr Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller
  rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his
  company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.
  
  Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to
  him, saying, “This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly
  beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his
  sincerest thanks.”
  
  The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so
  kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each
  other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the
  latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his
  speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, “It is so, I am convinced
  it is so!”
  
  “Bless me! what's the meaning of this?” cries Mrs Miller; “you are not
  ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant.”
  
  “Be not frighted, madam,” cries Jones, “I have almost as much need of
  a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this unexpected
  meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller.”
  
  “An acquaintance!” cries the man.--“Oh, heaven!”
  
  “Ay, an acquaintance,” repeated Jones, “and an honoured acquaintance
  too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
  everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction,
  may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!”
  
  “Oh, you are an excellent young man,” cries Mrs Miller:--“Yes, indeed,
  poor creature! he hath ventured everything.--If he had not had one of
  the best of constitutions, it must have killed him.”
  
  “Cousin,” cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself,
  “this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom,
  before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to
  whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured
  for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest; of
  all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of
  such a nature!”
  
  “Mention nothing of obligations,” cries Jones eagerly; “not a word, I
  insist upon it, not a word” (meaning, I suppose, that he would not
  have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). “If, by the
  trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole family,
  sure pleasure was never bought so cheap.”
  
  “Oh, sir!” cries the man, “I wish you could this instant see my house.
  If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am
  convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with
  the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed,
  and chiefly by your goodness.----My children have now a bed to lie
  on----and they have----they have----eternal blessings reward you for
  it!----they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is
  out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my
  cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at
  my house.--Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.--My children
  too must express their gratitude.----Indeed, sir, they are not without
  a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling when I reflect to
  whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their
  gratitude.----Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now
  been cold as ice without your assistance.”
  
  Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but
  indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped
  his words. And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth
  thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin, and
  concluded with saying, “She doubted not but such goodness would meet a
  glorious reward.”
  
  Jones answered, “He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
  cousin's account, madam,” said he, “hath given me a sensation more
  pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at
  hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
  having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
  feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them,
  as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater
  honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the ambitious,
  the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain.”
  
  The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a
  hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the
  hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that
  he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own
  house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady
  Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured
  to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror,
  on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he
  listened rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy,
  when he was attacked on the high road.
  
  Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening,
  in which Mr Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied
  her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the
  circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself,
  and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the greater,
  as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
  principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this
  lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the
  better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which
  would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any
  circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  In which the reader will be surprized.
  
  
  Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than
  the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the
  place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
  vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
  into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
  door opened, and in came----no other than Sophia herself, who had left
  the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
  said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
  damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
  between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
  glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who
  safely conveyed her to her chair.
  
  As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home
  till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily
  in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without
  once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of
  Jones now stood motionless.---In this glass it was, after
  contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said
  statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of
  the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved
  herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support
  her in his arms.
  
  To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my
  power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged
  to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed
  that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few
  of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts
  what past at this time in theirs.
  
  After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said--“I see,
  madam, you are surprized.”--“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens!
  Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you
  seem.”--“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this
  once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
  after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
  Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
  this long, fruitless pursuit.”--“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a
  little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.--“Can you be
  so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of
  me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important
  business with me?”--“To some, madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an
  important business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you
  will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the
  pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
  thus:--“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
  which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
  a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”--“My
  pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
  after what I have heard.”--“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones.
  “By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
  henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
  remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
  that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
  of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”
  
  Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow,
  and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of
  Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had
  scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He
  understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia!
  my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened
  there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my
  heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I
  was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired
  of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still
  on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if
  my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently
  fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe
  me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never
  intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in her heart, was very
  glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness
  than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the
  trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it
  worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature
  indeed.”--“What is it, for heaven's sake?” answered Jones, trembling
  and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,”
   said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and everything
  base be lodged together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the
  ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind,
  and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded
  Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any
  man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the
  meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may
  have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to
  hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!”
  
  Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but
  yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend
  himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his
  conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,
  that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his
  love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at
  the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
  was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
  difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an
  offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to
  hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death,
  which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared
  up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that
  Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to
  give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear
  to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were aware
  they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded
  like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her
  duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin
  with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune
  with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let
  drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his
  breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No;
  by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia,
  whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will
  tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real
  good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall
  be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from
  whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb
  your ears. And when I am dead”--He would have gone on, but was stopt
  by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she
  leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off,
  which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance;
  but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and,
  to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found
  she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she
  never had time to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He
  began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her
  suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door
  opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.
  
  Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she
  suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting
  herself with admirable presence of mind, she said--though with
  sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance--“I
  thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”
  
  Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he
  had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the
  real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she
  was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all
  their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against
  her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through
  the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the cause
  of her hasty return.
  
  The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
  rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as
  the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed
  her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have
  broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had
  company.”
  
  Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words.
  To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes
  and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I
  shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company----” “I hope,
  at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt no business.”--“No,
  madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an end. Your ladyship
  may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my
  pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so
  kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”
  
  Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to
  sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,
  and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby
  squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began,
  however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour
  of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance
  with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part.
  He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had
  used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in
  it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”
  
  Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady
  Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once
  hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one
  syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme
  quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of
  Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though
  she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she
  was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
  
  With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western,
  you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it
  fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to
  discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it
  advertised.--It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to
  whom the note belonged.”
  
  “Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which
  the young lady's name was written.”
  
  “That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:--“And it was no
  less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very
  little known.”
  
  Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he
  conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the
  question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he
  proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest
  chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had
  found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the
  masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
  Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would
  inform me, I went according to her appointment, but she was not at
  home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she
  directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did
  myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I
  had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;
  where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
  play.”
  
  Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
  Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was
  visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a
  little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the
  agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of
  relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
  said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
  occasions;--I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;--it is,
  madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit
  here.”
  
  “Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman,
  and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”
  
  Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
  satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed
  lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too
  well.
  
  Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who,
  notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to
  behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
  circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged,
  with which Sophia was unacquainted.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
  
  
  The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much
  truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie
  is not only excusable but commendable.
  
  And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right
  to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair
  of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all,
  the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by which they
  are restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature
  (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from owning them.
  
  We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued
  the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As
  she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of
  the person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance,
  though at the expense of a little fibbing.
  
  Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, “Upon my
  word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't
  remember ever to have seen his face before.”
  
  “Nor I neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “I must say he behaved very
  handsomely in relation to my note.”
  
  “Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady: “don't you
  think so?”
  
  “I did not take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but I thought
  he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise.”
  
  “You are extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston: “you may see, by his
  manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his
  returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question
  whether he is a gentleman.----I have always observed there is a
  something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.----I
  think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”
  
  “Nay, sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can't suspect after what he
  hath done;--besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an
  elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression
  that, that----”
  
  “I confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words----And
  indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.”
  
  “I forgive your ladyship!” said Sophia.
  
  “Yes, indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I had a horrible
  suspicion when I first came into the room----I vow you must forgive
  it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones himself.”
  
  “Did your ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a
  laugh.
  
  “Yes, I vow I did,” answered she. “I can't imagine what put it into my
  head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest; which, I
  think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend.”
  
  “This raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston,
  after my promise to your ladyship.”
  
  “Not at all, child,” said the lady;----“It would have been cruel
  before; but after you have promised me never to marry without your
  father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones,
  sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable
  enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you
  have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if
  you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to
  fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you
  have dealt ingenuously with me.”
  
  “Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes me, if you
  imagine I had any concern on his account.”
  
  “On his account!” answered the lady: “You must have mistaken me; I
  went no farther than his dress;----for I would not injure your taste
  by any other comparison--I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr
  Jones had been such a fellow as this--”
  
  “I thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him to be
  handsome”----
  
  “Whom, pray?” cried the lady hastily.
  
  “Mr Jones,” answered Sophia;--and immediately recollecting herself,
  “Mr Jones!--no, no; I ask your pardon;--I mean the gentleman who was
  just now here.”
  
  “O Sophy! Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am afraid, still
  runs in your head.”
  
  “Then, upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones is as entirely
  indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”
  
  “Upon my honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. Forgive me,
  therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never
  mention his name any more.”
  
  And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of
  Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her
  rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her
  away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first
  practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to her chamber, she
  reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could
  the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case,
  at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind
  was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a
  falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought
  once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XIV.
  
  CONTAINING TWO DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having some
  knowledge of the subject on which he writes.
  
  
  As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius
  only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps, without being
  well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of
  letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert,
  that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a writer; and,
  indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness
  and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed down, and
  prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise it would
  be able to reach.
  
  This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far: for
  why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The nimbleness
  of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move;
  nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by
  having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot conceive that
  Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if instead of being
  masters of all the learning of their times, they had been as ignorant
  as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I believe that all
  the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could have produced those
  orations that have made the senate of England, in these our times, a
  rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read
  in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred
  their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their spirit, their
  knowledge too.
  
  I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning
  in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to the
  composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I
  conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of
  all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of Poetry,
  and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate
  heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection of
  political journals.
  
  To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some
  little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the
  old maxim of law, _Quam quisque nôrit artem in eâ se exerceat_. With
  this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed,
  without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in
  little stead.
  
  For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and
  Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have
  clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art
  of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have
  equalled the excellent treatise which Mr Essex hath given us on that
  subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And, indeed,
  should the excellent Mr Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to
  paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down
  the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will
  have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either
  antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.
  
  To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to come at
  once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why many
  English writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper
  life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of it.
  
  This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to
  arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will
  the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the
  former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself
  upon the latter, a coxcomb.
  
  Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported.
  Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as
  unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout
  or a drum in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation
  here will not do the business. The picture must be after Nature
  herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by conversation,
  and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to be known.
  
  Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen,
  like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the streets,
  shops, and coffee-houses; nor are they shown, like the upper rank of
  animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to which no
  persons are admitted without one or other of these qualifications,
  viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is equivalent to both, the
  honourable profession of a gamester. And, very unluckily for the
  world, persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon themselves
  the bad trade of writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower
  and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many think requires no kind of
  stock to set up with.
  
  Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and
  brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and
  ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their
  clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the
  galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life than the
  centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to
  let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very
  necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a
  writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels which, like
  this I am writing, is of the comic class.
  
  What Mr Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this station,
  who are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation, that
  they have no character at all, at least none which appears. I will
  venture to say the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very
  little humour or entertainment. The various callings in lower spheres
  produce the great variety of humorous characters; whereas here, except
  among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the
  fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is vanity and servile
  imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking, bowing and
  courtesying, make up the business of their lives.
  
  Some there are, however, of this rank upon whom passion exercises its
  tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum
  prescribes; of these the ladies are as much distinguished by their
  noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from
  the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is by
  the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of a
  yeoman and shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character;
  but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the
  general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them
  as such. They might as well suppose that every clergyman was
  represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.
  
  There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally
  prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some
  ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these
  times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love
  intrigue carried on among persons of condition than now. Our present
  women have been taught by their mothers to fix their thoughts only on
  ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures of love as unworthy
  their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of such mothers,
  married without having husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in
  the justness of those sentiments; whence they content themselves, for
  the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more innocent, but I
  am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention of which would
  ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble opinion, the
  true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather folly than
  vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of frivolous.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Containing letters and other matters which attend amours.
  
  
  Jones had not been long at home before he received the following
  letter:--
  
    “I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When you
    left the room I little imagined you intended to have left the house
    without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and
    convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon
    an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning
    more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood
    not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the
    assurance, the----what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she
    knows you, or ever saw you before.----Was this a scheme laid between
    you, and have you been base enough to betray me?----O how I despise
    her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for----I dare not
    write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can
    detest as violently as I have loved.”
  
  Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before
  a second was brought him from the same hand; and this, likewise, we
  shall set down in the precise words.
  
    “When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ,
    you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.--Yet,
    perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would,
    if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the
    impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my
    appointment.----How easy is it to think well of those we
    love!----Perhaps you desire I should think so. I have resolved to
    see you to-night; so come to me immediately.
  
    “_P.S._--I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.
  
    “_P.S._--Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence;
    for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to
    impose on myself.
  
    “_P.S._--Come immediately.”
  
  To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or
  the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones. Certain it
  is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening,
  unless to one single person. However, he thought his honour engaged,
  and had not this been motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to
  blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had
  reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence
  might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some
  discontented walks therefore about the room, he was preparing to
  depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by another letter, but
  by her own presence. She entered the room very disordered in her
  dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw herself into a
  chair, where, having recovered her breath, she said--“You see, sir,
  when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none. If
  any person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have
  believed it of myself.” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “my charming Lady
  Bellaston will be as difficult to believe anything against one who is
  so sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred upon him.”
   “Indeed!” says she, “sensible of obligations! Did I expect to hear
  such cold language from Mr Jones?” “Pardon me, my dear angel,” said
  he, “if, after the letters I have received, the terrors of your anger,
  though I know not how I have deserved it.”--“And have I then,” says
  she, with a smile, “so angry a countenance?--Have I really brought a
  chiding face with me?”--“If there be honour in man,” said he, “I have
  done nothing to merit your anger.--You remember the appointment you
  sent me; I went in pursuance.”--“I beseech you,” cried she, “do not
  run through the odious recital.--Answer me but one question, and I
  shall be easy. Have you not betrayed my honour to her?”--Jones fell
  upon his knees, and began to utter the most violent protestations,
  when Partridge came dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk
  with joy, crying out, “She's found! she's found!--Here, sir, here,
  she's here--Mrs Honour is upon the stairs.” “Stop her a moment,” cries
  Jones--“Here, madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor
  closet, nor place on earth to hide you in; sure never was so damned an
  accident.”--“D--n'd indeed!” said the lady, as she went to her place
  of concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour.
  “Hey-day!” says she, “Mr Jones, what's the matter?--That impudent
  rascal your servant would scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath
  not the same reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton.--I suppose
  you hardly expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my
  lady. Poor dear young lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if
  she was my own sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her
  a good husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad
  enough for you.” Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was
  a lady dying in the next room. “A lady!” cries she; “ay, I suppose one
  of your ladies.--O Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world;
  I believe we are got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston I
  darst to say is no better than she should be.”--“Hush! hush!” cries
  Jones, “every word is overheard in the next room.” “I don't care a
  farthing,” cries Honour, “I speaks no scandal of any one; but to be
  sure the servants make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets
  men at another place--where the house goes under the name of a poor
  gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing
  besides, they say, she hath of her.”--Here Jones, after expressing the
  utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:--“Hey-day! why sure, Mr
  Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says
  what I heard from others--and thinks I to myself, much good may it do
  the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked
  manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest.” “The servants
  are villains,” cries Jones, “and abuse their lady unjustly.”--“Ay, to
  be sure, servants are always villains, and so my lady says, and won't
  hear a word of it.”--“No, I am convinced,” says Jones, “my Sophia is
  above listening to such base scandal.” “Nay, I believe it is no
  scandal, neither,” cries Honour, “for why should she meet men at
  another house?--It can never be for any good: for if she had a lawful
  design of being courted, as to be sure any lady may lawfully give her
  company to men upon that account: why, where can be the sense?”--“I
  protest,” cries Jones, “I can't hear all this of a lady of such
  honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will distract the poor
  lady in the next room.--Let me entreat you to walk with me down
  stairs.”--“Nay, sir, if you won't let me speak, I have done.--Here,
  sir, is a letter from my young lady--what would some men give to have
  this? But, Mr Jones, I think you are not over and above generous, and
  yet I have heard some servants say----but I am sure you will do me the
  justice to own I never saw the colour of your money.” Here Jones
  hastily took the letter, and presently after slipped five pieces into
  her hand. He then returned a thousand thanks to his dear Sophia in a
  whisper, and begged her to leave him to read her letter: she presently
  departed, not without expressing much grateful sense of his
  generosity.
  
  Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe
  her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but streams
  of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her
  heart was all in a flame. And now as soon as her voice found way,
  instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her own
  servants, she began to attack poor Jones. “You see,” said she, “what I
  have sacrificed to you; my reputation, my honour--gone for ever! And
  what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a country girl, for
  an idiot.”--“What neglect, madam, or what slight,” cries Jones, “have
  I been guilty of?”--“Mr Jones,” said she, “it is in vain to dissemble;
  if you will make me easy, you must entirely give her up; and as a
  proof of your intention, show me the letter.”--“What letter, madam?”
   said Jones. “Nay, surely,” said she, “you cannot have the confidence
  to deny your having received a letter by the hands of that
  trollop.”--“And can your ladyship,” cries he, “ask of me what I must
  part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner by
  your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent girl
  to you, what security could you have that I should not act the same
  part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you
  that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be the
  most contemptible of wretches.”--“Very well,” said she--“I need not
  insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own opinion;
  for the inside of the letter could inform me of nothing more than I
  know already. I see the footing you are upon.”--Here ensued a long
  conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious, will thank me
  for not inserting at length. It shall suffice, therefore, to inform
  him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more pacified, and at length
  believed, or affected to believe, his protestations, that his meeting
  with Sophia that evening was merely accidental, and every other matter
  which the reader already knows, and which, as Jones set before her in
  the strongest light, it is plain that she had in reality no reason to
  be angry with him.
  
  She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his
  refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason,
  when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed, well
  convinced that Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's affections;
  and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she submitted at last
  to bear the second place; or, to express it more properly in a legal
  phrase, was contented with the possession of that of which another
  woman had the reversion.
  
  It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at the
  house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would place
  these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself would be
  considered as the person imposed upon.
  
  This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones,
  who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any
  rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the
  imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could not possibly
  discover to her for his own sake.
  
  The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after proper
  ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Containing various matters.
  
  
  Jones was no sooner alone than he eagerly broke open his letter, and
  read as follows:--
  
    “Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you
    left this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming
    here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she
    tells me she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by
    all the regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for
    it will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some
    things which have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already
    without some suspicion. Something favourable perhaps may happen; we
    must wait with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have
    any concern for my ease, do not think of returning hither.”
  
  This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones,
  which Job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing
  all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he was
  reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston; for
  there are some certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do very
  difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after the
  strict prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human
  power. At length, after much deliberation, which during that night
  supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself sick: for
  this suggested itself as the only means of failing the appointed
  visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more than one
  reason of desiring to avoid.
  
  The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write
  an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then
  despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned
  excuse; and to this he soon received the following answer:--
  
    “I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more
    concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have
    the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.--I am so
    tormented all this morning with fools, that I have scarce a moment's
    time to write to you. Adieu.
  
    “_P.S._--I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.--Be
    sure to be alone.”
  
  Mr Jones now received a visit from Mrs Miller, who, after some formal
  introduction, began the following speech:--“I am very sorry, sir, to
  wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will consider the
  ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of my poor girls,
  if my house should once be talked of as a house of ill-fame. I hope
  you won't think me, therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you
  not to bring any more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had
  struck two before one of them went away.”--“I do assure you, madam,”
   said Jones, “the lady who was here last night, and who staid the
  latest (for the other only brought me a letter), is a woman of very
  great fashion, and my near relation.”--“I don't know what fashion she
  is of,” answered Mrs Miller; “but I am sure no woman of virtue, unless
  a very near relation indeed, would visit a young gentleman at ten at
  night, and stay four hours in his room with him alone; besides, sir,
  the behaviour of her chairmen shows what she was; for they did nothing
  but make jests all the evening in the entry, and asked Mr Partridge,
  in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with his
  master all night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be
  repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr Jones, upon your
  own account; nay, I have a very high obligation to you for your
  generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I did not know how very good you had
  been till lately. Little did I imagine to what dreadful courses the
  poor man's distress had driven him. Little did I think, when you gave
  me the ten guineas, that you had given them to a highwayman! O
  heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you preserved this
  family!--The character which Mr Allworthy hath formerly given me of
  you was, I find, strictly true.--And indeed, if I had no obligation to
  you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his account, I should
  shew you the utmost respect in my power.--Nay, believe me, dear Mr
  Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation were out of the case, I
  should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young gentleman
  should converse with these women; but if you are resolved to do it, I
  must beg you to take another lodging; for I do not myself like to have
  such things carried on under my roof; but more especially upon the
  account of my girls, who have little, heaven knows, besides their
  characters, to recommend them.” Jones started and changed colour at
  the name of Allworthy. “Indeed, Mrs Miller,” answered he, a little
  warmly, “I do not take this at all kind. I will never bring any
  slander on your house; but I must insist on seeing what company I
  please in my own room; and if that gives you any offence, I shall, as
  soon as I am able, look for another lodging.”--“I am sorry we must
  part then, sir,” said she; “but I am convinced Mr Allworthy himself
  would never come within my doors, if he had the least suspicion of my
  keeping an ill house.”--“Very well, madam,” said Jones.--“I hope,
  sir,” said she, “you are not angry; for I would not for the world
  offend any of Mr Allworthy's family. I have not slept a wink all night
  about this matter.”--“I am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam,”
   said Jones, “but I beg you will send Partridge up to me immediately;”
   which she promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy retired.
  
  As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most
  outrageous manner. “How often,” said he, “am I to suffer for your
  folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours
  resolved upon my destruction?” “What have I done, sir?” answered
  affrighted Partridge. “Who was it gave you authority to mention the
  story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?”
   “I, sir?” cries Partridge. “Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in
  denying it,” said Jones. “If I did mention such a matter,” answers
  Partridge, “I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have opened
  my lips, if it had not been to his own friends and relations, who, I
  imagined, would have let it go no farther.” “But I have a much heavier
  charge against you,” cries Jones, “than this. How durst you, after all
  the precautions I gave you, mention the name of Mr Allworthy in this
  house?” Partridge denied that he ever had, with many oaths. “How
  else,” said Jones, “should Mrs Miller be acquainted that there was any
  connexion between him and me? And it is but this moment she told me
  she respected me on his account.” “O Lord, sir,” said Partridge, “I
  desire only to be heard out; and to be sure, never was anything so
  unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own how wrongfully you have
  accused me. When Mrs Honour came downstairs last night she met me in
  the entry, and asked me when my master had heard from Mr Allworthy;
  and to be sure Mrs Miller heard the very words; and the moment Madam
  Honour was gone, she called me into the parlour to her. `Mr
  Partridge,' says she, `what Mr Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman
  mentioned? is it the great Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire?' `Upon my
  word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.' `Sure,' says
  she, `your master is not the Mr Jones I have heard Mr Allworthy talk
  of?' `Upon my word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.'
  `Then,' says she, turning to her daughter Nancy, says she, `as sure as
  tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he agrees exactly with
  the squire's description.' The Lord above knows who it was told her:
  for I am the arrantest villain that ever walked upon two legs if ever
  it came out of my mouth. I promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when
  I am desired. Nay, sir, so far was I from telling her anything about
  Mr Allworthy, that I told her the very direct contrary; for, though I
  did not contradict it at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they
  say, are best, so when I came to consider that somebody must have
  informed her, thinks I to myself, I will put an end to the story; and
  so I went back again into the parlour some time afterwards, and says
  I, upon my word, says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman
  was Mr Jones; that is, says I, that this Mr Jones was that Mr Jones,
  told you a confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention
  any such matter, says I; for my master, says I, will think I must have
  told you so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned
  any such word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have
  been thinking with myself ever since, how it was she came to know it;
  not but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who
  looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that
  mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old woman
  without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for all
  the world shall never persuade me but that they have a great power to
  do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old woman again, but
  I shall think to myself, _Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem._”
  
  The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end
  to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his mind;
  and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he intended
  presently to leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go and endeavour
  to get him others.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of both
  sexes.
  
  
  Partridge had no sooner left Mr Jones than Mr Nightingale, with whom
  he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a
  short salutation, said, “So, Tom, I hear you had company very late
  last night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been in
  town above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door till
  two in the morning.” He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of
  the same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, “I suppose
  you have received all this information from Mrs Miller, who hath been
  up here a little while ago to give me warning. The good woman is
  afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters.” “Oh! she is
  wonderfully nice,” says Nightingale, “upon that account; if you
  remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the masquerade.” “Nay,
  upon my honour, I think she's in the right of it,” says Jones:
  “however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent Partridge to
  look for another lodging.” “If you will,” says Nightingale, “we may, I
  believe, be again together; for, to tell you a secret, which I desire
  you won't mention in the family, I intend to quit the house to-day.”
   “What, hath Mrs Miller given you warning too, my friend?” cries Jones.
  “No,” answered the other; “but the rooms are not convenient enough.
  Besides, I am grown weary of this part of the town. I want to be
  nearer the places of diversion; so I am going to Pall-mall.” “And do
  you intend to make a secret of your going away?” said Jones. “I
  promise you,” answered Nightingale, “I don't intend to bilk my
  lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking a formal leave.”
   “Not so private,” answered Jones; “I promise you, I have seen it ever
  since the second day of my coming to the house. Here will be some wet
  eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her, faith! Indeed, Jack,
  you have played the fool with that girl. You have given her a longing,
  which I am afraid nothing will ever cure her of.” Nightingale
  answered, “What the devil would you have me do? would you have me
  marry her to cure her?” “No,” answered Jones, “I would not have had
  you make love to her, as you have often done in my presence. I have
  been astonished at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it.”
   “Pugh, see it!” cries Nightingale. “What, the devil should she see?”
   “Why, see,” said Jones, “that you have made her daughter distractedly
  in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal it a moment; her eyes
  are never off from you, and she always colours every time you come
  into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for she seems to be one of
  the best-natured and honestest of human creatures.” “And so,” answered
  Nightingale, “according to your doctrine, one must not amuse oneself
  by any common gallantries with women, for fear they should fall in
  love with us.” “Indeed, Jack,” said Jones, “you wilfully misunderstand
  me; I do not fancy women are so apt to fall in love; but you have gone
  far beyond common gallantries.” “What, do you suppose,” says
  Nightingale, “that we have been a-bed together?” “No, upon my honour,”
   answered Jones, very seriously, “I do not suppose so ill of you; nay,
  I will go farther, I do not imagine you have laid a regular
  premeditated scheme for the destruction of the quiet of a poor little
  creature, or have even foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou
  art a very good-natured fellow; and such a one can never be guilty of
  a cruelty of that kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own
  vanity, without considering that this poor girl was made a sacrifice
  to it; and while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour,
  you have actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the
  most serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly;
  to what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of
  happiness arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm
  professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did you
  imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you
  intend she should?” “Upon my soul, Tom,” cries Nightingale, “I did not
  think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I
  suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?”
   “No,” cries Jones, “may I be d--n'd if I would.” “Tom, Tom,” answered
  Nightingale, “last night; remember last night----
  
       When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,
       And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft.”
  
  “Lookee, Mr Nightingale,” said Jones, “I am no canting hypocrite, nor
  do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my neighbours. I have
  been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I have
  ever injured any.--Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself, be
  knowingly the cause of misery to any human being.”
  
  “Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I am convinced you
  acquit me of any such thing.”
  
  “I do, from my heart,” answered Jones, “of having debauched the girl,
  but not from having gained her affections.”
  
  “If I have,” said Nightingale, “I am sorry for it; but time and
  absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I must
  take myself; for, to confess the truth to you--I never liked any girl
  half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole
  secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I
  never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my
  addresses to her.”
  
  At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when
  Nightingale cried--“Nay, prithee, don't turn me into ridicule. The
  devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy!
  Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession.”
  
  “I heartily wish you had,” cries Jones; “for, if this be the case, I
  sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't intend to go away
  without taking your leave of her?”
  
  “I would not,” answered Nightingale, “undergo the pain of taking
  leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead of
  answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor
  Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it
  to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart.”
  
  Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as
  he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took the most
  prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to
  lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed
  between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the ground
  floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman himself was
  to occupy that which was between them.
  
  This Nightingale, of whom we shall be presently obliged to say a
  little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of strict
  honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one
  of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in
  his morals; not that he was even here as void of principle as
  gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it is certain
  he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women, and had,
  in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many deceits,
  which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted the
  greatest villain upon earth.
  
  But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this
  treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his
  iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often
  boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their
  hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from
  Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to
  the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they
  ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be
  cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and
  tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a
  man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.
  
  
  Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to
  say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon he
  received an invitation from Mrs Miller to drink tea; for that good
  woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other
  means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr
  Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an
  angry manner.
  
  Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the tea-kettle
  removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without
  much preface, began as follows: “Well, there are very surprizing
  things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business
  that I should have a relation of Mr Allworthy in my house, and never
  know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a
  friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am
  not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I did not long
  since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches, two
  destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to the
  cruelty, of the world.
  
  “You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by
  letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was an
  officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up
  to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death,
  became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good luck to
  die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take the
  second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of
  this lady had been a servant to my grand-mother; and, having inherited
  a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was
  married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion. She used my sister
  so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth and poverty,
  calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she at length
  broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise died within a
  twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to provide better
  for me, and within a month from his decease I was married to a
  clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before, and who had been
  very ill used by my father on that account: for though my poor father
  could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred us up as delicately,
  considered us, and would have had us consider ourselves, as highly as
  if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all
  this usage, and the moment we were become fatherless he immediately
  renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always liked, and
  now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did I live
  in a state of perfect happiness with that best of men, till at
  last--Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived
  me of the kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest
  parent.--O my poor girls! you never knew the blessing which ye
  lost.--I am ashamed, Mr Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall
  never mention him without tears.” “I ought rather, madam,” said Jones,
  “to be ashamed that I do not accompany you.” “Well, sir,” continued
  she, “I was now left a second time in a much worse condition than
  before; besides the terrible affliction I was to encounter, I had now
  two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than
  ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr Allworthy, who
  had some little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my
  distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it
  is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I
  must and will read it to you.
  
    “'Madam,
  
    “'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your
    own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt from
    the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice
    which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I
    have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any
    immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your
    duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your
    tenderness.
  
    “`However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of
    much worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a
    person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg
    you will accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe
    me to be, madam, &c.'
  
  “This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the irreparable
  loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight afterwards, Mr
  Allworthy--the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he
  placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of
  money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me,
  which I have constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in
  what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation
  of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake alone my life
  is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since
  I must esteem one for whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if
  I beg you not to converse with these wicked women. You are a young
  gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry
  with me, sir, for what I said upon account of my house; you must be
  sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you
  cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy himself would never forgive
  my conniving at such matters, and particularly with you.”
  
  “Upon my word, madam,” said Jones, “you need make no farther apology;
  nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but give me
  leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr Allworthy, to
  deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether
  for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his.”
  
  “Alas! sir,” answered she, “I know you are not, I know very well who
  you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you, had
  you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard
  for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be
  ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will
  esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words
  `dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to
  say, unless the word `dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for
  the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they
  are intirely innocent.”
  
  Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, “Since I perceive,
  madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to
  mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as
  to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances
  concerning myself.” And these Mrs Miller having expressed great desire
  and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history,
  without once mentioning the name of Sophia.
  
  There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they
  give an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones
  told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She
  was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for,
  as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a
  second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should
  be the last at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one
  of great distinction, and that nothing but what was intirely innocent
  was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep
  his word.
  
  Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his
  chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston
  appeared.
  
  As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as
  it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps
  wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him
  to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to
  require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by
  some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our
  business is only to record truth.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers.
  
  
  Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night;
  not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed
  by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking
  hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of
  dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
  best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called
  compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character from that
  noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within himself,
  and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without
  being once stopped by the calamities which happen to others. He could
  not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy,
  whose love for Mr Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was
  astonished at the blindness of her mother, who had more than once, the
  preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of
  her daughter, “who from being,” she said, “one of the liveliest,
  merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden, become all gloom and
  melancholy.”
  
  Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now,
  as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an
  offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.--To
  speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the
  next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
  situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
  
  Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
  answered, “That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that
  Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother,
  were both crying and lamenting over her.” Jones expressed much
  concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by
  saying, with a smile, “he fancied the young lady was in no danger of
  death; for that Susan” (which was the name of the maid) “had given
  him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In
  short,” said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her
  mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat
  down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming
  for the Foundling Hospital.”----“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,”
   cries Jones. “Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of
  mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave--Stay,
  you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to
  breakfast with her.” He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he
  could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many
  severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of
  brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no
  sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door,
  was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour, which
  was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs
  Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, whence the maid
  presently brought a message to Mr Jones, “That her mistress hoped he
  would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which
  made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at
  breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up
  notice sooner.” Jones desired, “She would give herself no trouble
  about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was
  heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any
  service to her, she might command him.”
  
  He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all,
  suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of
  tears, said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men
  alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your
  service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor
  girl.--O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!”
   “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain”----“O Mr Jones!” said she,
  “that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my poor
  girl; hath destroyed her.--I know you are a man of honour. You have a
  good--a noble heart, Mr Jones. The actions to which I have been myself
  a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay,
  indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a
  secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath undone my
  daughter. She is--she is--oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him;
  and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his
  cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another monster
  lives.”
  
  The letter was as follows:
  
    “DEAR NANCY,
  
    “As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
    be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this
    method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately
    paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath
    provided for my--I need not write the detested word. Your own good
    understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to
    an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear
    arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her
    with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a
    secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as
    I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have
    suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and
    forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain
    ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I
    mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in
    your faithful, though unhappy,
  
                                                          “J. N.”
  
  When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
  minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I cannot
  express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me
  beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the
  reputation of your daughter.”----“It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,”
   cryed she, “as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a
  room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening it,
  the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
  reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
  hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
  been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
  myself outlive any accident of that nature.--What then will become of
  my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch
  will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees
  her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause.
  O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
  barbarous, cruel----hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
  the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
  Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
  Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
  Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
  conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
  lose one or both in such a manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Jones, with
  tears in his eyes, “I pity you from my soul.”--“O! Mr Jones,” answered
  she, “even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no
  idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of
  children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my
  eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those
  foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin.
  Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her.
  I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity
  with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so much her superior.
  And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath
  endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by the most generous
  expressions of disinterested love, which he hath always directed to my
  poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed to be real. Could I
  have believed that these were only snares laid to betray the innocence
  of my child, and for the ruin of us all?”--At these words little Betsy
  came running into the room, crying, “Dear mamma, for heaven's sake
  come to my sister; for she is in another fit, and my cousin can't hold
  her.” Mrs Miller immediately obeyed the summons; but first ordered
  Betsy to stay with Mr Jones, and begged him to entertain her a few
  minutes, saying, in the most pathetic voice, “Good heaven! let me
  preserve one of my children at least.”
  
  Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort
  the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very highly
  affected with Mrs Miller's story. He told her “Her sister would be
  soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she would not
  only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too.” “Indeed,
  sir,” says she, “I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I
  would burst my heart rather than they should see me cry.--But my poor
  sister can't see me cry.--I am afraid she will never be able to see me
  cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her; indeed, I can't.--And
  then poor mamma too, what will become of her?--She says she will die
  too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won't be left behind.” “And are
  you not afraid to die, my little Betsy?” said Jones. “Yes,” answered
  she, “I was always afraid to die; because I must have left my mamma,
  and my sister; but I am not afraid of going anywhere with those I
  love.”
  
  Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the
  child; and soon after Mrs Miller returned, saying, “She thanked heaven
  Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy,” says she, “you may go
  in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you.” She then turned
  to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having disappointed him
  of his breakfast.
  
  “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “I shall have a more exquisite repast
  than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be
  the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But
  whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt
  it. I am very much deceived in Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
  what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom,
  as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this be the
  case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will affect
  him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as
  you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to
  bring you good news.”
  
  Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven
  upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate
  expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr Nightingale, and
  the good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat
  cheared at what her mother told her; and both joined in resounding the
  praises of Mr Jones.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.
  
  
  The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on
  ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of
  beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are
  scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing
  injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they
  bring on their fellow-creatures.
  
  Mr Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,
  Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,
  and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed
  poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily
  to meet him; and after much congratulation said, “Nothing could be
  more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the
  spleen in my life.”
  
  “I am sorry,” answered Jones, “that I bring news very unlikely to
  relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you
  the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further
  preface, then, I come to you, Mr Nightingale, from a worthy family,
  which you have involved in misery and ruin.” Mr Nightingale changed
  colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded, in
  the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the
  reader was acquainted in the last chapter.
  
  Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered
  violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after
  fetching a deep sigh, he said, “What you tell me, my friend, affects
  me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident
  as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise
  have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret;
  and then the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such
  things happen in this town: and if the husband should suspect a
  little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal
  his suspicion both from his wife and the world.”
  
  “Indeed, my friend,” answered Jones, “this could not have been the
  case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her affections,
  that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which afflicts
  her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family.” “Nay, for
  that matter, I promise you,” cries Nightingale, “she hath my
  affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to be, will
  have very little share in them.” “And is it possible then,” said
  Jones, “you can think of deserting her?” “Why, what can I do?”
   answered the other. “Ask Miss Nancy,” replied Jones warmly. “In the
  condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought
  to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone,
  and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if you ask me
  what you shall do, what can you do less,” cries Jones, “than fulfil
  the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell
  you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you together. You will
  pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with,
  moved as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own
  heart will best suggest to you, whether you have never intended, by
  your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an
  opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so, though there may
  have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I will leave to
  your own good understanding, how far you are bound to proceed.”
  
  “Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted,” said Nightingale;
  “but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I have given.”
   “And can you, after owning that,” said Jones, “hesitate a moment?”
   “Consider, my friend,” answered the other; “I know you are a man of
  honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules; if there
  were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her
  disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?” “Undoubtedly,”
   replied Jones, “and the very best and truest honour, which is
  goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,
  you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of
  having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,
  and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her
  innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful occasion,
  nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you, with
  honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both the life and
  soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the thought, that this
  creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young woman? A young
  woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies for you; who hath placed
  the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence hath
  sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such
  contemplations as these a moment?”
  
  “Common sense, indeed,” said Nightingale, “warrants all you say; but
  yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that,
  was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever
  showing my face again.”
  
  “Fie upon it, Mr Nightingale!” said Jones, “do not call her by so
  ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her she became your
  wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And what
  is this world which you would be ashamed to face but the vile, the
  foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a shame must
  proceed from false modesty, which always attends false honour as its
  shadow.--But I am well assured there is not a man of real sense and
  goodness in the world who would not honour and applaud the action.
  But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my friend,
  applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel
  from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent
  action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of
  millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On the one
  side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the arms of
  her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking heart in
  agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than accusing,
  the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to your
  imagination the circumstances of her fond despairing parent, driven to
  madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely daughter.
  View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind hath dwelt
  a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause of all the
  ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On the other
  side, consider yourself as relieving them from their temporary
  sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that lovely
  creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to her pale
  cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured
  breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness of all.
  Think of this little family made by one act of yours completely happy.
  Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my friend if it
  requires any long deliberation whether he will sink these wretches
  down for ever, or, by one generous, noble resolution, raise them all
  from the brink of misery and despair to the highest pitch of human
  happiness. Add to this but one consideration more; the consideration
  that it is your duty so to do--That the misery from which you will
  relieve these poor people is the misery which you yourself have
  wilfully brought upon them.”
  
  “O, my dear friend!” cries Nightingale, “I wanted not your eloquence
  to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly give
  anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed between us.
  Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I could
  prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which hath caused all
  the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult
  but my own, I would marry her to-morrow morning: I would, by heaven!
  but you will easily imagine how impossible it would be to prevail on
  my father to consent to such a match; besides, he hath provided
  another for me; and to-morrow, by his express command, I am to wait on
  the lady.”
  
  “I have not the honour to know your father,” said Jones; “but, suppose
  he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the only means of
  preserving these poor people?” “As eagerly as I would pursue my
  happiness,” answered Nightingale: “for I never shall find it in any
  other woman.--O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have felt
  within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she would
  not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if I had
  any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them: could
  my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be
  wanting to compleat my own happiness or that of my Nancy.”
  
  “Then I am resolved to undertake it,” said Jones. “You must not be
  angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this
  affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid
  from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once
  they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any
  fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless
  immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a manner
  which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If you
  will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not
  lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you cannot do a
  more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl. You will
  find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given of the
  wretchedness of the family.”
  
  Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having
  acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where
  he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,
  “My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew
  my father you would never think of obtaining his consent.----Stay,
  there is one way--suppose you told him I was already married, it might
  be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my
  honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my Nancy
  so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the
  consequence.”
  
  Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then
  separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the
  old gentleman.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with the arrival of
  a person not yet mentioned in this history.
  
  
  Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the
  divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same purpose;
  Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of them, expressly
  holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are some incidents in
  life so very strange and unaccountable, that it seems to require more
  than human skill and foresight in producing them.
  
  Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr Nightingale
  the elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she was really
  worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived
  such another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of the young
  lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for many hours;
  and the latter was just now gone, and had left the former delighted
  with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long contention, which
  had been between the two fathers of the future bride and bridegroom;
  in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and, as it not
  rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully satisfied of
  having obtained the victory.
  
  This gentleman, whom Mr Jones now visited, was what they call a man of
  the world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this world
  as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to
  make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade;
  but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had lately declined his
  business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in
  goods, to dealing only in money, of which he had always a plentiful
  fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to make a very
  plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of private men, and
  sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed conversed so entirely
  with money, that it may be almost doubted whether he imagined there
  was any other thing really existing in the world; this at least may be
  certainly averred, that he firmly believed nothing else to have any
  real value.
  
  The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled out
  a more improper person for Mr Jones to attack with any probability of
  success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a
  more unseasonable time.
  
  As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts, so
  the moment he saw a stranger within his doors it immediately occurred
  to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to bring him
  money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these
  thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of
  the person who approached him.
  
  Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present;
  for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill
  from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of
  Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no
  sooner told him that he was come on his son's account than the old
  gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an
  exclamation, “That he would lose his labour.” “Is it then possible,
  sir,” answered Jones, “that you can guess my business?” “If I do guess
  it,” replied the other, “I repeat again to you, you will lose your
  labour. What, I suppose you are one of those sparks who lead my son
  into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his
  destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I
  expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined
  otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be
  instrumental in the ruin of nobody.” “How, sir,” said Jones, “and was
  this lady of your providing?” “Pray, sir,” answered the old gentleman,
  “how comes it to be any concern of yours?”--“Nay, dear sir,” replied
  Jones, “be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your
  son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was
  upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the
  satisfaction you have given me by what you say; for I do assure you
  your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour.--Nay, sir, it
  is not easy to express the esteem I have for you; who could be so
  generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for
  your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him one of the
  happiest men upon earth.”
  
  There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good
  liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when
  once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears
  which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our
  present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.
  
  Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no
  demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased with his
  presence. “Pray, good sir,” said he, “be pleased to sit down. I do not
  remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before; but if
  you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say concerning this
  young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy,
  it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty,
  in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune
  capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy.”
   “Undoubtedly,” cries Jones, “for she is in herself a fortune; so
  beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she is
  indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and hath
  a most delicate hand at the harpsichord.” “I did not know any of these
  matters,” answered the old gentleman, “for I never saw the lady: but I
  do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am the better
  pleased with her father for not laying any stress on these
  qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his
  understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these articles as
  an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he never
  mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no
  disparagements to a woman.” “I do assure you, sir,” cries Jones, “she
  hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I was
  afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less inclined
  to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady;
  therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you,
  as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match
  with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have
  mentioned, but many more.”--“If that was your business, sir,” said the
  old gentleman, “we are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly
  easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her
  fortune.” “Sir,” answered Jones, “I honour you every moment more and
  more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is
  a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well as the
  nobleness of your mind.”----“Not so very moderate, young gentleman,
  not so very moderate,” answered the father.--“Still more and more
  noble,” replied Jones; “and give me leave to add, sensible: for sure
  it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole
  foundation of happiness. Such a woman as this with her little, her
  nothing of a fortune”--“I find,” cries the old gentleman, “you have a
  pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better
  acquainted with the person of the lady than with her circumstances.
  Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have?” “What
  fortune?” cries Jones, “why, too contemptible a one to be named for
  your son.”--“Well, well, well,” said the other, “perhaps he might have
  done better.”--“That I deny,” said Jones, “for she is one of the best
  of women.”--“Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean,” answered the
  other. “And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine your friend
  is to have?”--“How much?” cries Jones, “how much? Why, at the utmost,
  perhaps £200.” “Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?” said the
  father, a little angry. “No, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “I am in
  earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do
  the lady an injury, I ask her pardon.” “Indeed you do,” cries the
  father; “I am certain she hath fifty times that sum, and she shall
  produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son.”
   “Nay,” said Jones, “it is too late to talk of consent now; if she had
  not fifty farthings your son is married.”--“My son married!” answered
  the old gentleman, with surprize. “Nay,” said Jones, “I thought you
  was unacquainted with it.” “My son married to Miss Harris!” answered
  he again. “To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no, sir; to Miss Nancy
  Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; a young
  lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings--“--“Are you
  bantering, or are you in earnest?” cries the father, with a most
  solemn voice. “Indeed, sir,” answered Jones, “I scorn the character of
  a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I
  find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with a match so
  much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation of the
  lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret.”
  
  While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a
  gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.
  
  But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they
  were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The
  brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he
  no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate
  with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he
  married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who,
  though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to
  his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a very
  large share.
  
  With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more
  resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden age,
  than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times.
  By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity,
  except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and his wife
  had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and
  fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had actually
  refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little turned of
  forty, because she could not bring herself to part with her parents.
  
  The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his son was a near
  neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and in
  reality it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now
  come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother
  from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew;
  for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris,
  notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person
  nor mind seemed to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity:
  for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very
  silly, and very ill-natured.
  
  His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew
  with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction; and when
  the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence
  of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner:
  
  “If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love
  your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose,
  and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his
  happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.
  
  “Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always
  appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very
  tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an
  error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the
  affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends entirely on the
  affection which subsists between the parties.
  
  “I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire
  to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force affection
  is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I
  know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in
  our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion.
  
  “It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think, wisely
  prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in
  strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,
  therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been
  guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a
  little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on
  this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there
  was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present
  anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his
  duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority when you
  absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom
  you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen and known as well as
  I, it must have been madness in you to have ever thought of bringing
  her into your family?
  
  “Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an
  unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a
  matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in
  which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and
  will acknowledge that you consulted his interest only, and if he
  unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion
  of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry him still
  wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his
  simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to
  him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother, because he
  hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as
  you would, will you distress them as much as you can?”
  
  By the force of the true Catholic faith St Anthony won upon the
  fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms
  of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but
  neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance
  of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed over
  habitual avarice.
  
  Mr Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his
  brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always
  differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their
  children. “I wish,” said he, “brother, you would have confined your
  care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my
  son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by
  your example.” For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had
  lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had often
  declared he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.
  
  Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after
  much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more
  irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his
  nephew at the house of Mrs Miller.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing strange matters.
  
  
  At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs
  greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The
  mother, the two daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down
  to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced
  without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well
  known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that house.
  
  The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and
  wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister;
  and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the
  same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal
  or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first
  performed.
  
  Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked
  rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but Mrs Miller took
  the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into
  the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most
  passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of
  her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing
  appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest
  benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.
  
  After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she
  declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded
  to inform Mr Jones that all matters were settled between Mr
  Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the
  next morning; at which Mr Jones having expressed much pleasure, the
  poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at
  length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with
  him back to the company, whom they found in the same good humour in
  which they had left them.
  
  This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours
  together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his
  bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not
  drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr Nightingale, taking
  the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately
  occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:--
  
  “As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as
  you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match,
  which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never
  forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything.” He then
  confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.
  
  “How, Jack?” said the old gentleman, “and are you really then not
  married to this young woman?” “No, upon my honour,” answered
  Nightingale, “I have told you the simple truth.” “My dear boy,” cries
  the uncle, kissing him, “I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was
  better pleased in my life. If you had been married I should have
  assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad
  matter; but there is a great difference between considering a thing
  which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do.
  Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in
  so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no need of any
  dissuasive arguments.” “How, sir?” replies young Nightingale, “is
  there this difference between having already done an act, and being in
  honour engaged to do it?” “Pugh!” said the uncle, “honour is a
  creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a
  creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they please. Now you
  well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought; even the
  grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man
  who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his sister, or
  daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more
  backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these
  engagements.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” cries Nightingale, “I can never
  think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are
  concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the
  young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should look
  upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of
  all methods, by breaking her heart.” “Break her heart, indeed! no, no,
  Jack,” cries the uncle, “the hearts of women are not so soon broke;
  they are tough, boy, they are tough.” “But, sir,” answered
  Nightingale, “my own affections are engaged, and I never could be
  happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that
  children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that
  you would let my cousin Harriet do so?” “Why, ay,” replied the old
  gentleman, “so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
  wisely.--Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl.”----“Indeed,
  uncle,” cries the other, “I must and will have her.” “You will, young
  gentleman;” said the uncle; “I did not expect such a word from you. I
  should not wonder if you had used such language to your father, who
  hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance which
  a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with you
  upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I know
  how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous
  education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,
  now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything without
  my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her.” “You have
  never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,” said
  Nightingale; “for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would be
  very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her
  inclinations.” “Don't abuse my girl,” answered the old gentleman with
  some emotion; “don't abuse my Harriet. I have brought her up to have
  no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever
  she pleases, I have enured her to a habit of being pleased to do
  whatever I like.” “Pardon, me, sir,” said Nightingale, “I have not the
  least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest
  esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe
  a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me.--But,
  dear sir, let us return to the company; for they will begin to be
  uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle,
  which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her
  mother.” “Oh! you need not fear me,” answered he, “I understand myself
  too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour;
  and in return I must expect another of you.” “There are but few of
  your commands, sir,” said Nightingale, “which I shall not very
  chearfully obey.” “Nay, sir, I ask nothing,” said the uncle, “but the
  honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case
  a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the
  satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong
  folly of my brother, who, in his own opinion, is the wisest man in the
  world.”
  
  Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
  father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
  into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with
  the same decorum which he had before maintained.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  A short chapter, which concludes the book.
  
  
  The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet
  in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as,
  during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated
  his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not
  distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and
  her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.
  
  When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible
  alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their
  last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now
  changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed,
  common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds,
  from June to December.
  
  This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for
  as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and
  to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be
  spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms
  of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter
  remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit
  satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.
  
  Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole
  attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to
  act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
  arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
  no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
  
  From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
  overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
  loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
  payment.
  
  Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off
  his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
  whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
  his engagements.
  
  Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did
  indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
  alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
  his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
  from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding
  that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young
  Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness
  of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.
  
  While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these
  poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him
  that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.----He went immediately
  out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant
  upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such
  dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all
  consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of
  compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery,
  and on that of his unfortunate angel.
  
  What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
  have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
  those will be the subject of the following book.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XV.
  
  IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Too short to need a preface.
  
  
  There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that
  virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this
  world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have
  but one objection, namely, that it is not true.
  
  Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal
  virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the
  business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point;
  for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I
  could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages,
  to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue;
  for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser
  than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to
  constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites,
  those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant
  gratification of every sensual appetite.
  
  But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
  relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
  seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I
  cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness;
  because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with
  all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring
  on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall
  be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by
  the above virtue have brought themselves thither.
  
  I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation,
  as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine
  that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous
  part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from
  destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps
  cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely
  miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
  
  This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it
  was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many
  other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it
  is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are
  convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the
  noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of
  immortality.
  
  But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
  hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
  
  
  I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are
  doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this
  quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
  but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy
  do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may
  suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and
  attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
  
  This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all
  the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
  indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
  lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
  resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long
  before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented
  itself to her.
  
  The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
  into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
  set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him,
  that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who
  had very safely conducted her to her chair.
  
  This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than
  once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a
  very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more
  amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that
  he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in
  love with her.
  
  It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
  occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now
  offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
  prompted him to pay her a visit.
  
  The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia,
  with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm
  from her last night's adventure.
  
  As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a
  flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now
  flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in
  company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had
  made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have
  alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
  present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of
  her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make
  any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were
  rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence,
  even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the very reverse
  of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.
  
  Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first
  arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things
  went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time
  she saw this young couple together. This business, she rightly I think
  concluded, that she should by no means forward by mixing in the
  company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants,
  that when my lord was going, they should tell him she desired to speak
  with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to
  accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would
  very readily embrace the execution of.
  
  Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
  sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the
  following strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my
  servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see
  you about an affair of some importance.”----“Indeed, Lady Bellaston,”
   said he, “I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my
  visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had
  staid above half-a-one.”----“What am I to conclude from thence, my
  lord?” said she. “The company must be very agreeable which can make
  time slide away so very deceitfully.”----“Upon my honour,” said he,
  “the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is
  this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a
  sudden?”----“What blazing star, my lord?” said she, affecting a
  surprize. “I mean,” said he, “the lady I saw here the other day, whom
  I had last night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been
  making that unreasonable visit.”----“O, my cousin Western!” said she;
  “why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby
  squire, and hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first
  time.”----“Upon my soul,” said he, “I should swear she had been bred
  up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so
  genteel, so sensible, so polite.”----“O brave!” cries the lady, “my
  cousin hath you, I find.”----“Upon my honour,” answered he, “I wish
  she had; for I am in love with her to distraction.”----“Nay, my
  lord,” said she, “it is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for
  she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and
  her father's estate is a good £3000 a-year.” “Then I can assure you,
  madam,” answered the lord, “I think her the best match in England.”
   “Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I heartily wish you
  had her.” “If you think so kindly of me, madam,” said he, “as she is
  a relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her
  father?” “And are you really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with
  an affected gravity. “I hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better
  opinion of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an
  affair of this kind.” “Indeed, then,” said the lady, “I will most
  readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe,
  assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a
  bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will
  never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who,
  though I blush to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever
  be able to conquer.” “Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he, “you
  have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of
  being.” “Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should rather hope I had struck
  fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather
  imagined you would have asked your rival's name, that you might have
  immediately entered the lists with him.” “I promise you, madam,”
   answered he, “there are very few things I would not undertake for
  your charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?”--“Why, he
  is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say most happy men with us are,
  one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a
  foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your
  lordship's footmen.” “And is it possible,” cried he, “that a young
  creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so
  unworthily?” “Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider the
  country--the bane of all young women is the country. There they learn
  a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, which
  this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a whole winter.”
   “Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is of too immense a
  value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented.”
   “Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have
  already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think,
  intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. And to deal
  more openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with
  him.” “What you tell me, Lady Bellaston,” answered his lordship,
  “affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of
  lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to
  preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship endeavoured to
  reason with her?” Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My dear
  lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman
  out of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the
  jewels they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure
  their folly; but this is a medicine which I am certain she will not
  take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. In short, nothing
  but violent methods will do.” “What is to be done?” cries my lord;
  “what methods are to be taken?--Is there any method upon earth?--Oh!
  Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such
  a reward.”----“I really know not,” answered the lady, after a pause;
  and then pausing again, she cried out--“Upon my soul, I am at my
  wit's end on this girl's account.--If she can be preserved, something
  must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods
  will do.----If your lordship hath really this attachment to my cousin
  (and to do her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which
  she will soon see her folly, she is every way deserving), I think
  there may be one way, indeed, it is a very disagreeable one, and what
  I am almost afraid to think of.--It requires a great spirit, I
  promise you.” “I am not conscious, madam,” said he, “of any defect
  there; nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an
  egregious defect indeed, which could make me backward on this
  occasion.” “Nay, my lord,” answered she, “I am so far from doubting
  you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run
  a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such a confidence in your
  honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on any
  consideration.” In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied
  her; for his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him
  no more than justice, in speaking well of him. “Well, then,” said
  she, “my lord,--I--I vow, I can't bear the apprehension of it.--No,
  it must not be.----At least every other method shall be tried. Can
  you get rid of your engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship
  will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss Western.--I
  promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady
  Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they
  will all go soon--and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your
  lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some
  method to convince you of her attachment to this fellow.” My lord
  made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they
  parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or to reckon
  by the old style, in the afternoon.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  A further explanation of the foregoing design.
  
  
  Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a
  member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in
  reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which
  appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society
  which not long since flourished in this kingdom.
  
  Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there
  was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club
  of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the
  members should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that
  every member should, within the twenty-four hours, tell at least one
  merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren and
  sisterhood.
  
  Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain
  quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the
  society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he
  sat in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but,
  upon very strict enquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any
  of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of
  very good sort of people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a
  harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good humour.
  
  Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him
  therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her
  purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever
  the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be till the evening,
  when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and
  while they were engaged in a rubber at whist.
  
  To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening,
  we will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss
  Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of
  their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I
  protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us
  all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than
  if you lived out of it.”
  
  Mr Edwards then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, madam: it
  lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking
  of.----O la! though now I think on't there hath a terrible accident
  befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.----Poor Ned.----You know him, my lord,
  everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him.”
  
  “What is it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston.
  
  “Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all.”
  
  His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had
  killed? To which Edwards answered, “A young fellow we none of us know;
  a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near
  relation of one Mr Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath
  heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.--Upon my soul, he is
  one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!”
  
  Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was
  killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories
  of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter
  part of the story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three
  cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a third, at last dropt
  the rest from her hand, and fell back in her chair.
  
  The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual
  disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at
  last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at
  her earnest desire, led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's
  request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth, attempted to
  carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated
  assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught
  him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.
  
  There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how
  justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and
  now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two
  noble persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to
  his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully resolved too,
  to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage),
  yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation.
  
  The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when
  Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship
  should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for
  the purpose, most of the servants despatched out of the house; and for
  Mrs Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her
  mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to
  engage her in an apartment as distant as possible from the scene of
  the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.
  
  Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her
  ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she
  had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually
  to remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with
  Jones, by a means of which she should never appear to be guilty, even
  if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of
  preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the
  ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which all
  the rest of her family would rejoice.
  
  But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other
  conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly
  described by Shakespear--
  
        “Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
        And the first motion, all the interim is
        Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
        The genius and the mortal instruments
        Are then in council; and the state of man,
        Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
        The nature of an insurrection.”----
  
  Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the
  first hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation of
  the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the
  action itself in all its natural black colours before his eyes, with
  all the consequences which must, and those which might probably attend
  it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the
  other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night,
  between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he
  determined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.
  
  Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia
  sitting by her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord
  Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him
  to stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no
  sooner departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her cousin not to
  encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a
  little unjustly) upon her account. “I see his design,” said she; “for
  he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am resolved
  never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together
  any more, and to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may
  be always denied to him.”
  
  “La! child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls have nothing but
  sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is civil to you is
  making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows about town,
  and I am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make love to
  you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be an
  arrant mad woman to refuse him.”
  
  “But as I shall certainly be that mad woman,” cries Sophia, “I hope
  his visits shall not be intruded upon me.”
  
  “O child!” said Lady Bellaston, “you need not be so fearful; if you
  resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who can hinder
  you.”
  
  “Upon my honour, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship injures me. I
  will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my
  father's inclinations.”
  
  “Well, Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you are not in a humour to
  see company this morning, you may retire to your own apartment; for I
  am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him up into my
  dressing-room.”
  
  Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently afterwards
  Fellamar was admitted upstairs.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she
  applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
  
  
  When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's scruples, she treated them
  with the same disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called
  Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young
  witness. “My dear lord,” said she, “you certainly want a cordial. I
  must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie upon it! have
  more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or are you
  apprehensive----? Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I should
  think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of
  the lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is another story
  of the Sabine ladies--and that too, I thank heaven, is very antient.
  Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook
  tells us, they made tolerable good wives afterwards. I fancy few of my
  married acquaintance were ravished by their husbands.” “Nay, dear Lady
  Bellaston,” cried he, “don't ridicule me in this manner.” “Why, my
  good lord,” answered she, “do you think any woman in England would not
  laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she might wear in her
  countenance?----You force me to use a strange kind of language, and to
  betray my sex most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my
  intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to serve my cousin;
  for I think you will make her a husband notwithstanding this; or, upon
  my soul, I would not even persuade her to fling herself away upon an
  empty title. She should not upbraid me hereafter with having lost a
  man of spirit; for that his enemies allow this poor young fellow to
  be.”
  
  Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this
  kind from a wife or a mistress, declare whether they are at all
  sweetened by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk
  deeper into his lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero
  could have said on the occasion.
  
  Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord's pride, began
  now, like a true orator, to rouse other passions to its assistance.
  “My lord,” says she, in a graver voice, “you will be pleased to
  remember, you mentioned this matter to me first; for I would not
  appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put off my
  cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need of an
  advocate to recommend them.” “Nor doth Miss Western,” said he,
  “require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion, no
  woman ever had half her charms.” “Yes, yes, my lord,” replied the
  lady, looking in the glass, “there have been women with more than half
  her charms, I assure you; not that I need lessen her on that account:
  she is a most delicious girl, that's certain; and within these few
  hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth not deserve her,
  though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a man of
  spirit.”
  
  “I hope so, madam,” said my lord; “though I must own he doth not
  deserve her; for, unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me, she
  shall within that time be in mine.”
  
  “Well spoken, my lord,” answered the lady; “I promise you no
  disappointment shall happen from my side; and within this week I am
  convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public.”
  
  The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses,
  and compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but
  rather dull when related at second hand. Here, therefore, we shall put
  an end to this dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything
  was prepared for the destruction of poor Sophia.
  
  But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall
  treat it in a chapter by itself.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may
  surprize, the reader.
  
  
  The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy,
  sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she was now come
  to that part where the poor distrest Isabella disposes of her
  wedding-ring.
  
  Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into
  her bosom. In this situation she had continued a minute, when the door
  opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at
  his entrance; and his lordship advancing forwards, and making a low
  bow, said, “I am afraid, Miss Western, I break in upon you abruptly.”
   “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a little surprized at
  this unexpected visit.” “If this visit be unexpected, madam,” answered
  Lord Fellamar, “my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters of
  my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely you
  could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your possession,
  without receiving a visit from its owner.” Sophia, confused as she
  was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think) with a look of
  inconceivable disdain. My lord then made another and a longer speech
  of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling, said, “Am I really to
  conceive your lordship to be out of your senses? Sure, my lord, there
  is no other excuse for such behaviour.” “I am, indeed, madam, in the
  situation you suppose,” cries his lordship; “and sure you will pardon
  the effects of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned; for love
  hath so totally deprived me of reason, that I am scarce accountable
  for any of my actions.” “Upon my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I
  neither understand your words nor your behaviour.” “Suffer me then,
  madam,” cries he, “at your feet to explain both, by laying open my
  soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you to the highest degree of
  distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature! what language can
  express the sentiments of my heart?” “I do assure you, my lord,” said
  Sophia, “I shall not stay to hear any more of this.” “Do not,” cries
  he, “think of leaving me thus cruelly; could you know half the
  torments which I feel, that tender bosom must pity what those eyes
  have caused.” Then fetching a deep sigh, and laying hold of her hand,
  he ran on for some minutes in a strain which would be little more
  pleasing to the reader than it was to the lady; and at last concluded
  with a declaration, “That if he was master of the world, he would lay
  it at her feet.” Sophia then, forcibly pulling away her hand from his,
  answered with much spirit, “I promise you, sir, your world and its
  master I should spurn from me with equal contempt.” She then offered
  to go; and Lord Fellamar, again laying hold of her hand, said, “Pardon
  me, my beloved angel, freedoms which nothing but despair could have
  tempted me to take.----Believe me, could I have had any hope that my
  title and fortune, neither of them inconsiderable, unless when
  compared with your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the
  humblest manner, presented them to your acceptance.----But I cannot
  lose you.--By heaven, I will sooner part with my soul!--You are, you
  must, you shall be only mine.” “My lord,” says she, “I intreat you to
  desist from a vain pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you
  on this subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from
  you this moment; nor will I ever see you more.” “Then, madam,” cries
  his lordship, “I must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot
  live, nor will I live without you.”----“What do you mean, my lord?”
   said Sophia; “I will raise the family.” “I have no fear, madam,”
   answered he, “but of losing you, and that I am resolved to prevent,
  the only way which despair points to me.”--He then caught her in his
  arms: upon which she screamed so loud, that she must have alarmed some
  one to her assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all
  ears.
  
  But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise
  now broke forth, which almost drowned her cries; for now the whole
  house rang with, “Where is she? D--n me, I'll unkennel her this
  instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know
  she's in the house, and I'll see her if she's above-ground. Show me
  where she is.”--At which last words the door flew open, and in came
  Squire Western, with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels.
  
  How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the
  enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it
  was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident upon earth
  which could have preserved the peace of her mind from being for ever
  destroyed.
  
  Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father's voice;
  and his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice of
  reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the
  perpetration of his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach,
  and hearing likewise whose it was (for as the squire more than once
  roared forth the word daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of her
  struggling, cried out upon her father), he thought proper to
  relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and with
  his rude lips committed violence on her lovely neck.
  
  If the reader's imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able
  to describe the situation of these two persons when Western came into
  the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat disordered,
  pale, breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord Fellamar;
  affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her father.
  
  His lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hanging over
  one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered,
  and rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at
  his bosom. As to the rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and
  ashamed.
  
  As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an
  enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake,
  most of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally
  speaking, drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural
  impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his running
  immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue
  in the most inveterate manner; nay, he had probably committed violence
  with his hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, “For heaven's
  sake, sir, animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let
  me beg you to mitigate your wrath; it should minister a fulness of
  satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to revenge, it
  belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the countenance
  of the young lady. I stand assured, if you will forgive her, she will
  repent her of all past offences, and return unto her duty.”
  
  The strength of the parson's arms had at first been of more service
  than the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words wrought
  some effect, and the squire answered, “I'll forgee her if she wull ha
  un. If wot ha un, Sophy, I'll forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak?
  Shat ha un! d--n me, shat ha un! Why dost unt answer? Was ever such a
  stubborn tuoad?”
  
  “Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said the
  parson; “you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive her of all
  power of utterance.”
  
  “Power of mine a--,” answered the squire. “You take her part then,
  you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful child! Yes,
  yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I'll gee un to the devil
  sooner.”
  
  “I humbly crave your pardon,” said the parson; “I assure your worship
  I meant no such matter.”
  
  My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who
  no sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of his
  sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid
  her some of his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded to his
  complaints, and said, “There, my lady cousin; there stands the most
  undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and
  won't marry one of the greatest matches in all England, that we have
  provided for her.”
  
  “Indeed, cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am persuaded you wrong
  my cousin. I am sure she hath a better understanding. I am convinced
  she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much to her
  advantage.”
  
  This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr
  Western meant; though perhaps she thought he would easily be
  reconciled to his lordship's proposals.
  
  “Do you hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her ladyship says? All
  your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a good girl, and be
  dutiful, and make your father happy.”
  
  “If my death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia, “you will
  shortly be so.”
  
  “It's a lye, Sophy; it's a d--n'd lye, and you know it,” said the
  squire.
  
  “Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure your father;
  he hath nothing in view but your interest in this match; and I and all
  your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to your family
  in the proposal.”
  
  “Ay, all of us,” quoth the squire; “nay, it was no proposal of mine.
  She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first.--Come, Sophy, once
  more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent before
  your cousin.”
  
  “Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It is the fashion
  now-a-days to dispense with time and long courtships.”
  
  “Pugh!” said the squire, “what signifies time; won't they have time
  enough to court afterwards? People may court very well after they have
  been a-bed together.”
  
  As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady
  Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he
  made no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up, therefore,
  to the squire, he said, “Though I have not the honour, sir, of being
  personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the happiness to have
  my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in behalf of the young
  lady, that she may not be more solicited at this time.”
  
  “You intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the devil are you?”
  
  “Sir, I am Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the happy man whom I
  hope you have done the honour of accepting for a son-in-law.”
  
  “You are a son of a b----,” replied the squire, “for all your laced
  coat. You my son-in-law, and be d--n'd to you!”
  
  “I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man,” answered the
  lord; “but I must inform you that I am not used to hear such language
  without resentment.”
  
  “Resent my a--,” quoth the squire. “Don't think I am afraid of such a
  fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there dangling at thy
  side. Lay by your spit, and I'll give thee enough of meddling with
  what doth not belong to thee. I'll teach you to father-in-law me. I'll
  lick thy jacket.”
  
  “It's very well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no disturbance
  before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble servant, sir;
  Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.”
  
  His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr
  Western, said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not whom
  you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune,
  and yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as I am sure
  you must accept with the highest pleasure.”
  
  “Answer for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I will have
  nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall have an honest
  country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her--and she shall ha'
  un.--I am sorry for the trouble she hath given your ladyship with all
  my heart.” Lady Bellaston made a civil speech upon the word trouble;
  to which the squire answered--“Why, that's kind--and I would do as
  much for your ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one
  another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.--Come, madam, you must
  go along with me by fair means, or I'll have you carried down to the
  coach.”
  
  Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a
  chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any other way.
  
  “Prithee,” cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst not ride in a
  coach, wouldst? That's a pretty thing surely! No, no, I'll never let
  thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise thee.”
   Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. “O break
  thy heart and be d--n'd,” quoth he, “if a good husband will break it.
  I don't value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of any undutiful b--
  upon earth.” He then took violent hold of her hand; upon which the
  parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle methods. At
  that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson hold his
  tongue, saying, “At'nt in pulpit now? when art a got up there I never
  mind what dost say; but I won't be priest-ridden, nor taught how to
  behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good-night. Come along,
  Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha' un, d--n me,
  shat ha' un!”
  
  Mrs Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire
  offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Hold,
  madam, hold, you come no more near my house.” “And will you take my
  maid away from me?” said Sophia. “Yes, indeed, madam, will I,” cries
  the squire: “you need not fear being without a servant; I will get you
  another maid, and a better maid than this, who, I'd lay five pounds to
  a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy, she shall
  contrive no more escapes, I promise you.” He then packed up his
  daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he mounted
  himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither
  he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a
  lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his
  betters.
  
  It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter
  from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have detained her;
  but, in reality, she was not a little pleased with the confinement
  into which Sophia was going; and as her project with Lord Fellamar had
  failed of success, she was well contented that other violent methods
  were now going to be used in favour of another man.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
  
  
  Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more
  unaccountable appearances than this of Mr Western, without any
  satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever it
  is in our power, we shall now proceed to shew by what method the
  squire discovered where his daughter was.
  
  In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for
  it is not our custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for
  the occasion) that Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of
  reconciling her uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable
  opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from committing the
  same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family. After
  much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western
  where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the following letter,
  which we shall give the reader at length, for more reasons than one.
  
    “HONOURED MADAM,
  
    “The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine
    agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though
    I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of
    another.
  
    “Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at
    your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin
    Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,
    though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy
    me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of
    running into the same fatal mischief, which, by foolishly and
    ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have
    unfortunately brought on myself.
  
    “In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yesterday in
    his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By
    what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you
    now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest
    he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know
    where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath
    secured her.----No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only
    inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,
    and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family.
    You know, madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome
    me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great
    understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely
    informing you of the matter of fact.
  
    “I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the
    good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
    who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
    interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to
    your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and
    is so necessary to my future happiness.
  
               “I am,
                   with the utmost respect,
                      honoured madam,
                         your most dutiful obliged niece,
                             and most obedient humble
                                   servant,
                                        HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”
  
  Mrs Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided ever
  since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor
  squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him
  in daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.
  
  She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of
  snuff in her hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort
  to the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received
  the above letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it
  to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep.
  Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by
  my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her.”
  
  The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his
  chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He
  then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the
  Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and that parson
  Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to
  his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace,
  saying, “Zounds! you don't seem pleased; one would imagine you was
  sorry I have found the girl.”
  
  “Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to the
  bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from what
  swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less
  desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth
  was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in
  this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want.
  There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady
  Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior,
  I am afraid, to yours.”
  
  “Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my parts;
  but I'll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I
  have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge of
  warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever I
  can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don't know how to come
  at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be
  justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”
  
  “I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of this
  matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so
  good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a
  woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of
  the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive in
  town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother,
  you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your
  compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When
  you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have
  told her your story, and have made proper use of my name (for I think
  you just know one another only by sight, though you are relations), I
  am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath
  certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method.--Justices of
  peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of
  figure in a civilised nation?”
  
  “D--n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised nation,
  truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending a
  parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a
  daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so
  ignorant as you think me----I know you would have women above the law,
  but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is
  above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”
  
  “Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in ignorance.----I
  protest you are grown an arrant bear.”
  
  “No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the
  squire.--“Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure
  you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though
  I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I
  will show you I have got more good manners than some folks.”
  
  “Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you please, _je
  vous mesprise de tout mon coeur._ I shall not therefore be
  angry.----Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly
  says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my
  family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I
  have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed,
  indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite
  court.--Greenland--Greenland should always be the scene of the
  tramontane negociation.”
  
  “I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don't understand you now. You
  are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to
  be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what
  I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have
  always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now
  and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my
  part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to
  London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not
  stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected
  to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied
  that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute
  that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a
  pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me.”--“Which I
  promise you,” says she, “I never will.”--“Well, and I promise you,”
   returned he, “that I never will dispute the t'other.”
  
  Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)
  between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the
  horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to
  follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.
  
  But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they
  both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be
  dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in
  the manner we have already seen.
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
  
  
  Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs
  Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before
  seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:--
  
  “O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone,
  sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone.” “Hath anything
  happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like a madman. “All that is
  bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that
  I should ever live to see this day!” At these words Jones turned pale
  as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on--“O! Mr Jones, I
  have lost my lady for ever.” “How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me.
  O, my dear Sophia!” “You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was
  the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another
  place.”----“D--n your place!” cries Jones; “where is--what--what is
  become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to be sure,” cries she, “servants may be
  d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are
  turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh
  and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what
  becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones,
  “I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To
  be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me,” answered
  Honour; “I don't d--n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in
  the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to
  be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress----”
   “What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.
  “What?--What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could have happened
  both for you and for me.--Her father is come to town, and hath carried
  her away from us both.” Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving
  that it was no worse. “No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be
  worse for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry
  Mr Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am turned out
  of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me
  out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had
  happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her
  married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are
  hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be
  married by actual brutal force.” “To be sure, sir,” said she, “that's
  true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are
  there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer
  all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is
  for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs
  Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and
  will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas!
  sir,” said she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one
  place but the getting another altogether as good?” “Do not despair,
  Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to reinstate you again in the same.”
   “Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I flatter myself with such
  hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set
  against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I
  now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
  gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you
  as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because
  as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must
  see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people
  who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness
  don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough
  for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the
  pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am
  convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is
  to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all
  the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I
  wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the
  squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter
  contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the
  squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good
  sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the
  squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.
  To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the
  squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be
  melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are
  sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will
  be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am terribly
  afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a
  prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady
  will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a
  chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If
  I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock me up,
  I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him; but then there's a great
  fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give
  her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference.”
  
  Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or
  whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot
  determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once
  stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that
  the great lady was upon the stairs.
  
  Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour
  knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady
  Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he
  would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is
  common enough) the worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the
  lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose
  the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but
  just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.
  
  The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his
  poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour,
  and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of
  Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head;
  so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the part of a sick
  man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness
  of his countenance, would have at all supported.
  
  He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires
  than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in
  his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the
  least disorder.
  
  Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself
  down on the bed: “So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find nothing can
  detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I
  have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your
  distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you
  have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see
  company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I intend to scold
  you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a
  husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife.”
  
  “Nay, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your ladyship will not
  upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who,
  my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment
  last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and
  languish?”
  
  “Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” cried she. “If you knew the
  occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive
  what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of
  fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however,
  all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm; for you never
  looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this
  instant sit for the picture of Adonis.”
  
  There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can
  properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may
  be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the
  compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this
  kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady
  conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her
  tongue.
  
  Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable
  and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison
  we made use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady,
  Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it,
  in the presence of a third person; seconds in this kind of duels not
  being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to
  Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any other woman being there but
  herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from
  Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a
  distance, and, not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at all.
  Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this
  scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had
  already changed colour two or three times; had got up from the bed and
  sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him,
  or the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident freed him from
  an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor
  the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter
  disgrace.
  
  This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk;
  or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use
  of their reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.
  
  Mrs Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking
  his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones's
  chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and was
  entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his seat and
  ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale never
  came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed.
  
  Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in
  which himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in,
  often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones,
  however, prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of
  Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his master's
  assistance.
  
  And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment,
  where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston
  venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same
  time saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which
  in a lady of a tender constitution would have been an hysteric fit.
  
  In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men,
  of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard
  Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted
  to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion
  she found already occupied by another.
  
  “Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady.--“Basest of
  men?----What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?” “Wretch!”
   cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of
  concealment--“Marry come up!----Wretch forsooth?----as poor a wretch
  as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks who are richer can
  say.”
  
  Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of
  Mrs Honour's resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have
  done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most
  unfortunate man in the world; and presently after, addressing himself
  to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd protestations of
  innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her
  reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially
  on such occasions, calmly replied: “Sir, you need make no apologies, I
  see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: but now
  I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure
  she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions upon
  my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be in my
  power to be much more hereafter.”
  
  Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing,
  therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened
  hers.----“I'm sure, madam,” says she, “I have been always ready to
  acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure I never had so
  good a friend as your ladyship----and to be sure, now I see it is your
  ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off for very
  mad.--I constructions upon your ladyship--to be sure it doth not
  become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady--I mean I
  was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more
  miserable wretch is me.--I have lost the best mistress----” Here
  Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears.--“Don't cry, child,”
   says the good lady; “ways perhaps may be found to make you amends.
  Come to me to-morrow morning.” She then took up her fan which lay on
  the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically
  out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of
  women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in
  circumstances of this nature.
  
  Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she
  absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any
  notice of him as he stood bowing before her.
  
  At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs
  Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had
  undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady;
  on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found
  means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of
  most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour
  to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings
  of the squire.
  
  Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs
  Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge
  from experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not
  only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper
  it about till it come to the ears of every one except the ignorant
  person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publickly
  known.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Short and sweet.
  
  
  Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs
  Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for
  the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber.
  These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed
  truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself,
  that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition
  of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past, excused
  it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same
  disturbances into the house.
  
  But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in
  private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned
  downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being
  indeed to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give
  her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as
  sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives
  a wife in so imprudent a manner.
  
  And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this
  young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the
  condition in which we have seen him the night before.
  
  Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly
  to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and
  partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his
  purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so
  briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not
  much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of
  disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely
  finished.
  
  Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed
  for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so
  entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all
  consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken
  up with his own concerns.
  
  This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had
  taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and
  had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though
  her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth
  nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour
  even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had
  never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.
  
  Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost
  confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and,
  having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly
  left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.
  
  The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to
  bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible
  that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices
  tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant,
  who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied;
  and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had
  staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.
  
  This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew
  not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the
  mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a
  hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss
  Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor
  mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of
  all human beings.
  
  And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and
  her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to
  his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his
  folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest
  some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he
  did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from
  being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very
  considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.
  
  To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly
  say with him in Terence, _Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto_.
  He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of
  any one; and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion
  as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the
  instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of
  wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great
  felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to
  themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading
  through the deepest iniquity.
  
  Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps
  think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others
  may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as
  impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to
  bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable
  catastrophe.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  Containing love-letters of several sorts.
  
  
  Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his
  table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.
  
                                LETTER I.
  
    “Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
    resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
    night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
    hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
    that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
    can invent.----Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
    to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
    excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too----I will
    think no more.----Come to me directly.----This is the third letter I
    have writ, the two former are burnt----I am almost inclined to burn
    this too----I wish I may preserve my senses.----Come to me
    presently.”
  
                                LETTER II.
  
    “If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
    doors, come to me this instant.”
  
                               LETTER III.
  
    “I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
    The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;
    nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
    you long.”
  
  Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came
  into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston,
  after last night's adventure?” (for it was now no secret to any one in
  that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones
  very gravely.----“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don't be so
  reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last
  night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the
  queen of the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at
  the masquerade?” said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said
  Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you
  seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly.
  I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not
  so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person.
  Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young
  fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe
  me.”
  
  Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the
  vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant
  of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no
  knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that
  is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the
  name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies
  will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole
  town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.
  
  When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted
  with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy
  as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion,
  he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak
  plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.
  
  Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate
  in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle.
  He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from
  Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady;
  which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we
  have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We
  would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future
  commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of
  forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never
  entered into our head.
  
  Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say,
  fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why,
  thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have
  affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O my dear
  friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know
  not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am
  under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much,
  I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her,
  that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I
  possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty
  of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me
  than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which
  few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.”
   “And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale.
  “Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her
  reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not
  clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body,
  consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the
  universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities,
  that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her
  beauty but when I see it.”--“And can you, my good friend,” cries
  Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands,
  hesitate a moment about quitting such a--” “Hold,” said Jones, “no
  more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!”
   answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath
  conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where
  she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently
  bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his
  gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and
  told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the
  truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast
  of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he
  began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than
  benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own
  conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust,
  his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue,
  her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all
  his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still
  more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself
  out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her,
  would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he
  could but find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his
  friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my
  boy! I have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I
  would venture hanging upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay,
  propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare off in
  a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the
  offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”
  
  Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said
  he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from
  another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then?
  caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;” answered
  Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at
  any time get out of the trap.”----“What expedient can that be?”
   replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I
  mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the
  world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done
  him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight
  of her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and
  declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should really be willing
  to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”
  
  After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance,
  consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the
  matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale
  dictated:--
  
    “MADAM,
  
    “I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement
    abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's
    commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
    of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
    misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear
    your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There
    is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
    permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
    my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
    feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made
    completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right
    of calling you mine for ever.--I am,
  
        madam,
           with most profound respect,
                your ladyship's most obliged,
                     obedient, humble servant,
                                        THOMAS JONES.”
  
  To this she presently returned the following answer:
  
    “SIR,
  
    “When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness
    and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you
    mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous
    animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or
    do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my
    senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in
    order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are
    these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for--?
    but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your
    profound respect.
  
    “P.S. I am prevented from revising:----Perhaps I have said more than
    I meant.----Come to me at eight this evening.”
  
  Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:
  
    “MADAM,
  
    “It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion
    you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a
    man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she
    treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,
    madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,
    overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think
    of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could
    not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when
    discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your
    opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning
    those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to
    receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall
    ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he
    had concluded the former letter.
  
  The lady answered as follows:
  
    “I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you
    come here I shall not be at home.”
  
  Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom
  which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to
  be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his
  mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who
  utterly detested every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor would
  he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been
  involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be guilty
  of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and surely the
  reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded
  strongly in favour of Sophia.
  
  Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which
  he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He
  answered, “Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on
  each other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the
  loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in
  the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England.”
  
  The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller,
  who performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents
  to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she
  ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole
  soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words,
  and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and
  even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her
  consideration.
  
  Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we
  have had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its
  contents in our next.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them.
  
  
  The letter then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was
  from Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to come
  immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be
  accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for
  himself, and the second for his nephew.
  
  The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance
  of the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did
  indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match
  with her daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of
  doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the
  other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr
  Allworthy, after all the obligations received from him, for depriving
  him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due; for that
  gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted
  by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous
  people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not
  only from the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly
  used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by every other
  method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the favours he
  conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When he
  settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs Miller, he told
  her, “it was in consideration of always having her first-floor when he
  was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might
  let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's
  warning.” He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he
  had no opportunity of giving such notice; and this hurry probably
  prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were
  then empty; for he would most certainly have been well satisfied to
  have relinquished them, on a less sufficient excuse than what Mrs
  Miller could now have made.
  
  But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well
  remarks, direct their conduct by something
  
        Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
        Of vice and virtue in the schools,
        Beyond the letter of the law.
  
  To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would
  acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented,
  though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them.
  Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of
  their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they
  mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid
  of a ghost, or of the hangman.
  
  Mrs Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at
  this letter; with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted
  the company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her
  good angel, presently relieved her anxiety. “As for myself, madam,”
   said he, “my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning; and Mr
  Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to
  receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither
  Mrs Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal
  both husband and wife instantly agreed.
  
  The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began
  again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may
  be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last
  speech called her daughter Mrs Nightingale (it being the first time
  that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave the fond mother
  more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his
  having dissipated her present anxiety.
  
  The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married
  couple, and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the
  same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was
  again restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all
  except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their
  mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which
  were not a little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil's coming to town
  (for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and what greatly
  aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to
  inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him early the next
  evening, had disappointed him.
  
  In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there
  were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good
  news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected
  she would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia,
  and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from
  that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to
  know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains;
  or whether he still flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will
  not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot
  but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our
  minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the
  midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities,
  are quite overlooked by it; so that to any man extremely in love, may
  be applied what Addison says of Caesar,
  
        “The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”
  
  Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make
  mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but
  these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper
  Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact
  information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours
  in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his
  uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made
  him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs
  Honour, with which we shall present the reader _verbatim et
  literatim._
  
    “SIR,
  
    “I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
    itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
    very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
    anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
    to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
    as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
    thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
    pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
    harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
    thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
    a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
    to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
    respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
    tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
    sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
    gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
    never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
    ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
    cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
    no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
    in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
    sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
    cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
    miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
    matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
    one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
    belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,
  
                                     “HONOUR BLACKMORE.”
  
  Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of
  Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to
  secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she
  chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but
  mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though
  that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated
  it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as
  she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a
  reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our
  heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.
  
  While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand
  dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined
  to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto
  seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a
  new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his
  way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he
  should be able to resist.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
  
  
  There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house
  where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and
  indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty,
  for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only
  inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by
  her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great
  fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but
  not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve
  years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very
  rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had
  past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular
  friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of
  which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm
  constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely
  necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself
  in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From
  her the following billet was brought to Jones:--
  
    “SIR,
  
    “From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
    plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
    nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
    family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
    told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
    are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
    also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
    understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
    fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
    so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
    the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
    the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
    me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
    woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
    the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
    let this remain an eternal secret between you and
  
                                     “ARABELLA HUNT.”
  
  At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His
  fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which
  hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady
  Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning he
  had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable
  mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes
  ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense,
  from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much
  against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's
  fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have
  no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as
  well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and
  marry another, that was impossible; he could not think of it upon any
  account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be
  his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer
  engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in
  friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had
  almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but
  that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of
  nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to
  love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows
  to Mrs Hunt:--
  
    “MADAM,
  
    “It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
    sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
    certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
    from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
    think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
    another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
    though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
    return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
    give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
    starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
    to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
    effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
    more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
    grateful humble servant,
  
                                        “T. JONES.”
  
  When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his
  scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and
  then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of
  mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty
  thousand pounds.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  A discovery made by Partridge.
  
  
  While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity,
  Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he
  brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been
  despatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by
  the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover
  whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a
  joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. “I
  have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of
  the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him
  presently, though I have not seen him these several years; but you
  know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he
  hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It
  was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me.”
   “Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do you know of
  my Sophia?” “You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am
  coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would
  come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I
  was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my
  face.”--“Confound your face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay,
  sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than
  what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before
  this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you
  will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out
  of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left
  Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand
  years.”--“Well, pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are
  resolved to make me mad I find.” “Not for the world,” answered
  Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said,
  I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.” “Well,
  but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a
  long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much
  altered since I saw him. _Non sum qualis eram._ I have had troubles in
  the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it
  will change the colour of a man's hair in a night. However, at last,
  know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and
  were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no
  matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their
  learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a
  thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?--O--well, we no sooner
  knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed
  to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was
  some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir,
  I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him
  that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever
  since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to
  your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was
  overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and
  after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so we
  drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you
  the news.”
  
  “What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word of my
  Sophia!” “Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we
  mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me
  all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to her.
  He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before
  he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities
  somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the
  women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not
  for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of
  that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune
  than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes
  after him day and night.”
  
  Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said,
  betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name:
  “Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is sincerely your
  friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said
  he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you; and so I am
  convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you
  have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one
  that would go farther to serve you.”
  
  “Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow, who, I
  believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same
  house with Sophia?”
  
  “In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is one of the
  servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it
  was not for his black beard you would hardly know him.”
  
  “One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure he can
  certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.”
  
  “You have hit the nail _ad unguem_” cries Partridge; “how came I not
  to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first
  mentioning.”
  
  “Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and I will
  write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for
  I suppose you know where to find him.”
  
  “O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him again;
  there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away
  long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays in
  town.”
  
  “So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries
  Jones.
  
  “Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.
  
  “What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.
  
  “The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not
  above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for,
  as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some
  suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too
  cunning for that, I promise you.”
  
  “Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however,
  I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough
  to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”
  
  And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat
  himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a
  time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XVI.
  
  CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Of prologues.
  
  
  I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather
  write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less
  pains write one of the books of this history than the prefatory
  chapter to each of them.
  
  To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on
  the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing
  to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and
  which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath
  had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it stands,
  that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those
  indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the same three
  topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all
  contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to
  be represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied,
  nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at
  the great invention of authors, who have been capable of finding such
  various phrases to express the same thing.
  
  In like manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do
  me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his
  pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first
  established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern
  prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this
  history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other
  history as to this.
  
  But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the
  reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath
  long found in the other.
  
  First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
  opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to
  the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical
  instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full
  concert at the first rising of the curtain.
  
  The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the
  critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as
  a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more
  hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his
  sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters
  are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we have always
  taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order
  to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
  
  Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great
  advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to see
  the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus
  protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer
  allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
  advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of
  the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who
  read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more
  general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which
  not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil,
  of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.
  
  Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they
  are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to
  enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal
  merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed
  situation of Sophia.
  
  
  We must now convey the reader to Mr Western's lodgings, which were in
  Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord
  at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was
  the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in
  those lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited
  himself.
  
  Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her
  from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the
  apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,
  and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very
  material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in
  which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage
  with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
  days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and
  resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her
  father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have
  him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words
  and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
  
  While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the
  closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down
  to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the
  landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make
  an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of the town,
  and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal,
  since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house.
  
  In this agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part
  of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of
  sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time
  Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never come out
  of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor
  did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food,
  on which occasions he always attended himself.
  
  The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at
  breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
  gentleman was below to wait on him.
  
  “A gentleman!” quoth the squire, “who the devil can he be? Do, doctor,
  go down and see who 'tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to town
  yet.--Go down, do, and know what his business is.”
  
  The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man,
  and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army;
  that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver
  to none but Mr Western himself.
  
  “An officer!” cries the squire; “what can any such fellow have to do
  with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice of
  peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.--Let un come up then, if he
  must speak to me.”
  
  A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his
  compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with
  him, delivered himself as follows:--
  
  “Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but
  with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after
  what past the other night.”
  
  “My lord who?” cries the squire; “I never heard the name o'un.”
  
  “His lordship,” said the gentleman, “is willing to impute everything
  to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of that
  kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent
  attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth
  from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you both
  that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be
  able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation
  on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me
  make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
  sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you,
  in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the
  footing of a lover.”
  
  “I don't understand much of what you say, sir,” said the squire; “but
  I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the lord
  which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something
  about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be the
  case--you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl is
  disposed of already.”
  
  “Perhaps, sir,” said the gentleman, “you are not sufficiently apprized
  of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person, title, and
  fortune would be nowhere refused.”
  
  “Lookee, sir,” answered the squire; “to be very plain, my daughter is
  bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord
  upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and
  Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them.”
  
  “Well, sir,” said the gentleman, “if that is your resolution, the
  message I am to deliver to you is that my lord desires the favour of
  your company this morning in Hyde Park.”
  
  “You may tell my lord,” answered the squire, “that I am busy and
  cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir
  abroad on any account.”
  
  “I am sure, sir,” quoth the other, “you are too much a gentleman to
  send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of
  you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
  satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great
  regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way; but
  unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer
  his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered
  him.”
  
  “I offered him!” cries the squire; “it is a d--n'd lie! I never
  offered him anything.”
  
  Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke,
  and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual
  remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr Western, than
  that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,
  bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to
  summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
  
  The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not
  retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the squire's
  vociferation, crying, “Bless me! sir, what's the matter?”--“Matter!”
   quoth the squire, “here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
  and murder me--for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in his
  hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least provocation.”
  
  “How, sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I lyed?”
  
  “No, as I hope to be saved,” answered the squire, “--I believe I might
  say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord--but I
  never said the word, `you lie.'--I understand myself better, and you
  might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
  If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd
  have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this
  minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken
  head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
  belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure.”
  
  The captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are
  below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I
  am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you.” At which words he
  withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping
  him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some
  efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success.
  However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses
  and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips
  till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and
  louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or
  at least did not retard his departure.
  
  Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's
  outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot,
  and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had
  done before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon
  silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his
  daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of
  any harm happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for,
  except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of
  her life was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his
  inclinations.
  
  Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take
  the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as
  soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and
  breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she
  collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by the hand, she
  cryed passionately, “O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I
  hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you.” “No, no,” cries the
  squire, “no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me
  if I don't ha the la o' un.” “Pray, dear sir,” says she, “tell me
  what's the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?” “I don't know
  the name o' un,” answered Western; “some officer fellow, I suppose,
  that we are to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if
  the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he
  was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in
  the world.” “But, dear sir,” cries she, “what was the occasion of your
  quarrel?” “What should it be, Sophy,” answered the squire, “but about
  you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the death of
  your poor father at last. Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord knows
  who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I would
  not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a good girl,
  Sophy, and put an end to all your father's troubles; come, do consent
  to ha un; he will be in town within this day or two; do but promise me
  to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest man
  in the world, and I will make you the happiest woman; you shall have
  the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach and
  six at your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my
  estate--od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole.”
   “Will my papa be so kind,” says she, “as to hear me speak?”--“Why wout
  ask, Sophy?” cries he, “when dost know I had rather hear thy voice
  than the musick of the best pack of dogs in England.--Hear thee, my
  dear little girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I
  was ever to lose that pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live
  a moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed
  you don't, or you never could have run away and left your poor father,
  who hath no other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little
  Sophy.” At these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with
  the tears streaming from hers) answered, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know
  you have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I
  have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension
  of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a
  father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with pleasure,
  sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to reason
  myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution to
  endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your
  inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force
  my mind; nor can I ever.” Here the squire began to look wild, and the
  foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard
  out, and then proceeded: “If my father's life, his health, or any real
  happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved daughter; may
  heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve
  you!--No, that most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I
  embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake.”--“I tell thee,
  it will preserve me,” answers the father; “it will give me health,
  happiness, life, everything.--Upon my soul I shall die if dost refuse
  me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul.”--“Is it possible,”
   says she, “you can have such a desire to make me miserable?”--“I tell
  thee noa,” answered he loudly, “d--n me if there is a thing upon earth
  I would not do to see thee happy.”--“And will not my dear papa allow
  me to have the least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true
  that happiness consists in opinion, what must be my condition, when I
  shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth?”
   “Better think yourself so,” said he, “than know it by being married to
  a poor bastardly vagabond.” “If it will content you, sir,” said
  Sophia, “I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him,
  nor any other, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me
  dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be again your poor
  Sophy, and my whole business and pleasure be, as it hath been, to
  please and divert you.” “Lookee, Sophy,” answered the squire, “I am
  not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would then have
  reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I'd have you to
  know I have a got more wisdom, and know more of the world, than to
  take the word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned.” “How,
  sir, have I deserved this want of confidence?” said she; “have I ever
  broke a single promise to you? or have I ever been found guilty of a
  falsehood from my cradle?” “Lookee, Sophy,” cries he; “that's neither
  here nor there. I am determined upon this match, and have him you
  shall, d--n me if shat unt. D--n me if shat unt, though dost hang
  thyself the next morning.” At repeating which words he clinched his
  fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so loud, that the
  poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair, and,
  had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps worse
  had followed.
  
  Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more
  contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the
  agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewel of her
  condemned husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same
  emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his debtor
  dragged to prison for £10, which, though a just debt, the wretch is
  wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more nearly, he felt
  the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor innocent, whom she
  hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at the first proposal of
  what is called seeing company. Indeed this resemblance would be exact,
  was it not that the bawd hath an interest in what she doth, and the
  father, though perhaps he may blindly think otherwise, can, in
  reality, have none in urging his daughter to almost an equal
  prostitution.
  
  In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very
  vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room, and
  returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the
  young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty
  required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a violent
  rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the
  clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred function to
  commit to paper.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
  
  
  The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early
  to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was
  informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had
  taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she did
  not think proper to give any offence; for, though she was not without
  some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose great
  sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had made so
  favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's servants,
  yet she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke
  one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind of a
  gentleman.
  
  Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her
  meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that the
  squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to
  have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some
  of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to give her any
  kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.
  
  The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet,
  the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key)
  attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments
  passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she left
  the country, and she treated every servant with more respect than some
  persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their
  inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back, saying,
  she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly
  recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.
  
  All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a
  great favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns of
  the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to take
  many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he
  said, very desirous to see his young lady; he made therefore no
  scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while
  civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he received
  only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.
  
  The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George well
  knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no
  wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care
  to supply her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all the
  servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she had
  scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.
  
  Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually
  hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can
  be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the
  sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the
  contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some little
  consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as
  full of eggs as George had reported it.
  
  But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would
  have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three
  legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a
  thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally
  contradicts all the laws of animal oeconomy, as to contain a letter in
  its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was
  metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil
  recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age
  nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.
  
  But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the
  _Académies des Sciences_ in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless
  enquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue
  which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very
  easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its
  passage into the fowl.
  
  Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her
  favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she
  immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:--
  
    “MADAM,
  
    “Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
    endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
    account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
    any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
    so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
    most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
    have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
    in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
    misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and
    with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful
    consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do
    myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs
    me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a
    greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my
    presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any
    relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful
    observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the
    most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you
    are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,
    to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to
    which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world
    with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,
    on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature
    reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if
    there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace
    of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for
    ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no
    compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender
    bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than
    myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first
    wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if
    I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my
    second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal
    mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,
  
           Madam,
               in every sense, and to every purpose,
                      your devoted,
                            THOMAS JONES.”
  
  What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she
  read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader's
  imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at
  present: for this reason, among others, that she did not now write
  any, and that for several good causes, one of which was this, she had
  no paper, pen, nor ink.
  
  In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had
  received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed
  her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at
  altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice,
  she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not so
  soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt
  Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one
  of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her
  brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.
  
  We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our
  usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
  
  
  The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged)
  were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was
  first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he
  immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great
  observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he
  stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never
  would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.
  
  Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself
  into a chair, began thus to harangue: “Well, surely, no one ever had
  such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike
  acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into
  this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot
  here before.” “I don't know,” cries the squire, “I think they do well
  enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most
  of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among um.” “Well,
  and where's my niece?” says the lady; “have you been to wait upon Lady
  Bellaston yet?” “Ay, ay,” cries the squire, “your niece is safe
  enough; she is upstairs in chamber.” “How!” answered the lady, “is my
  niece in this house, and does she not know of my being here?” “No,
  nobody can well get to her,” says the squire, “for she is under lock
  and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first
  night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her ever since; she is
  as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you.” “Good heaven!” returned
  Mrs Western, “what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work
  would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to town
  yourself; nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I
  charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise
  me, brother, that you would take none of these headstrong measures?
  Was it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece to
  run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to oblige her to
  take such another step?” “Z--ds and the devil!” cries the squire,
  dashing his pipe on the ground; “did ever mortal hear the like? when I
  expected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen
  upon in this manner!” “How, brother!” said the lady, “have I ever
  given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking
  up your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free
  country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? We are as
  free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that
  freedom better. If you expect I should stay a moment longer in this
  wretched house, or that I should ever own you again as my relation, or
  that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your
  family, I insist upon it that my niece be set at liberty this
  instant.” This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her
  back to the fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in
  the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the head of her
  Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It is no wonder,
  therefore, that the poor squire was not proof against the awe which
  she inspired. “There,” he cried, throwing down the key, “there it is,
  do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till
  Blifil came to town, which can't be long; and now if any harm happens
  in the mean time, remember who is to be blamed for it.”
  
  “I will answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but I shall not
  intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that you
  will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one
  measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you
  ratify these preliminaries, brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve
  the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral
  state.”
  
  “I pray you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit yourself this once to
  be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with young
  Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to
  perpetrate by more rigorous measures.”
  
  “What, dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if thee dost begin
  to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.”
  
  “Fie, brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to a clergyman?
  Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the
  whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell
  you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either
  cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own
  surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the
  garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever.”
  
  “I pray you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let me
  supplicate you.”
  
  “Why, there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire. “She may
  take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?”
  
  “No, brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the formality of its
  being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the concessions
  stipulated.”
  
  “Why then I will deliver it to you.--There 'tis,” cries the squire. “I
  am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my
  daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to a
  time, without my ever zeeing her.”
  
  “And it would have been happy for her,” answered the lady, “if she had
  always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened under
  my eye.”
  
  “Ay, certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.”
  
  “Why, you are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have been often
  obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so.
  However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from
  past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.
  Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All
  your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore,
  insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past.”----
  
  “Z--ds and bl--d, sister,” cries the squire, “what would you have me
  say? You are enough to provoke the devil.”
  
  “There, now,” said she, “just according to the old custom. I see,
  brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr Supple, who
  is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human
  creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way.”
  
  “Let me beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to irritate his
  worship.”
  
  “Irritate him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a fool as
  himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I
  will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy
  upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of
  one woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now having summoned a
  servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.
  
  She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)
  ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not
  sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, “Now
  one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last,
  for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live for
  ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will.”
  
  The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire
  having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when
  anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of
  this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper
  was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs Western returned with
  Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and
  the aunt acquainted Mr Western, “that she intended to take her niece
  with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother,” says she, “these
  rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.”
  
  “Very well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please. The girl can
  never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me the
  justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back, that
  you was one of the most sensible women in the world.”
  
  “To this,” cries the parson, “I am ready to bear testimony.”
  
  “Nay, brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I'm sure, given you
  as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much
  hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to
  reflect I never knew a man more reasonable.”
  
  “Why then, sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here's your
  good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but
  I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do
  everything your aunt orders you.”
  
  “I have not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western. “She hath
  had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that wretch
  her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O
  brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when you
  set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent fellow
  with the odious Irish name--that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly
  upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a
  long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to
  give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered
  him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I
  suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will
  not see her, for I am determined I will not.”
  
  “I zee her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me. I'll ge no
  encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow,
  her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a
  dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what
  undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own
  family.”
  
  “Brother,” cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece by such odious
  repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?” “Well,
  well, I wull, I wull,” said the squire.
  
  And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the
  conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had
  it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most
  probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom
  education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally
  violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for
  Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with
  Mrs Miller and Partridge.
  
  
  The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that
  grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly
  comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which
  he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of
  the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which
  Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her
  liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her
  confinement:
  
    “Sir,
  
    “As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
    pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
    arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom
    I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
    insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
    with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I
    have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though
    she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
    omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the
    word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach
    of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
    shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
    without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
    to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what
    is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on
    reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a
    comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which
    I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly
    resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of
    consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must
    teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)
    made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may
    reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my
    injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on
    me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be
    some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I
    shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,
  
                           Sir,
                      your obliged humble servant,
                                   Sophia Western.
  
    “I charge you write to me no more--at present at least; and accept
    this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
    and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
    it.”[*]
  
    [*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
  
  A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter
  out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it
  occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide
  the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of his deceased
  friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses make the more
  welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was more
  pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder
  that he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much in
  love as was poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in
  some instances, resemble a consumption (which it sometimes causes), in
  others proceeds in direct opposition to it, and particularly in this,
  that it never flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable
  light.
  
  One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress
  had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at
  least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable
  circumstance was the reference which she made to her promise of never
  marrying any other man; for however disinterested he might imagine his
  passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his
  letter, I very much question whether he could have heard a more
  afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to another,
  though the match had been never so great, and never so likely to end
  in making her completely happy. That refined degree of Platonic
  affection which is absolutely detached from the flesh, and is, indeed,
  entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined to the female part
  of the creation; many of whom I have heard declare (and, doubtless,
  with great truth), that they would, with the utmost readiness, resign
  a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to be necessary
  for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude
  that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I
  have ever seen an instance of it.
  
  Mr Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid
  letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the
  last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment,
  which he had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs
  Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house,
  and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had
  really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy
  much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he
  expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but
  likewise unadulterated, by art.
  
  In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller,
  her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge
  immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When
  the first music was played, he said, “It was a wonder how so many
  fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out.”
   While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs
  Miller, “Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of
  the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service.” Nor
  could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were
  lighted, “That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an
  honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth.”
  
  As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
  Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the
  entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, “What man that was
  in the strange dress; something,” said he, “like what I have seen in a
  picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” Jones answered, “That is the
  ghost.” To which Partridge replied with a smile, “Persuade me to that,
  sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my
  life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
  that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as
  that, neither.” In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
  neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the
  scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to
  Mr Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a
  trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him
  what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the
  stage? “O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what you told me. I
  am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was
  really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so
  much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person.”
   “Why, who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward here
  besides thyself?” “Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if
  that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw
  any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be
  sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
  fool-hardiness!--Whatever happens, it is good enough for
  you.----Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is
  the devil----for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.--Oh!
  here he is again.----No farther! No, you have gone far enough already;
  farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions.” Jones
  offered to speak, but Partridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you
  hear him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his
  eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his
  mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
  succeeding likewise in him.
  
  When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you exceed my
  expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible.”
   “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid of the devil, I
  can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such
  things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the
  ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have
  been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
  frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.” “And dost thou
  imagine, then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that he was really
  frightened?” “Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did not you yourself observe
  afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
  was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and
  he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have
  been, had it been my own case?--But hush! O la! what noise is that?
  There he is again.----Well, to be certain, though I know there is
  nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men
  are.” Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you may draw your
  sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?”
  
  During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
  admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon
  the king's countenance. “Well,” said he, “how people may be deceived
  by faces! _Nulla fides fronti_ is, I find, a true saying. Who would
  think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a
  murder?” He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he
  should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, “that he
  might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.”
  
  Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the
  ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, sir, now;
  what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as
  you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not
  be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there,
  for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As I am a
  living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.” “Indeed, you
  saw right,” answered Jones. “Well, well,” cries Partridge, “I know it
  is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam
  Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be
  afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.--There, there--Ay,
  no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to
  pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all
  duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.----Ay, go about
  your business, I hate the sight of you.”
  
  Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet
  introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till
  Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of
  it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder.
  Then turning to Mrs Miller, he asked her, “If she did not imagine the
  king looked as if he was touched; though he is,” said he, “a good
  actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much
  to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much
  higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake
  I'll never trust an innocent face again.”
  
  The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who
  expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage.
  To which Jones answered, “That it was one of the most famous
  burial-places about town.” “No wonder then,” cries Partridge, “that
  the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger.
  I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves
  while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the
  first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You
  had rather sing than work, I believe.”--Upon Hamlet's taking up the
  skull, he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men
  are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead
  man, on any account.--He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I
  thought. _Nemo omnibus horis sapit._”
  
  Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of
  which Jones asked him, “Which of the players he had liked best?” To
  this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,
  “The king, without doubt.” “Indeed, Mr Partridge,” says Mrs Miller,
  “you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all
  agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the
  stage.” “He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a contemptuous
  sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had
  seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done
  just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it,
  between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why,
  Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother,
  would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me;
  but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have
  seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he
  speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the
  other.--Anybody may see he is an actor.”
  
  While Mrs Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a
  lady came up to Mr Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs
  Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the
  gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had
  something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then
  acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next
  day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to
  the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
  
  Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had
  afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs Miller, but to all who
  sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to
  anything that passed on the stage.
  
  He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for
  many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep,
  with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors,
  crying out, “Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.”
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  In which the history is obliged to look back.
  
  
  It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact
  impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should
  bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when that
  superiority determines his preference.
  
  As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my
  children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to
  Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same excuse,
  from the superiority of her character.
  
  This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine never
  suffers me to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance. I
  could now, therefore, return impatiently to enquire what hath happened
  to this lovely creature since her departure from her father's, but
  that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr Blifil.
  
  Mr Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast upon
  the sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first hurry to
  go after her, had not once thought of sending any account of the
  discovery to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he
  recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first inn he
  came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his
  having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to him
  immediately, if he would come up after him to town.
  
  As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind,
  which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident,
  could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by
  her having run away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own
  account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he
  now proposed the gratification of a very strong passion besides
  avarice, by marrying this young lady, and this was hatred; for he
  concluded that matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying
  either hatred or love; and this opinion is very probably verified by
  much experience. To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary
  behaviour of married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to
  conclude that the generality seek the indulgence of the former passion
  only, in their union of everything but of hearts.
  
  There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr
  Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia
  (for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from him),
  the great aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be seriously
  concerned that he had been deceived into carrying matters so far. He
  by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who think it
  as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children in the
  affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their servants
  when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or decency at
  least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the contrary, as
  he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he thought
  every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and inviolate;
  and very wisely concluded, that the surest way to effect this was by
  laying the foundation in previous affection.
  
  Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of
  deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been deceived
  himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well
  tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing his
  addresses was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that the very
  appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius;
  but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing
  within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be achieved.
  
  Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and the
  hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He begged
  that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose, he might
  at least be at liberty to try all fair means for success. Heaven
  forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any other
  than the most gentle methods! “Besides, sir,” said he, “if they fail,
  you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your consent.” He
  urged the great and eager desire which Mr Western had for the match;
  and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed
  all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to preserve so valuable
  a young lady was even an act of charity.
  
  All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little
  stronger on the authority of parents than Mr Blifil himself had done.
  He ascribed the measures which Mr Blifil was desirous to take to
  Christian motives; “and though,” says he, “the good young gentleman
  hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his first and
  principal consideration.”
  
  Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same
  tune, though in a different key, and would have discovered much moral
  fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the
  recovery of his health.
  
  Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the
  desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where
  he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady:
  “But I declare,” said he, “I will never give my consent to any
  absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever have
  her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance.”
  
  Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior
  understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and thus is the
  prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the tenderness of the
  best of hearts.
  
  Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his uncle,
  rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as no
  immediate business required Mr Allworthy's presence in the country,
  and little preparation is necessary to men for a journey, they set out
  the very next day, and arrived in town that evening, when Mr Jones, as
  we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at the play.
  
  The morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr Western, by whom
  he was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every
  possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should
  very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the
  squire suffer the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he had,
  almost against his will, carried him to his sister.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr
  Blifil.
  
  
  Mrs Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial
  politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less
  ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw
  Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her
  faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all
  her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.
  
  “Brother,” said she, “I am astonished at your behaviour; will you
  never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every
  apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants?
  Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of
  condition, without the least decency or notice?”----“Why, what a pox
  is the matter now?” quoth the squire; “one would think I had caught
  you at--“--“None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you,” answered
  she.----“You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I
  see, support herself.----Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit
  your spirits; for I see you have occasion.” At which words Sophia, who
  never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.
  
  “To be sure, sister,” cries the squire, “you are mad, when I have
  brought Mr Blifil here to court her, to force her away.”
  
  “Sure, brother,” says she, “you are worse than mad, when you know in
  what situation affairs are, to----I am sure I ask Mr Blifil's pardon,
  but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a reception.
  For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see Mr
  Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him to proceed
  so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it.”
  
  Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western,
  without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered,
  “Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but
  come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr Blifil go to
  her.----He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost.”
  
  “Brother,” cries Mrs Western, “Mr Blifil, I am confident, understands
  himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more this morning,
  after what hath happened. Women are of a nice contexture; and our
  spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed in a moment. Had
  you suffered Mr Blifil to have sent his compliments to my niece, and
  to have desired the favour of waiting on her in the afternoon, I
  should possibly have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I
  despair of bringing about any such matter.”
  
  “I am very sorry, madam,” cried Blifil, “that Mr Western's
  extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough acknowledge,
  should have occasioned--” “Indeed, sir,” said she, interrupting him,
  “you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well.”
  
  “I don't care what anybody knows of me,” answered the squire;----“but
  when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come
  up on purpose, and so is Allworthy.”--“Brother,” said she, “whatever
  message Mr Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece shall be
  delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to make
  a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr Blifil
  at a proper time.”--“The devil she won't!” answered the
  squire.--“Odsbud!--Don't we know--I say nothing, but some volk are
  wiser than all the world.----If I might have had my will, she had not
  run away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is guone
  again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well
  she hates----” “No matter, brother,” replied Mrs Western, “I will not
  hear my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an
  honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will
  pawn my whole reputation in the world on her conduct.----I shall be
  glad to see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have somewhat of
  importance to mention to you.--At present, Mr Blifil, as well as you,
  must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress.” “Well, but,” said the
  squire, “do appoint a time.” “Indeed,” said she, “I can appoint no
  time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon.”--“What the devil
  would you have me do?” cries the squire, turning to Blifil; “I can no
  more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will
  be in a better humour in the afternoon.”--“I am condemned, I see,
  sir, to misfortune,” answered Blifil; “but I shall always own my
  obligations to you.” He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs Western,
  who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they
  departed, the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil
  should see his daughter in the afternoon.
  
  If Mr Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was less.
  As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister to her
  humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in
  the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected
  somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words which dropt from
  the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear
  when I have unfolded the several matters which will be contained in
  the following chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.
  
  
  Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be
  plucked up by the rude hands of Mr Western. In the heat of resentment
  he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the
  captain had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at
  all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had seen
  Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he had
  received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the
  discharge of his duty, that, having after long enquiry found out the
  squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a
  tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by that
  means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his lodgings.
  
  In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his
  lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid
  open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly
  saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his
  words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his daughter.
  He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who
  readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance
  of a most favourable reception from all the elders of the family, and
  from the father himself when he should be sober, and should be made
  acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only
  danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had formerly mentioned, who,
  though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew
  not what, procured himself tolerable cloaths, and past for a
  gentleman. “Now,” says she, “as I have, for the sake of my cousin,
  made it my business to enquire after this fellow, I have luckily found
  out his lodgings;” with which she then acquainted his lordship. “I am
  thinking, my lord,” added she “(for this fellow is too mean for your
  personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your
  lordship to contrive some method of having him pressed and sent on
  board a ship. Neither law nor conscience forbid this project: for the
  fellow, I promise you, however well drest, is but a vagabond, and as
  proper as any fellow in the streets to be pressed into the service;
  and as for the conscientious part, surely the preservation of a young
  lady from such ruin is a most meritorious act; nay, with regard to the
  fellow himself, unless he could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my
  cousin, it may probably be the means of preserving him from the
  gallows, and perhaps may make his fortune in an honest way.”
  
  Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which
  she was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which his
  whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present
  no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it
  in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do
  him the honour of immediately mentioning his proposals to the family;
  to whom he said he offered a _carte blanche_, and would settle his
  fortune in almost any manner they should require. And after uttering
  many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and
  departed, but not before he had received the strongest charge to
  beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing his person, where he
  should no longer be in a capacity of making any attempts to the ruin
  of the young lady.
  
  The moment Mrs Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was
  despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner
  received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her
  cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes
  offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the prospect of
  making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than
  to a gentleman whom she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot;
  though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a refusal.
  
  The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials, fell
  to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as begun; for
  Mrs Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks
  glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness
  of his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and the generosity
  of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit
  terms.
  
  In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to Jones,
  and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate attachment
  which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs Western
  entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's management. She
  concluded, however, at last, with declaring her confidence in the good
  understanding of her niece, who, though she would not give up her
  affection in favour of Blifil, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be
  prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple inclination to the addresses of a
  fine gentleman, who brings her both a title and a large estate: “For,
  indeed,” added she, “I must do Sophy the justice to confess this
  Blifil is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all
  country gentlemen are, and hath nothing but his fortune to recommend
  him.”
  
  “Nay,” said Lady Bellaston, “I don't then so much wonder at my cousin;
  for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and hath one
  virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us. What do you
  think, Mrs Western--I shall certainly make you laugh; nay, I can
  hardly tell you myself for laughing--will you believe that the fellow
  hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you should be
  inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own
  handwriting, I assure you.” She then delivered her cousin the letter
  with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to
  see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this history.
  
  “Upon my word I am astonished,” said Mrs Western; “this is, indeed, a
  masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may possibly make some use
  of this letter.” “You have my full liberty,” cries Lady Bellaston, “to
  apply it to what purpose you please. However, I would not have it
  shewn to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you find occasion.”
   “Well, and how did you use the fellow?” returned Mrs Western. “Not as
  a husband,” said the lady; “I am not married, I promise you, my dear.
  You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once already; and once, I
  think, is enough for any reasonable woman.”
  
  This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance
  against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to give it
  up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out of the
  way, and partly by having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon
  sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was prepared to
  testify whatever she pleased.
  
  But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart
  hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which was so
  much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire such
  readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and
  there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that women,
  notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, &c., in
  matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a misfortune to
  have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they imagine they ought
  never to carry enmity higher than upon these disappointments; again,
  he will find it written much about the same place, that a woman who
  hath once been pleased with the possession of a man, will go above
  halfway to the devil, to prevent any other woman from enjoying the
  same.
  
  If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see
  no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will conceive
  she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I see no cause
  to suspect.
  
  Now this was the affair which Mrs Western was preparing to introduce
  to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love, and on
  the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil
  broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her
  behaviour to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual with him,
  imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much
  more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.
  
  
  The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr Jones,
  who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs Fitzpatrick; but before we
  relate the conversation which now past it may be proper, according to
  our method, to return a little back, and to account for so great an
  alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing her lodging
  principally to avoid Mr Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been
  seen, sought this interview.
  
  And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding
  day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr Western was arrived in
  town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly,
  where she was received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be
  repeated, and was even threatened to be kicked out of doors. From
  hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she was well
  acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated
  her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the truth, with
  rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both, plainly
  convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had proved
  abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of
  bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of
  revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at the
  play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.
  
  The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, in
  the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs Western
  had formerly shewn for Mr Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the disappointment
  of which Mrs Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had
  expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no doubt but that the good
  lady would as easily listen to the addresses of Mr Jones as she had
  before done to the other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on
  the side of Mr Jones; and the advance which her aunt had since made in
  age, she concluded (how justly I will not say), was an argument rather
  in favour of her project than against it.
  
  Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her
  desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance how
  much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for
  her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr Jones in whose
  custody his mistress was, of which she thought him ignorant; she very
  explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham
  addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the
  younger, informing him at the same time of the success which Mr
  Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same stratagem.
  
  Mr Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions
  towards him which she had expressed, and indeed testified, by this
  proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the
  lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case
  in regard to Mr Fitzpatrick, he said, he was afraid Miss Western would
  never agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter
  detestation of all fallacy as from her avowed duty to her aunt.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may
  not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from
  politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had
  not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all
  reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a tacit
  rebuke on the other.
  
  “Indeed, sir,” answered the lady, with some warmth, “I cannot think
  there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a profession
  of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my aunt, I
  must say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship. Can't
  you pretend that the despair of possessing her niece, from her being
  promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to
  my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to be such a simpleton as to
  have the least scruple on such an account, or to conceive any harm in
  punishing one of these haggs for the many mischiefs they bring upon
  families by their tragi-comic passions; for which I think it is a pity
  they are not punishable by law. I had no such scruple myself; and yet
  I hope my cousin Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she
  cannot detest every real species of falsehood more than her cousin
  Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she
  deserve any. However, sir, I have given you my advice; and if you
  decline pursuing it, I shall have the less opinion of your
  understanding--that's all.”
  
  Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his
  utmost power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into
  nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to
  abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to
  rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper instead
  of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have
  the good-nature which Mrs Fitzpatrick displayed to Jones, by saying,
  with a smile, “You need attempt no more excuses; for I can easily
  forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of fondness for his
  mistress.”
  
  She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it,
  omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject;
  for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce
  anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing
  her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the
  execution of a favourite scheme.
  
  Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not,
  indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the
  motives which induced Mrs Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her
  advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he
  had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their
  situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that
  so divine a young lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man;
  nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to wish she should.
  He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have
  not at present leisure to insert.
  
  There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too general
  terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never detach it
  from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling principle, they
  are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with; and, though the
  property of others, convey it to their own use. In the company of
  these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of another
  woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often improve
  the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her wit, her
  gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what do I
  deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a degree?
  
  To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending
  another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous
  sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming
  lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness
  for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I
  have seen many instances besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this
  really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr Jones,
  the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor Sophia had
  formerly done.
  
  To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible
  object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding some of us
  are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to
  repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more
  solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of
  consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that
  kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.
  
  When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have
  become the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs Fitzpatrick heaved a
  deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been
  some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed,
  Mr Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be
  thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better
  than you, Mr Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to
  such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both.”
  
  “Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can't mean----” “Mean!” cries Mrs
  Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean; there is something, I think, in
  true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet with it in men, and
  fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such
  truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force one
  to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who
  can overlook such merit.”
  
  The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion
  into Jones which we don't care to convey in direct words to the
  reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, “I am afraid, madam, I
  have made too tiresome a visit;” and offered to take his leave.
  
  “Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick.--“Indeed I pity you, Mr
  Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I
  have mentioned--I am convinced you will approve it--and let me see you
  again as soon as you can.--To-morrow morning if you will, or at least
  some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day.”
  
  Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully
  retired; nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a
  look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have
  had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it
  confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as
  he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now
  so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could
  have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
  
  Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to
  give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and
  accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in
  sorrowful notes to record.
  
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  The consequence of the preceding visit.
  
  
  Mr Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs
  Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which
  his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day
  after set forward to London.
  
  The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of
  this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion
  which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the
  room with Mrs Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards
  appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so
  handsome a character of Mr Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect
  that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled
  together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was
  naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that
  green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
  
  And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, and had
  just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr Jones was
  issuing from it.
  
  Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a
  young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to
  him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? “for I am
  sure,” said he, “you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of
  it.”
  
  Jones answered very modestly, “That he had been visiting a lady
  there.” To which Fitzpatrick replied, “What business have you with the
  lady?” Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,
  features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out----“Ha, my good
  friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
  between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago.”
  
  “Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don't know your name nor
  your face.” “Indeed, sir,” said Jones, “neither have I the pleasure of
  knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen
  before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,
  if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle.”
  
  “At Upton!” cried the other;----“Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name
  is Jones?” “Indeed,” answered he, “it is.”--“O! upon my soul,” cries
  Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man I wanted to meet.--Upon my soul I
  will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a
  great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul,
  if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you
  another.” And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of
  defence, which was the only science he understood.
  
  Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
  unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and
  though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon
  Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his
  sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it
  than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning
  upon it, cried, “I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.”
  
  “I hope not,” cries Jones, “but whatever be the consequence, you must
  be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.” At this instant a number
  of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no
  resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the
  wounded gentleman.
  
  “Ay,” cries one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman will be taken
  care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for
  you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” “D--n me, Jack,” said
  another, “he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port
  now;” and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of
  by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar,
  and had dogged him into the house of Mrs Fitzpatrick, waiting for him
  at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened.
  
  The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded that his
  business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil
  magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a
  public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to
  his custody.
  
  The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing that the
  accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great
  civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to enquire after
  the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's
  hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly
  mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable
  informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered,
  “Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for
  though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,
  yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind.”
  
  Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who
  dressed Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the
  wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the
  Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for
  Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till
  seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly
  frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a message
  which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
  
  He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and
  was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the
  misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the
  while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now
  arrived that Mr Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended
  every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered
  him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from
  Sophia by the hands of Black George.
  
  Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having
  eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:--
  
    “You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
    surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to
    Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am
    convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that
    it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was
    under such concern on my account.--I leave you to comment on this
    fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned
    to
  
                                                “S. W.”
  
  Of the present situation of Mr Jones's mind, and of the pangs with
  which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea
  than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost
  have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in
  it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And
  here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XVII.
  
  CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  Containing a portion of introductory writing.
  
  
  When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he
  can, or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of
  human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that
  their work is come to a period.
  
  Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we
  were very nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult
  for the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have
  contrived much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we
  left him in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman
  would hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at
  present be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy
  but a murder or two and a few moral sentences!
  
  But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress,
  and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much
  harder task; a task indeed so hard that we do not undertake to execute
  it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall
  somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end--either
  Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are
  the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his
  imprudence, by which if a man doth not become felon to the world, he
  is at least a _felo de se_; so destitute is he now of friends, and so
  persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to any
  good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think he
  ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.
  
  This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which
  we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have unfortunately
  made our heroe, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance
  with which we are entrusted, upon condition that we use it only on
  very important occasions. If he doth not therefore find some natural
  means of fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will
  do no violence to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for
  we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very
  probably be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith
  of our reader.
  
  In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their
  mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar
  than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of
  delivering a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the
  writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more
  extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and
  delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease
  have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one world
  to another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed
  modern can deliver him from a jail.
  
  The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their
  tales from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article
  of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have
  none of these helps. To natural means alone we are confined; let us
  try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor Jones; though
  to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear that he doth
  not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more shocking piece
  of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the unopened
  leaves of fate.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
  
  
  Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when
  Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to make one
  of the company.
  
  He had not been long seated before he began as follows: “Good Lord! my
  dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of
  telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever
  having shewn any kindness to such a villain.” “What is the matter,
  child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have shewn kindness in my life to
  the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the vices of
  its objects.” “O, sir!” returned Blifil, “it is not without the secret
  direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your
  adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your
  bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon earth.” “By all
  that's sacred 'tis false,” cries Mrs Miller. “Mr Jones is no villain.
  He is one of the worthiest creatures breathing; and if any other
  person had called him villain, I would have thrown all this boiling
  water in his face.” Mr Allworthy looked very much amazed at this
  behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak, before, turning to
  him, she cried, “I hope you will not be angry with me; I would not
  offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear
  him called so.” “I must own, madam,” said Allworthy, very gravely, “I
  am a little surprized to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not
  know.” “O! I do know him, Mr Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do; I
  should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. O! he
  hath preserved me and my little family; we have all reason to bless
  him while we live.--And I pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the
  hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such.”
   “You surprize me, madam, still more,” said Allworthy; “sure you must
  mean some other. It is impossible you should have any such obligations
  to the man my nephew mentions.” “Too surely,” answered she, “I have
  obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been
  the preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused,
  grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all
  goodness and honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things
  I have heard you say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully
  called him fellow.--Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a kinder
  appellation from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful
  things which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your
  name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him
  on his knees, imploring all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I
  do not love that child there better than he loves you.”
  
  “I see, sir, now,” said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers with
  which the devil marks his best beloved, “Mrs Miller really doth know
  him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of your
  acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I
  perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been very free
  with it, but I forgive him.” “And the Lord forgive you, sir!” said Mrs
  Miller; “we have all sins enough to stand in need of his forgiveness.”
  
  “Upon my word, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “I do not take this
  behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any
  reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest
  of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my
  resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs Miller, the young man
  who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate for the
  ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you
  hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much baseness
  and ingratitude.”
  
  “You are deceived, sir,” answered Mrs Miller; “if they were the last
  words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were deceived;
  and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have deceived
  you! I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but they
  are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which he may, nay,
  which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should not, they
  are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest
  hearts that ever man was blest with.”
  
  “Indeed, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been related of you, I
  should not have believed it.” “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you will
  believe everything I have said, I am sure you will: and when you have
  heard the story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you
  will be so far from being offended, that you will own (I know your
  justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable and most
  ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part than I have.”
  
  “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to hear any good
  excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an excuse.
  And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his
  story without interruption. He would not have introduced a matter of
  slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this story will
  cure you of your mistake.”
  
  Mrs Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr Blifil began thus:
  “I am sure, sir, if you don't think proper to resent the ill-usage of
  Mrs Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your
  goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands.” “Well,
  child,” said Allworthy, “but what is this new instance? What hath he
  done of late?” “What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding all Mrs Miller
  hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should never have
  heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal from the
  whole world. In short he hath killed a man; I will not say
  murdered--for perhaps it may not be so construed in law, and I hope
  the best for his sake.”
  
  Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to
  Mrs Miller, he cried, “Well, madam, what say you now?”
  
  “Why, I say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more concerned at
  anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man,
  whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in
  this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen.
  Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of
  all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or
  so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the house, and every
  one who came near it.”
  
  While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door
  interrupted their conversation, and prevented her from proceeding
  further, or from receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this was
  a visitor to Mr Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her
  little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the melancholy news
  she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife, and not only
  gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with her
  himself.
  
  Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances,
  in relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the
  best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear
  trivial, will, we hope, at least pardon them, as we are never prolix
  on such occasions.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning the paternal
  authority.
  
  
  Mrs Miller had not long left the room when Mr Western entered; but not
  before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen;
  for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules
  Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in
  the squire; and they were moreover farther encouraged by his
  generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than
  their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling,
  which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed many hearty
  curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into
  the room; swearing that all the Londoners were like the court, and
  thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. “D--n me,” says
  he, “if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their
  hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than Brown Bess
  would in a long fox-chase.”
  
  When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the
  same passionate tone on another. “There,” says he, “there is fine
  business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we
  imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a
  badger at last!”
  
  “Pray, my good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your metaphors, and
  speak a little plainer.” “Why, then,” says the squire, “to tell you
  plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a
  bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a
  confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what
  I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my
  consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar
  me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover.”
  
  “You surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy. “Why, zounds!
  I am surprized myself,” answered the squire. “I went to zee sister
  Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was
  had into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin
  Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catherine, and my lady I
  don't know who; d--n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of
  hoop-petticoat b--s! D--n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one
  Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his
  own dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mortal was ever run in
  such a manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to clap
  back, another snapped me. `O! certainly one of the greatest matches in
  England,' says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); `A very
  advantageous offer indeed,' cries another cousin (for you must know
  they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o' um before).
  `Surely,' says that fat a--se b--, my Lady Bellaston, `cousin, you
  must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer.'”
  
  “Now I begin to understand,” says Allworthy; “some person hath made
  proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family approve, but
  is not to your liking.”
  
  “My liking!” said Western, “how the devil should it? I tell you it is
  a lord, and those are always volks whom you know I always resolved to
  have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years'
  purchase now for a bit of land, which one o' um had a mind to put into
  a park, only because I would have no dealings with lords, and dost
  think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben't I engaged to you,
  and did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised?”
  
  “As to that point, neighbour,” said Allworthy, “I entirely release you
  from any engagement. No contract can be binding between parties who
  have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards
  acquire the power of fulfilling it.”
  
  “Slud! then,” answered Western, “I tell you I have power, and I will
  fulfil it. Come along with me directly to Doctors' Commons, I will get
  a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force,
  and she shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread
  and water as long as she lives.”
  
  “Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “shall I beg you will hear my full
  sentiments on this matter?”--“Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will,”
   answered he. “Why, then, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I can truly say,
  without a compliment either to you or the young lady, that when this
  match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, from my
  regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly
  neighbours, and between whom there had always existed so mutual an
  intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and
  with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of all
  who knew her, but my own observation assured me that she would be an
  inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her
  personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good
  nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to
  need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high
  degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels,
  which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes
  observation; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to
  express it. I must use negatives on this occasion. I never heard
  anything of pertness, or what is called repartee, out of her mouth; no
  pretence to wit, much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result
  only of great learning and experience, the affectation of which, in a
  young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an ape. No
  dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound criticisms.
  Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all
  attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness of a
  teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only, desired
  her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr Thwackum and
  Mr Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness, `You will
  pardon me, good Mr Allworthy; I am sure you cannot in earnest think me
  capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree.'
  Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a
  favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered with the same
  good humour, `I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront neither
  so much as to give my judgment on his side.' Indeed, she always shewed
  the highest deference to the understandings of men; a quality
  absolutely essential to the making a good wife. I shall only add, that
  as she is most apparently void of all affectation, this deference must
  be certainly real.”
  
  Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full
  of tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don't be
  chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d--n me, shat ha her, if she was
  twenty times as good.”
  
  “Remember your promise, sir,” cried Allworthy, “I was not to be
  interrupted.” “Well, shat unt,” answered the squire; “I won't speak
  another word.”
  
  “Now, my good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have dwelt so long on
  the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love with her
  character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is
  really advantageous on my nephew's side) might not be imagined to be
  my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal. Indeed,
  I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my family; but
  though I may wish for many good things, I would not, therefore, steal
  them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of
  them. Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or
  approbation, is an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish
  the laws of our country could restrain it; but a good conscience is
  never lawless in the worst regulated state, and will provide those
  laws for itself, which the neglect of legislators hath forgotten to
  supply. This is surely a case of that kind; for, is it not cruel, nay,
  impious, to force a woman into that state against her will; for her
  behaviour in which she is to be accountable to the highest and most
  dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of her soul?
  To discharge the matrimonial duties in an adequate manner is no easy
  task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while we at the same
  time deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to
  undergo it? Shall we tear her very heart from her, while we enjoin her
  duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal? I must speak very
  plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are accessories
  to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, and of course
  must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their punishment; but
  if they could avoid this, good heaven! is there a soul who can bear
  the thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child?
  
  “For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of
  this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline
  any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure
  you I shall always retain the most grateful sense of it.”
  
  “Well, sir,” said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips the
  moment they were uncorked), “you cannot say but I have heard you out,
  and now I expect you'll hear me; and if I don't answer every word
  on't, why then I'll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I
  desire you to answer me one question--Did not I beget her? did not I
  beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that
  knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for
  I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and
  if I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to
  govern my own child? and if I am to govern her in other matters,
  surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what
  am I desiring all this while? Am I desiring her to do anything for
  me? to give me anything?--Zu much on t'other side, that I am only
  desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t'other half when I
  die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her happy?
  It's enough to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to
  marry myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber; but, on
  the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my land in such a manner,
  that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro' woman upon earth
  would ha me. What the devil in hell can I do more? I contribute to
  her damnation!--Zounds! I'd zee all the world d--n'd bevore her
  little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr Allworthy, you must excuse
  me, but I am surprized to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must
  say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense.”
  
  Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if
  he would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any
  mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as
  we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.
  
  Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. “As to using
  any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to it.
  My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any one, much less
  on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always
  preserve the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I have read that
  women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not hope then
  by such perseverance at last to gain those inclinations, in which for
  the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr
  Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not
  deny but that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these
  matters; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself say so more
  than once, and declare that she thought children inexcusable who
  married in direct opposition to the will of their parents. Besides,
  though the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions
  of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give him any
  countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am too sensible
  that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart.”
  
  “Ay, ay, so he does,” cries Western.
  
  “But surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears of this murder which he
  hath committed, if the law should spare his life----”
  
  “What's that?” cries Western. “Murder! hath he committed a murder, and
  is there any hopes of seeing him hanged?--Tol de rol, tol lol de rol.”
   Here he fell a singing and capering about the room.
  
  “Child,” says Allworthy, “this unhappy passion of yours distresses me
  beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair thing to
  promote your success.”
  
  “I desire no more,” cries Blifil; “I am convinced my dear uncle hath a
  better opinion of me than to think that I myself would accept of
  more.”
  
  “Lookee,” says Allworthy, “you have my leave to write, to visit, if
  she will permit it--but I insist on no thoughts of violence. I will
  have no confinement, nothing of that kind attempted.”
  
  “Well, well,” cries the squire, “nothing of that kind shall be
  attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will effect;
  and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way--Tol lol de rol! I
  never heard better news in my life--I warrant everything goes to my
  mind.--Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the
  Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a
  spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but
  ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent
  Parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left
  at an inn there, and I would not lose it for the world; for it is an
  old acquaintance of above twenty years' standing. I can tell you
  landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely.”
  
  Mr Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the
  squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the
  speedy tragical end of poor Jones.
  
  When he was gone, Mr Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with much
  gravity. He told his nephew, “He wished with all his heart he would
  endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot,” says he, “flatter
  you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that
  aversion in a woman may be conquered by perseverance. Indifference
  may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but the usual triumphs gained by
  perseverance in a lover are over caprice, prudence, affectation, and
  often an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites women not
  over-warm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity by prolonging
  the time of courtship, even when they are well enough pleased with the
  object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to make him a very
  pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this
  is, will rather gather strength than be conquered by time. Besides, my
  dear, I have another apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid
  this passion which you have for this fine young creature hath her
  beautiful person too much for its object, and is unworthy of the name
  of that love which is the only foundation of matrimonial felicity. To
  admire, to like, and to long for the possession of a beautiful woman,
  without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is, I am afraid, too
  natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only; at least, I
  am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are assured hates
  us is not in human nature. Examine your heart, therefore, thoroughly,
  my good boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least
  suspicion of this kind, I am sure your own virtue and religion will
  impel you to drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your good
  sense will soon enable you to do it without pain.”
  
  The reader may pretty well guess Blifil's answer; but, if he should be
  at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our
  history now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no
  longer bear to be absent from Sophia.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
  
  
  The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may
  ramble safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed,
  hereafter doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they
  suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be
  discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in
  some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every man
  is ready to set his dogs after her; and, if she is preserved from the
  rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own
  eating.
  
  I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and
  fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be
  in pretty much the same situation with this doe. The town is
  immediately in an uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court
  to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a
  single season from the jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her
  friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to one
  of their own chusing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the
  rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce
  regarded, traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly;
  and though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet
  for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without disturbance or
  controul.
  
  Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than
  poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had
  suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer,
  who seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done. For
  though her aunt was less violent, she was no less assiduous in teizing
  her, than her father had been before.
  
  The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs Western,
  who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, “That she expected
  his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first
  opportunity of leaving her alone with him.” “If you do, madam,”
   answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I shall take the first opportunity
  of leaving him by himself.” “How! madam!” cries the aunt; “is this the
  return you make me for my kindness in relieving you from your
  confinement at your father's?” “You know, madam,” said Sophia, “the
  cause of that confinement was a refusal to comply with my father in
  accepting a man I detested; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved
  me from that distress, involve me in another equally bad?” “And do you
  think then, madam,” answered Mrs Western, “that there is no difference
  between my Lord Fellamar and Mr Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,”
   cries Sophia; “and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly
  have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure.” “Then
  my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very little weight with
  you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from nobler
  motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling yourself, is
  what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there no
  charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?” “None, upon
  my honour,” said Sophia. “A pincushion upon my coach would please me
  just as well.” “Never mention honour,” cries the aunt. “It becomes not
  the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to use
  these words, but I cannot bear your groveling temper; you have none of
  the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however mean and base your own
  ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on mine. I will never suffer
  the world to say of me that I encouraged you in refusing one of the
  best matches in England; a match which, besides its advantage in
  fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in
  title, the advantage of ours.” “Surely,” says Sophia, “I am born
  deficient, and have not the senses with which other people are
  blessed; there must be certainly some sense which can relish the
  delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely mankind would
  not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining, nor would
  they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to them, as
  it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.”
  
  “No, no, miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as many senses as
  other people; but I assure you you are not born with a sufficient
  understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the
  world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I
  believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his
  lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you
  to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere
  with you, nor see your face again.” Sophia stood a few moments silent
  after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory
  tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cryed, “Do with me, madam,
  whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth;
  if my dear aunt forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?” “My
  dear niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good protector in his
  lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile
  fellow Jones can make you decline.” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “you
  wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have shewn me, if I had
  ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it
  will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it never to see
  his face again.” “But, child, dear child,” said the aunt, “be
  reasonable; can you invent a single objection?” “I have already, I
  think, told you a sufficient objection,” answered Sophia. “What?”
   cries the aunt; “I remember none.” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told
  you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner.” “Indeed, child,”
   answered she, “I never heard you, or did not understand you:--but what
  do you mean by this rude, vile manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia,
  “I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me
  down upon the settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom, and kissed it
  with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast at this
  moment.” “Indeed!” said Mrs Western. “Yes, indeed, madam,” answered
  Sophia; “my father luckily came in at that instant, or Heaven knows
  what rudeness he intended to have proceeded to.” “I am astonished and
  confounded,” cries the aunt. “No woman of the name of Western hath
  been ever treated so since we were a family. I would have torn the
  eyes of a prince out, if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is
  impossible! sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation
  against him.” “I hope, madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an
  opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my
  soul it is true.” “I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been
  present,” returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no
  dishonourable design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his
  proposals shew he hath not; for they are not only honourable, but
  generous. I don't know; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant
  salute is all I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have had
  lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several lovers, though I
  never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the least
  freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I never would agree to. No
  man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can bring
  oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed, could I ever have
  been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have soon been brought
  to endure so much.” “You will pardon me, dear madam,” said Sophia, “if
  I make one observation: you own you have had many lovers, and the
  world knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused them all, and,
  I am convinced, one coronet at least among them.” “You say true, dear
  Sophy,” answered she; “I had once the offer of a title.” “Why, then,”
   said Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse this once?” “It is
  true, child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a title; but it
  was not so good an offer; that is, not so very, very good an
  offer.”--“Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you have had very great
  proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor the
  second, nor the third advantageous match that offered itself.” “I own
  it was not,” said she. “Well, madam,” continued Sophia, “and why may
  not I expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are now
  but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to
  the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young
  woman, and sure I need not despair.” “Well, my dear, dear Sophy,”
   cries the aunt, “what would you have me say?” “Why, I only beg that I
  may not be left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I
  will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in
  your company.” “Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you
  know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my
  nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought
  cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have
  broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in
  it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of
  you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully
  Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the
  human form.” Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and
  her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who,
  after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs Western never once
  offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the
  aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt into so
  excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her niece
  said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be improper
  to so forward a lover.
  
  Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none
  will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put
  off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better
  situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will look a
  little after Mr Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation
  that can be well imagined.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
  
  
  When Mr Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr Western, Mrs Miller
  set forwards to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint him
  with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he had
  known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs
  Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same house with Mr
  Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction
  on account of Mr Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could,
  she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where
  Mr Nightingale was arrived before her.
  
  The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so
  extremely delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the
  distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is
  more than compensated by bringing this comfort with it. Nor are
  instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate
  observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not
  to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient which
  fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid,
  turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or
  happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we
  commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient
  benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the
  defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within my
  observation have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one
  from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough of a
  subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
  
  Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink
  under the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose any
  future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated
  somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her
  persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful friends,
  and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For Partridge,
  though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity; and though fear
  would not suffer him to be hanged for his master, yet the world, I
  believe, could not have bribed him to desert his cause.
  
  While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his
  friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitzpatrick was still
  alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon
  which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, “My dear
  Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which,
  whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you,
  and in which your conscience cannot accuse you of having been the
  least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than
  taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the
  coroner's inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily
  admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial,
  yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a shilling.”
   “Come, come, Mr Jones,” says Mrs Miller, “chear yourself up. I knew
  you could not be the aggressor, and so I told Mr Allworthy, and so he
  shall acknowledge too, before I have done with him.”
  
  Jones gravely answered, “That whatever might be his fate, he
  should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his
  fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could
  have befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest
  kind----O! Mrs Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth.”
   “That must be a mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, come; I know
  more than you imagine” (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); “and I
  have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than
  you think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance
  which he hath of the lady.”
  
  “Indeed, my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you are an entire
  stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the
  story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no
  danger from Blifil. I have undone myself.” “Don't despair,” replied
  Mrs Miller; “you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be in
  my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty. My
  son, my dear Mr Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath
  obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I
  go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me
  say.”
  
  “Thou best of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand, “talk not
  of obligations to me;--but as you have been so kind to mention it,
  there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are
  acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I know
  not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive to
  deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever
  acknowledge your goodness.”
  
  “Give it me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her own possession
  before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort yourself, my
  good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past follies, and
  I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the
  most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear from every one
  she is.”
  
  “Believe me, madam,” said he, “I do not speak the common cant of one
  in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had
  resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the
  wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the
  disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for which
  I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I
  have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious character,
  nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it.”
  
  Mrs Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the
  sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now the
  remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that good
  woman and Mr Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr Jones, in
  which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better comforted and
  satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so
  much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs Miller to deliver his
  letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means to
  accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he
  informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on pain of
  having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any answer. He
  was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so warm an advocate
  to Mr Allworthy himself in this good woman, who was, in reality, one
  of the worthiest creatures in the world.
  
  After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been
  with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to return
  to him soon; during which Mrs Miller said she hoped to bring him some
  good news from his mistress, and Mr Nightingale promised to enquire
  into the state of Mr Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise to find out
  some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.
  
  The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we
  likewise shall now attend her.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
  
  
  Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived
  now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full
  liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.
  
  Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a
  gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor
  ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs Miller was immediately
  admitted.
  
  Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to
  each other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know
  you, madam.” “No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon
  for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give
  you this trouble, I hope----” “Pray, what is your business, madam?”
   said Sophia, with a little emotion. “Madam, we are not alone,” replied
  Mrs Miller, in a low voice. “Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.
  
  When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by a
  very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia
  changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and
  after some hesitation, said--“I could not conceive, madam, from your
  appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.--Whomever
  you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry
  to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter
  stranger to me.”
  
  “If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “I will
  acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.” “I have no
  curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia; “but I must insist
  on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it you.”
  
  Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms
  implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it is
  surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of
  this person. I would not think, madam”--“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller,
  “you shall not think anything but the truth. I will tell you all, and
  you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best-natured
  creature that ever was born.”--She then began and related the story of
  Mr Anderson.--After this she cried, “This, madam, this is his
  goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath
  preserved my child.”--Here, after shedding some tears, she related
  everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances
  which would have most reflected on her daughter, and concluded with
  saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for
  so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and
  worthiest of all human beings.”
  
  The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly
  to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great
  paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and
  cried, “I know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude
  cannot be blamed--But what service can my reading this letter do your
  friend, since I am resolved never----” Mrs Miller fell again to her
  entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said,
  carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you
  will force it upon me.--Certainly you may leave it whether I will or
  no.” What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not
  presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually understood this as a
  hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her
  leave, having first begged permission to wait again on Sophia; which
  request had neither assent nor denial.
  
  The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out
  of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.
  
  This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of
  little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter
  lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations
  of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to
  convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to her
  presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady Bellaston
  in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to her
  forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And
  concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than
  to marry Lady Bellaston.
  
  Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his
  meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention
  suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very
  angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her
  resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to bestow on any
  other person.
  
  That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt
  Western, and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment, to
  go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum.
  Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but would not
  disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting illness, she
  was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered into
  her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went, resolved to
  encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one it
  proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and
  slily to insult her; to all which her dejection of spirits disabled
  her from making any return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was
  at the very best but an indifferent mistress of repartee.
  
  Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia was the company of Lord
  Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum.
  And though both places were too publick to admit of any
  particularities, and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one
  place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy
  herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women,
  which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man
  whom they know to have pretensions to them which they are disinclined
  to favour.
  
  Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our
  posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here
  applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to
  describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a
  moment describe it.
  
  A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes,
  most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the
  mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and
  like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her
  guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by it.
  
  No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any
  vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion
  eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined
  entirely to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round
  of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult
  must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her
  looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and
  when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!
  
  Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will
  leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable we fear
  of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers us,
  is now arrived at the eve of some great event.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
  
  
  Mrs Miller had a long discourse with Mr Allworthy, at his return from
  dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones's having unfortunately
  lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their separation;
  and with the distresses to which that loss had subjected him; of all
  which she had received a full account from the faithful retailer
  Partridge. She then explained the obligations she had to Jones; not
  that she was entirely explicit with regard to her daughter; for though
  she had the utmost confidence in Mr Allworthy, and though there could
  be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which was unhappily known to
  more than half a dozen, yet she could not prevail with herself to
  mention those circumstances which reflected most on the chastity of
  poor Nancy, but smothered that part of her evidence as cautiously as
  if she had been before a judge, and the girl was now on her trial for
  the murder of a bastard.
  
  Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not
  to have the least mixture of good in them. “However,” says he, “I
  cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad as
  he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but must
  insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I promise you, it
  was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to take the
  measures I have taken.” “Well, sir,” says she, “I make not the least
  doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and natural
  colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man deserves
  better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless.”
  
  “Madam,” cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, “I will not hear any
  reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that
  kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the worthiest
  and best of men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his
  friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too long concealing
  facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the wretch to this good
  young man is what I most resent; for, madam, I have the greatest
  reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my
  favour, and to have disinherited him.”
  
  “I am sure, sir,” answered Mrs Miller, a little frightened (for,
  though Mr Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his
  smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), “I shall never speak
  against any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure,
  sir, such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the
  gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry
  with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch.
  Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with
  me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How often have I
  heard you call him your son? How often have you prattled to me of him
  with all the fondness of a parent? Nay, sir, I cannot forget the many
  tender expressions, the many good things you have told me of his
  beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his good-nature and
  generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them, for I find them all
  true. I have experienced them in my own cause. They have preserved my
  family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed you must. When I
  consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor youth, to whom I
  am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider the loss of your
  favour, which I know he valued more than his life, I must, I must
  lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready to plunge into my
  heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have loved, and I
  shall ever love.”
  
  Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to
  be with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs Miller by the
  hand, he said very affectionately to her, “Come, madam, let us
  consider a little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for
  rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantageous to her, but you
  know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's
  reconciliation. I know Mr Nightingale very well, and have formerly had
  concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve you
  in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an only
  son, and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be
  brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you.”
  
  Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy
  for this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking
  this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, “to whom,”
   said she, “I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present
  trouble.” Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was too good a man to
  be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now
  actuated Mrs Miller; and indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his
  former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have been a little
  softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice itself
  could not have derived from an evil motive.
  
  Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller had been above an hour together, when
  their conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and
  another person, which other person was no less than Mr Dowling, the
  attorney, who was now become a great favourite with Mr Blifil, and
  whom Mr Allworthy, at the desire of his nephew, had made his steward;
  and had likewise recommended him to Mr Western, from whom the attorney
  received a promise of being promoted to the same office upon the first
  vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in transacting some
  affairs which the squire then had in London in relation to a mortgage.
  
  This was the principal affair which then brought Mr Dowling to town;
  therefore he took the same opportunity to charge himself with some
  money for Mr Allworthy, and to make a report to him of some other
  business; in all which, as it was of much too dull a nature to find
  any place in this history, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and their
  lawyer concerned, and resort to other matters.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Containing various matters.
  
  
  Before we return to Mr Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia.
  
  Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour by
  those soothing methods which we have before related, she had not
  brought her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with Lord
  Fellamar. This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told
  her the preceding evening, that she was well satisfied from the
  conduct of Sophia, and from her carriage to his lordship, that all
  delays would be dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to
  press the match forward with such rapidity that the young lady should
  have no time to reflect, and be obliged to consent while she scarce
  knew what she did; in which manner, she said, one-half of the
  marriages among people of condition were brought about. A fact very
  probably true, and to which, I suppose, is owing the mutual tenderness
  which afterwards exists among so many happy couples.
  
  A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar;
  and both these so readily embraced the advice that the very next day
  was, at his lordship's request, appointed by Mrs Western for a private
  interview between the young parties. This was communicated to Sophia
  by her aunt, and insisted upon in such high terms, that, after having
  urged everything she possibly could invent against it without the
  least effect, she at last agreed to give the highest instance of
  complacence which any young lady can give, and consented to see his
  lordship.
  
  As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we shall
  be excused from reciting the whole that past at this interview; in
  which, after his lordship had made many declarations of the most pure
  and ardent passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she at last
  collected all the spirits she could raise, and with a trembling low
  voice said, “My lord, you must be yourself conscious whether your
  former behaviour to me hath been consistent with the professions you
  now make.” “Is there,” answered he, “no way by which I can atone for
  madness? what I did I am afraid must have too plainly convinced you,
  that the violence of love had deprived me of my senses.” “Indeed, my
  lord,” said she, “it is in your power to give me a proof of an
  affection which I much rather wish to encourage, and to which I should
  think myself more beholden.” “Name it, madam,” said my lord, very
  warmly. “My lord,” says she, looking down upon her fan, “I know you
  must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion of yours hath made
  me.” “Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?” says he. “Yes, my
  lord,” answered Sophia, “all professions of love to those whom we
  persecute are most insulting pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me
  a most cruel persecution: nay, it is taking a most ungenerous
  advantage of my unhappy situation.” “Most lovely, most adorable
  charmer, do not accuse me,” cries he, “of taking an ungenerous
  advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are directed to your
  honour and interest, and while I have no view, no hope, no ambition,
  but to throw myself, honour, fortune, everything at your feet.” “My
  lord,” says she, “it is that fortune and those honours which gave you
  the advantage of which I complain. These are the charms which have
  seduced my relations, but to me they are things indifferent. If your
  lordship will merit my gratitude, there is but one way.” “Pardon me,
  divine creature,” said he, “there can be none. All I can do for you is
  so much your due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there is no
  room for your gratitude.” “Indeed, my lord,” answered she, “you may
  obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish
  which it is in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease,
  for sure to a generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let
  me beseech you, then, to cease a pursuit in which you can never have
  any success. For your own sake as well as mine I entreat this favour;
  for sure you are too noble to have any pleasure in tormenting an
  unhappy creature. What can your lordship propose but uneasiness to
  yourself, by a perseverance, which, upon my honour, upon my soul,
  cannot, shall not prevail with me, whatever distresses you may drive
  me to.” Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said--“Is it then,
  madam, that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and
  scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect there is some other?” Here
  he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, “My lord, I shall
  not be accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged
  to your lordship for the generous offer you have made; I own it is
  beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you
  will not insist on my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.”
   Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not perfectly
  understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either
  to sense or grammar; but he concluded his ranting speech with saying,
  “That if she had pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy
  it would make him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist.”
   Perhaps my lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we
  cannot else well account for the indignation with which he inspired
  Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he
  had given her.
  
  While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs
  Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the
  flames bursting from her eyes. “I am ashamed,” says she, “my lord, of
  the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship we are
  all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western,
  the family expect a different behaviour from you.” Here my lord
  interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt
  proceeded till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into
  a chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.
  
  The remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western and his
  lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations
  on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece
  should and would consent to all he wished. “Indeed, my lord,” says
  she, “the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her
  fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame
  for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness.
  Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good
  understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason.”
  
  This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some
  time before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she
  had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many
  expressions of thanks to Mrs Western, many ardent professions of
  passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances of
  perseverance, which Mrs Western highly encouraged, took his leave for
  this time.
  
  Before we relate what now passed between Mrs Western and Sophia, it
  may be proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened,
  and which had occasioned the return of Mrs Western with so much fury,
  as we have seen.
  
  The reader then must know that the maid who at present attended on
  Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for
  some time in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible
  girl, and had received the strictest instructions to watch her young
  lady very carefully. These instructions, we are sorry to say, were
  communicated to her by Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston
  had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the
  good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely
  obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new
  mistress.
  
  Now, when Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the
  girl), returning to her young lady, found her very attentively engaged
  in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed
  on that occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which
  the girl entertained; but indeed they had yet a stronger foundation,
  for she had overheard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and
  Mrs Miller.
  
  Mrs Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after
  receiving many commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was
  ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she
  should introduce her to Mrs Western herself.
  
  Unluckily, Mrs Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was
  engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her
  directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances
  relating to what had past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor
  woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and so
  pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the letter and
  relating to Jones.
  
  This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was
  one of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything which
  is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive
  nor defensive weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be
  imposed upon by any one who will only be at the expense of a little
  falshood for that purpose. Mrs Western, having drained Mrs Miller of
  all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient
  to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances
  that Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the
  letter, nor ever receive another; nor did she suffer her to depart
  without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to which she
  could afford no better name than that of procuress.--This discovery
  had greatly discomposed her temper, when, coming into the apartment
  next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very
  warmly protesting against his lordship's addresses. At which the rage
  already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in a
  most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what
  past at that time till his lordship's departure.
  
  No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western returned to Sophia,
  whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had
  made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in
  conversing with a man with whom she had offered but the day before to
  bind herself in the most solemn oath never more to have any
  conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such
  conversation. “How, how! Miss Western,” said the aunt; “will you deny
  your receiving a letter from him yesterday?” “A letter, madam!”
   answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. “It is not very well bred, miss,”
   replies the aunt, “to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist
  upon your showing it me immediately.” “I scorn a lie, madam,” said
  Sophia; “I did receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and,
  indeed, I may say, against my consent.” “Indeed, indeed, miss,” cries
  the aunt, “you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it at
  all; but where is the letter? for I will see it.”
  
  To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned
  an answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring she had not
  the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her
  aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this short
  question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, or no? to
  which she received the strongest negative. Mrs Western then replied
  with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early the
  next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.
  
  Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following
  manner:--“Why, madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all?
  Consider how cruel you would have thought it in your own case, and how
  much kinder your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What
  have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never marry contrary to my
  father's consent, nor without asking yours----And when I ask the
  consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force
  some other marriage upon me.” “Can I bear to hear this,” cries Mrs
  Western, “from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her
  pocket?” “I have no such letter, I promise you,” answered Sophia;
  “and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you
  any further disturbance.” “How, Miss Western!” said the aunt, “have
  you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to own your
  affection for such a villain to my face?” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia,
  “you put a very strange construction on my words.” “Indeed, Miss
  Western,” cries the lady, “I shall not bear this usage; you have
  learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you
  to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined you by this false system of
  education; and, please heaven, he shall have the comfort of its
  fruits; for once more I declare to you, that to-morrow morning I will
  carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces from the field, and
  remain henceforth, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of
  perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be regulated by my
  measures; so prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning you shall
  evacuate this house.”
  
  Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she
  said. In this resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as
  there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
  
  
  Mr Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless
  when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale
  returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his
  friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time
  employed in his service.
  
  He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the
  beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a
  man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went
  in search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought
  after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place,
  till at last he found two of them drinking together, with a third
  person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.
  
  Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was
  in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale,
  taking Jones by the hand, cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too
  much dejected at what I am going to tell you----I am sorry I am the
  messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you.” “I guess
  already what that bad news is,” cries Jones. “The poor gentleman then
  is dead.”--“I hope not,” answered Nightingale. “He was alive this
  morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I
  could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as
  you told it, your own remorse would be all you would have reason to
  apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I
  entreat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you
  disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to yourself.”
  
  “What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said Jones, “to
  stab me with so cruel a suspicion?” “Have patience,” cries
  Nightingale, “and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry
  I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present
  at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not relate
  the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it.” “Why,
  what do they say?” cries Jones. “Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as
  I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were
  at too great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you:
  but they both agree that the first blow was given by you.” “Then, upon
  my soul,” answered Jones, “they injure me. He not only struck me
  first, but struck me without the least provocation. What should induce
  those villains to accuse me falsely?” “Nay, that I cannot guess,” said
  Nightingale, “and if you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your
  friend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belie you, what
  reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they
  should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several
  times, and so did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe,
  is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you;
  for he begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man
  in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to
  which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by their
  evidence upon oath. For heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect
  yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your
  business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would
  not shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law,
  whatever verbal provocations may have been given you.” “Alas! my
  friend,” cries Jones, “what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides,
  do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a
  murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have
  the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man
  condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have
  no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly
  superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I
  merit.”
  
  He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the
  truth of what he had at first asserted.
  
  The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline
  to credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful
  report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he
  cried out most heroically, “Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as
  to what shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be
  the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the
  blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my
  honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least,
  will be believed, so far as to justify his character.”
  
  A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends,
  at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so
  few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will,
  therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted
  Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak with him when
  he was at leisure.
  
  Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, “He knew no lady
  in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there.” However, as
  he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and Mr
  Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the
  lady admitted.
  
  If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly
  was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs
  Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order
  to cure the surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a
  little wonder at the arrival of this lady.
  
  Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was,
  he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to
  remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr
  Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company
  travelled to Bath.
  
  Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that
  time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled
  that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr
  Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs Waters on the
  road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival
  at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any scruple
  accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady continued
  together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife
  they arrived together in town.
  
  Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good
  thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a
  prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged
  her office, that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to
  make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say;
  but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never
  communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once
  hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever
  mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him
  wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons who
  think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the
  safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore which
  she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was
  brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.
  
  As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a
  story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than
  usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who
  had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart
  had received a wound, which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so
  deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was
  she acquainted that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been
  committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the
  first opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of his
  nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.
  
  She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an
  immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started
  and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, “Nay, I do
  not wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me;
  for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any lady, unless
  a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little
  thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have
  been in such a place.” “Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon
  this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such
  dismal habitations.” “I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I can hardly
  persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why,
  your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can
  be the matter with you?” “I thought, madam,” said Jones, “as you knew
  of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason.” “Pugh!” says she, “you
  have pinked a man in a duel, that's all.” Jones exprest some
  indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for
  what had happened. To which she answered, “Well, then, sir, if you
  take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not
  dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The
  surgeon, indeed, who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed
  desirous of representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he
  might have the more honour from curing him: but the king's surgeon
  hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are
  at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life.”
   Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report;
  upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most
  extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and
  have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and
  says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor,
  and that you was not in the least to blame.”
  
  Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs
  Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well
  knew before, as who Mr Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his
  resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was
  ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars,
  concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and
  vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had
  been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be
  unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious
  courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his
  resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.
  
  Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of
  low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the
  devil when he was sick, and told him, “She doubted not but shortly to
  see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then,” says
  she, “I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of
  all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.”
  
  Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do
  her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor
  are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be
  treated with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest
  of this conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with
  perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of
  the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news she had
  brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the
  penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview,
  conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of
  him.
  
  Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was
  pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had
  thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with
  the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least
  doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken
  a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him
  were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in
  store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of
  the ensuing book.
  
  
  
  
  BOOK XVIII.
  
  CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
  
  
  
  Chapter i.
  
  A farewel to the reader.
  
  
  We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As
  we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us
  behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
  have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
  notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
  occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
  the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
  since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
  commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
  
  As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
  little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
  company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known
  that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever
  characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on
  the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and
  serious.
  
  In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
  work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay
  it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to
  cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
  observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes,
  perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
  to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
  most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
  and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this
  book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
  scarce sufficient to tell the story.
  
  And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other)
  of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
  companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
  anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
  things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
  most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
  question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that
  thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told
  thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more
  than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been
  treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of
  the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other
  of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence.
  
  All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
  before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short
  the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably
  outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions of his
  abusive contemporaries.
  
  
  
  Chapter ii.
  
  Containing a very tragical incident.
  
  
  While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
  we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
  with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
  standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as
  he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
  spectre himself.
  
  Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat
  shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change
  colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was
  the matter?
  
  “I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed
  I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am
  sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard
  what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. “The
  matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was that woman who
  is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was,
  Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that
  woman?” said he, trembling.--“I am afraid what past between us is no
  secret,” said Jones.--“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir,
  answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then,
  the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge;
  “but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own
  mother.”
  
  Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror
  than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with
  amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his
  words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how!
  what's this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I have not
  breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
  certainly true.--That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
  unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that
  time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived
  to bring about this wickedness.”
  
  “Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she
  hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself
  the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have
  befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What
  thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses!
  And was Mrs Waters, then--but why do I ask? for thou must certainly
  know her--If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any
  pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to
  me. O good Heavens! incest----with a mother! To what am I reserved!”
   He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and
  despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at
  last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to
  himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this
  wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was
  lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
  
  If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
  scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
  strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between
  Partridge and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr
  Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where
  the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
  circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered by
  the accurate eye, in this our history.
  
  After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
  back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in
  a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
  brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
  before he received the following letter:
  
    “SIR,
  
    “Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
    something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
    as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
    high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
    meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr
    Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the
    reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it
    was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
    sincerely your unfortunate
  
                                       “J. WATERS.”
  
    “P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr
    Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
    grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not
    among the number.”
  
  Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
  it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
  Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it
  likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and
  not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both their
  countenances. While they both remained speechless the turnkey entered
  the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently
  discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a
  man without desired to speak with him. This person was presently
  introduced, and was no other than Black George.
  
  As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the
  turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
  face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
  which was reported in the very worst light in Mr Western's family; he
  concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones
  was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave
  him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition,
  and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been
  over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the
  obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones.
  
  The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
  present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
  misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
  of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of
  money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
  heartily at your service.”
  
  Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks
  for the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least
  want of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more
  eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he
  wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give.
  “Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the matter
  so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure
  you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”
   “You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman
  is not dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for
  he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your power to do
  him any good.” “You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr
  Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I
  have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say, Mr George?” cried
  Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned?
  My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I
  hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have
  something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam
  Sophia home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not
  possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a
  vast big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as
  she went out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her
  foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I,
  but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited
  at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such
  good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and
  swore she should be her own mistress, and he never would think of
  confining her any more. I thought this news would please you, and so I
  slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it.” Mr Jones
  assured George that it did greatly please him; for though he should
  never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable creature,
  nothing could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he should
  always have in hearing of her welfare.
  
  The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not
  important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,
  forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this
  great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
  
  Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began to
  set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to the
  family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely
  refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of his
  daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion, and so
  irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience nor his
  prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued between
  them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of
  Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs
  Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her
  brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might have
  possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe it never
  once occurred to her memory at this time.
  
  When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as
  well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the
  compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against
  her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the first
  time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree acceptable to
  the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an
  entire relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no
  doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question
  succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once
  more gave a loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an
  effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affectionate heart of
  Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and something else,
  perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I much doubt whether
  she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not like, to
  have obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole
  business of her life to oblige him, and would never marry any man
  against his consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest
  happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and went to
  bed completely drunk.
  
  
  
  Chapter iii.
  
  Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he
  made on that occasion.
  
  
  The morning after these things had happened, Mr Allworthy went,
  according to his promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his
  authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three hours,
  he at last prevailed with him to consent to see his son.
  
  Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed of
  those strange chances whence very good and grave men have concluded
  that Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret
  villany, in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty,
  however warily they tread in those of vice.
  
  Mr Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr Nightingale's, saw Black George;
  he took no notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he had
  perceived him.
  
  However, when their conversation on the principal point was over,
  Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and
  upon what business he came to his house? “Yes,” answered Nightingale,
  “I know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow he is, who, in
  these days, hath been able to hoard up £500 from renting a very small
  estate of £30 a year.” “And is this the story which he hath told you?”
   cries Allworthy. “Nay, it is true, I promise you,” said Nightingale,
  “for I have the money now in my own hands, in five bank-bills, which I
  am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some purchase in the north
  of England.” The bank-bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy's
  desire than he blessed himself at the strangeness of the discovery. He
  presently told Nightingale that these bank-bills were formerly his,
  and then acquainted him with the whole affair. As there are no men who
  complain more of the frauds of business than highwaymen, gamesters,
  and other thieves of that kind, so there are none who so bitterly
  exclaim against the frauds of gamesters, &c., as usurers, brokers, and
  other thieves of this kind; whether it be that the one way of cheating
  is a discountenance or reflection upon the other, or that money, which
  is the common mistress of all cheats, makes them regard each other in
  the light of rivals; but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he
  exclaimed against the fellow in terms much severer than the justice
  and honesty of Allworthy had bestowed on him.
  
  Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret
  till he should hear farther from him; and, if he should in the
  meantime see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice to
  him of the discovery which he had made. He then returned to his
  lodgings, where he found Mrs Miller in a very dejected condition, on
  account of the information she had received from her son-in-law. Mr
  Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told her that he had much good
  news to communicate; and, with little further preface, acquainted her
  that he had brought Mr Nightingale to consent to see his son, and did
  not in the least doubt to effect a perfect reconciliation between
  them; though he found the father more sowered by another accident of
  the same kind which had happened in his family. He then mentioned the
  running away of the uncle's daughter, which he had been told by the
  old gentleman, and which Mrs Miller and her son-in-law did not yet
  know.
  
  The reader may suppose Mrs Miller received this account with great
  thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but so uncommon was her friendship
  to Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness she suffered
  for his sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at hearing a piece
  of news tending so much to the happiness of her own family; nor
  whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the obligations she
  had to Jones, did not hurt as well as please her; when her grateful
  heart said to her, “While my own family is happy, how miserable is the
  poor creature to whose generosity we owe the beginning of all this
  happiness!”
  
  Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I may
  use that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had still
  something more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure.
  “I think,” said he, “I have discovered a pretty considerable treasure
  belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps, indeed,
  his present situation may be such that it will be of no service to
  him.” The latter part of the speech gave Mrs Miller to understand who
  was meant, and she answered with a sigh, “I hope not, sir.” “I hope so
  too,” cries Allworthy, “with all my heart; but my nephew told me this
  morning he had heard a very bad account of the affair.”----“Good
  Heaven! sir,” said she--“Well, I must not speak, and yet it is
  certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one's tongue when one
  hears.”--“Madam,” said Allworthy, “you may say whatever you please,
  you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against any one; and
  as for that young man, I assure you I should be heartily pleased to
  find he could acquit himself of everything, and particularly of this
  sad affair. You can testify the affection I have formerly borne him.
  The world, I know, censured me for loving him so much. I did not
  withdraw that affection from him without thinking I had the justest
  cause. Believe me, Mrs Miller, I should be glad to find I have been
  mistaken.” Mrs Miller was going eagerly to reply, when a servant
  acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with her
  immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew, and was told that
  he had been for some time in his room with the gentleman who used to
  come to him, and whom Mr Allworthy guessing rightly to be Mr Dowling,
  he desired presently to speak with him.
  
  When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the bank-notes to
  him, without mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a
  person might be punished. To which Dowling answered, “He thought he
  might be indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of
  some nicety, it would be proper to go to counsel. He said he was to
  attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr Western's, and if Mr
  Allworthy pleased he would lay the case before them.” This was agreed
  to; and then Mrs Miller, opening the door, cried, “I ask pardon, I did
  not know you had company;” but Allworthy desired her to come in,
  saying he had finished his business. Upon which Mr Dowling withdrew,
  and Mrs Miller introduced Mr Nightingale the younger, to return thanks
  for the great kindness done him by Allworthy: but she had scarce
  patience to let the young gentleman finish his speech before she
  interrupted him, saying, “O sir! Mr Nightingale brings great news
  about poor Mr Jones: he hath been to see the wounded gentleman, who is
  out of all danger of death, and, what is more, declares he fell upon
  poor Mr Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, sir, you would not
  have Mr Jones be a coward. If I was a man myself, I am sure, if any
  man was to strike me, I should draw my sword. Do pray, my dear, tell
  Mr Allworthy, tell him all yourself.” Nightingale then confirmed what
  Mrs Miller had said; and concluded with many handsome things of Jones,
  who was, he said, one of the best-natured fellows in the world, and
  not in the least inclined to be quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was
  going to cease, when Mrs Miller again begged him to relate all the
  many dutiful expressions he had heard him make use of towards Mr
  Allworthy. “To say the utmost good of Mr Allworthy,” cries
  Nightingale, “is doing no more than strict justice, and can have no
  merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man can be more sensible of
  the obligations he hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. Indeed,
  sir, I am convinced the weight of your displeasure is the heaviest
  burthen he lies under. He hath often lamented it to me, and hath as
  often protested in the most solemn manner he hath never been
  intentionally guilty of any offence towards you; nay, he hath sworn he
  would rather die a thousand deaths than he would have his conscience
  upbraid him with one disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought
  towards you. But I ask pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to
  intermeddle too far in so tender a point.” “You have spoke no more
  than what a Christian ought,” cries Mrs Miller. “Indeed, Mr
  Nightingale,” answered Allworthy, “I applaud your generous friendship,
  and I wish he may merit it of you. I confess I am glad to hear the
  report you bring from this unfortunate gentleman; and, if that matter
  should turn out to be as you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt
  nothing of what you say), I may, perhaps, in time, be brought to think
  better than lately I have of this young man; for this good gentlewoman
  here, nay, all who know me, can witness that I loved him as dearly as
  if he had been my own son. Indeed, I have considered him as a child
  sent by fortune to my care. I still remember the innocent, the
  helpless situation in which I found him. I feel the tender pressure of
  his little hands at this moment. He was my darling, indeed he was.” At
  which words he ceased, and the tears stood in his eyes.
  
  As the answer which Mrs Miller made may lead us into fresh matters, we
  will here stop to account for the visible alteration in Mr Allworthy's
  mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions of this
  kind, it is true, do frequently occur in histories and dramatic
  writers, for no other reason than because the history or play draws to
  a conclusion, and are justified by authority of authors; yet, though
  we insist upon as much authority as any author whatever, we shall use
  this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to it by
  necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in this
  work.
  
  This alteration then in the mind of Mr Allworthy was occasioned by a
  letter he had just received from Mr Square, and which we shall give
  the reader in the beginning of the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter iv.
  
  Containing two letters in very different stiles.
  
  
    “MY WORTHY FRIEND,--I informed you in my last that I was forbidden
    the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to
    increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now
    acquaint you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my
    friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr Harrington and Dr
    Brewster have informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
  
    “I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to learn
    to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine as to shew any
    surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have so
    long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
    this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern
    philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much
    stronger support to a good mind than all the consolations that are
    drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
    enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are
    sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in
    bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real
    contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
    I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of
    atheism, or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are
    called philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern,
    have, from the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future
    state; but in reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and
    the hopes were so incertain and precarious, that it may be justly
    doubted on which side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes
    his Phaedon with declaring that his best arguments amount only to
    raise a probability; and Cicero himself seems rather to profess an
    inclination to believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of
    immortality. As to myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was
    much in earnest in this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
  
    “You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you
    it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call
    myself so. The pride of philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and
    the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks
    of old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to
    shew me my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth,
    before I sunk into utter darkness forever.
  
    “I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to
    the main purpose of this letter.
  
    “When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing
    which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
    guilty of to that poor wretch your adopted son. I have, indeed, not
    only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in
    injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you,
    on the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
    principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded
    him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your
    supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified
    any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the
    wildness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it,
    from the baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify
    the innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young
    man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity
    for friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which
    can ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be
    numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the
    contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
    his heart bled for you more than for himself.
  
    “Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing
    this from you so long; to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
    the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the
    innocent, and of making all the amends in my power for a past
    offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect
    desired, and will restore this deserving young man to your favour;
    the hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
    consolation to,
  
                    Sir,
                       Your most obliged,
                            obedient humble servant,
                                    THOMAS SQUARE.”
  
  The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so
  visibly appearing in Mr Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from
  Thwackum, by the same post, another letter of a very different kind,
  which we shall here add, as it may possibly be the last time we shall
  have occasion to mention the name of that gentleman.
  
    “SIR,
  
    “I am not at all surprized at hearing from your worthy nephew a
    fresh instance of the villany of Mr Square the atheist's young
    pupil. I shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I
    heartily pray that your own blood may not seal up his final
    commitment to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
  
    “Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many
    unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this
    wretch, so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of
    your character; I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to
    prick and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be
    wanting to my duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order
    to bring you to a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you
    seriously to consider the judgment which is likely to overtake this
    wicked villain; and let it serve at least as a warning to you, that
    you may not for the future despise the advice of one who is so
    indefatigable in his prayers for your welfare.
  
    “Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged
    much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom from his
    infancy I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession. But
    reflections of this kind now come too late.
  
    “I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily.
    I should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you
    would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.----Your
    objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
    any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it.
    If the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a
    declining way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you
    must be convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest
    welfare--a welfare to which all worldly considerations are as
    trifling as the small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when
    compared to the weighty matters of the law.
  
             I am, sir,
                  Your faithful humble servant,
                                  ROGER THWACKUM.”
  
  This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative
  stile to Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to
  repent, as in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of
  goodness for the lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never
  liked this man. He knew him to be proud and ill-natured; he also knew
  that his divinity itself was tinctured with his temper, and such as in
  many respects he himself did by no means approve; but he was at the
  same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable in teaching the
  two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life and manners, an
  unimpeached honesty, and a most devout attachment to religion. So
  that, upon the whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor love the
  man, yet he could never bring himself to part with a tutor to the
  boys, who was, both by learning and industry, extremely well qualified
  for his office; and he hoped, that as they were bred up in his own
  house, and under his own eye, he should be able to correct whatever
  was wrong in Thwackum's instructions.
  
  
  
  Chapter v.
  
  In which the history is continued.
  
  
  Mr Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas
  concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man's eyes.
  This Mrs Miller observing, said, “Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this
  poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal it;
  but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains
  said. Mr Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems
  these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr
  Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship.--I assure them I don't
  know who they will press next. Mr Nightingale here hath seen the
  officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told him
  all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never
  have done, had he known Mr Jones to have been a gentleman; but he was
  told that he was a common strolling vagabond.”
  
  Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every
  word she said. “Yes, sir,” answered she, “I believe you are.----It is
  a very different story, I believe, from what those fellows told this
  lawyer.”
  
  “What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?” said Allworthy. “Nay, nay,”
   said she, “this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but Mr
  Nightingale here saw him.” “Saw whom, madam?” answered he. “Why, your
  lawyer, sir,” said she, “that you so kindly sent to enquire into the
  affair.” “I am still in the dark, upon my honour,” said Allworthy.
  “Why then do you tell him, my dear sir,” cries she. “Indeed, sir,”
   said Nightingale, “I did see that very lawyer who went from you when I
  came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate, in company with two
  of the fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr Jones,
  and who were by that means present at the unhappy rencounter between
  him and Mr Fitzpatrick.” “I own, sir,” said Mrs Miller, “when I saw
  this gentleman come into the room to you, I told Mr Nightingale that I
  apprehended you had sent him thither to inquire into the affair.”
   Allworthy shewed marks of astonishment in his countenance at this
  news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck dumb by it. At
  last, addressing himself to Mr Nightingale, he said, “I must confess
  myself, sir, more surprized at what you tell me than I have ever been
  before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the
  gentleman?” “I am most certain,” answered Nightingale. “At
  Aldersgate?” cries Allworthy. “And was you in company with this lawyer
  and the two fellows?”--“I was, sir,” said the other, “very near half
  an hour.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “and in what manner did the
  lawyer behave? did you hear all that past between him and the
  fellows?” “No, sir,” answered Nightingale, “they had been together
  before I came.--In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I
  had several times examined the fellows, who persisted in a story
  directly contrary to what I had heard from Mr Jones, and which I find
  by Mr Fitzpatrick was a rank falshood, the lawyer then desired the
  fellows to say nothing but what was the truth, and seemed to speak so
  much in favour of Mr Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you,
  I concluded your goodness had prompted you to send him thither.”--“And
  did you not send him thither?” says Mrs Miller.--“Indeed I did not,”
   answered Allworthy; “nor did I know he had gone on such an errand till
  this moment.”--“I see it all!” said Mrs Miller, “upon my soul, I see
  it all! No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son
  Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately----find
  them out if they are above-ground. I will go myself”--“Dear madam,”
   said Allworthy, “be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant
  upstairs to call Mr Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if not,
  Mr Blifil.” Mrs Miller went out muttering something to herself, and
  presently returned with an answer, “That Mr Dowling was gone; but that
  the t'other,” as she called him, “was coming.”
  
  Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose
  spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not
  however without some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When
  Blifil came into the room, he asked him with a very serious
  countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before
  given him, “Whether he knew anything of Mr Dowling's having seen any
  of the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and another
  gentleman?”
  
  There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprize on
  a man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to defend falshood.
  For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble office it is to
  save the lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old Bailey, take the
  utmost care, by frequent previous examination, to divine every
  question which may be asked their clients on the day of tryal, that
  they may be supplyed with proper and ready answers, which the most
  fertile invention cannot supply in an instant. Besides, the sudden and
  violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these surprizes, causes
  frequently such an alteration in the countenance, that the man is
  obliged to give evidence against himself. And such indeed were the
  alterations which the countenance of Blifil underwent from this sudden
  question, that we can scarce blame the eagerness of Mrs Miller, who
  immediately cryed out, “Guilty, upon my honour! guilty, upon my soul!”
  
  Mr Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then
  turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, “Why do
  you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have
  employed him; for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have
  undertaken such an errand, and especially without acquainting me.”
  
  Blifil then answered, “I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence,
  yet may I hope your pardon?”--“My pardon,” said Allworthy, very
  angrily.--“Nay, sir,” answered Blifil, “I knew you would be offended;
  yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most amiable
  of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do not deserve it, I own
  is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself are not
  entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than one
  instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr Dowling,
  not on a vain and fruitless enquiry, but to discover the witnesses,
  and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is the truth;
  which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not deny.”
  
  “I confess,” said Nightingale, “this is the light in which it appeared
  to me from the gentleman's behaviour.”
  
  “Now, madam,” said Allworthy, “I believe you will once in your life
  own you have entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so angry with
  my nephew as you was.”
  
  Mrs Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased
  with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of Jones, yet
  in this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well as upon
  the rest; so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And, indeed, I
  look upon the vulgar observation, “That the devil often deserts his
  friends, and leaves them in the lurch,” to be a great abuse on that
  gentleman's character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who are
  only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half his; but he
  generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps
  them off in all extremities, till their bargain expires.
  
  As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is
  more perfectly established by recovery from some diseases; so anger,
  when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case of
  Mr Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion, the
  lesser, which had been raised by Square's letter, sunk of course, and
  was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly offended, bore
  alone all the reflections which Square had cast on the enemies of
  Jones.
  
  As for that young man, the resentment of Mr Allworthy began more and
  more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, “He did not only forgive
  the extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give him the
  pleasure of following his example.” Then, turning to Mrs Miller with a
  smile which would have become an angel, he cryed, “What say you,
  madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us together pay a
  visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first visit I have
  made in a prison.”
  
  Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman;
  but they must have a great deal of good-nature, and be well acquainted
  with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I
  hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil;
  but those who are will acknowledge that it was impossible for him to
  raise any objection to this visit. Fortune, however, or the gentleman
  lately mentioned above, stood his friend, and prevented his undergoing
  so great a shock; for at the very instant when the coach was sent for,
  Partridge arrived, and, having called Mrs Miller from the company,
  acquainted her with the dreadful accident lately come to light; and
  hearing Mr Allworthy's intention, begged her to find some means of
  stopping him: “For,” says he, “the matter must at all hazards be kept
  a secret from him; and if he should now go, he will find Mr Jones and
  his mother, who arrived just as I left him, lamenting over one another
  the horrid crime they have ignorantly committed.”
  
  The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his dreadful
  news, was never less capable of invention than at present. However, as
  women are much readier at this than men, she bethought herself of an
  excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, “I am sure, sir, you will
  be surprized at hearing any objection from me to the kind proposal you
  just now made; and yet I am afraid of the consequence of it, if
  carried immediately into execution. You must imagine, sir, that all
  the calamities which have lately befallen this poor young fellow must
  have thrown him into the lowest dejection of spirits; and now, sir,
  should we all on a sudden fling him into such a violent fit of joy, as
  I know your presence will occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some
  fatal mischief, especially as his servant, who is without, tells me he
  is very far from being well.”
  
  “Is his servant without?” cries Allworthy; “pray call him hither. I
  will ask him some questions concerning his master.”
  
  Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr Allworthy; but was
  at length persuaded, after Mrs Miller, who had often heard his whole
  story from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.
  
  Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room,
  though many years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs Miller,
  therefore, might have spared here a formal oration, in which, indeed,
  she was something prolix; for the reader, I believe, may have observed
  already that the good woman, among other things, had a tongue always
  ready for the service of her friends.
  
  “And are you,” said Allworthy to Partridge, “the servant of Mr Jones?”
   “I can't say, sir,” answered he, “that I am regularly a servant, but I
  live with him, an't please your honour, at present. _Non sum qualis
  eram_, as your honour very well knows.”
  
  Mr Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as to his
  health, and other matters; to all which Partridge answered, without
  having the least regard to what was, but considered only what he would
  have things appear; for a strict adherence to truth was not among the
  articles of this honest fellow's morality or his religion.
  
  During this dialogue Mr Nightingale took his leave, and presently
  after Mrs Miller left the room, when Allworthy likewise despatched
  Blifil; for he imagined that Partridge when alone with him would be
  more explicit than before company. They were no sooner left in private
  together than Allworthy began, as in the following chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vi.
  
  In which the history is farther continued
  
  
  “Sure, friend,” said the good man, “you are the strangest of all human
  beings. Not only to have suffered as you have formerly for obstinately
  persisting in a falshood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and
  to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your own son! What
  interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?”
  
  “I see, sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, “that your
  honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe
  anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but
  yet there is one above who knows that I am not the father of this
  young man.”
  
  “How!” said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was formerly
  convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what
  a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all
  which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left
  the country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.--In what
  manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet
  with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not
  deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my
  opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately
  to support his father for so many years.”
  
  “If your honour will have patience to hear me,” said Partridge, “I
  will tell you all.”--Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: “When your
  honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon
  after; for I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking I
  suppose it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me out from the
  office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the barber's
  shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor livelihood; and
  when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of £12 a
  year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was your honour's
  own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things besides)--but,
  as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now,
  as I owed two or three small debts, which began to be troublesome to
  me, particularly one[*] which an attorney brought up by law-charges
  from 15s. to near £30, and as I found all my usual means of living had
  forsook me, I packed up my little all as well as I could, and went
  off.
  
    [*] This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in
    Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with
    the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single
    action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was
    called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring
    money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the
    law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature
    itself.
  
  “The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service
  of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen
  that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a
  thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with him;
  and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry and
  oppressive.” “You need not be so particular,” said Allworthy; “I know
  this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his
  profession.”--“Well, sir,” continued Partridge, “from hence I removed
  to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another
  lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to be sure one
  of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the
  three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well again,
  had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and
  one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a
  trespass, I think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my
  neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and employed a lawyer,
  one--one--I can't think of his name; but he sent for a writ against
  me, and had me to size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me--to
  hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a
  parcel of the confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to
  drive my hogs into other folk's gardens, and a great deal more; and at
  last he said, he hoped I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market.
  To be sure, one would have thought that, instead of being owner only
  of one poor little pig, I had been the greatest hog-merchant in
  England. Well--” “Pray,” said Allworthy, “do not be so particular, I
  have heard nothing of your son yet.” “O it was a great many years,”
   answered Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call
  him.----I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork
  (for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in
  Winchester jail).”--“Well,” said Allworthy, “pass that over till your
  return to England.”--“Then, sir,” said he, “it was about half a year
  ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some time, and not finding
  it do there, and hearing of a place between that and Gloucester where
  the barber was just dead, I went thither, and there I had been about
  two months when Mr Jones came thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very
  particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well
  as he could remember, which had happened from that day to this;
  frequently interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not
  forgetting to insinuate the great love and respect which he had for
  Allworthy. He concluded with saying, “Now, sir, I have told your
  honour the whole truth.” And then repeated a most solemn protestation,
  “That he was no more the father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome;”
   and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head, if he did not speak
  truth.
  
  “What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For what
  purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be
  rather your interest to own?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he
  could hold no longer), “if your honour will not believe me, you are
  like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the
  mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”--And now
  being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in
  his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he
  had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs Miller to conceal
  from him.
  
  Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge
  himself had been while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he, “in
  what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men! How much
  beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried!”
   He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs Waters came hastily and
  abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he cried,
  “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate
  mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your honour.
  Pray, madam----”
  
  Mrs Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and
  almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr Allworthy. “I
  believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that
  you do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered Allworthy, “you are so
  very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already
  acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to
  my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which brings
  you to me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the reader
  may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct of this
  lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what Partridge
  had now delivered.
  
  Mrs Waters answered--“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business
  with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must
  desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure
  you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.”
  
  Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged
  the lady to satisfy Mr Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To
  which she answered, “You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall
  satisfy Mr Allworthy very perfectly of that matter.”
  
  Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr Allworthy and Mrs
  Waters which is written in the next chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter vii.
  
  Continuation of the history.
  
  
  Mrs Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr Allworthy could not
  refrain from saying, “I am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have
  since heard, that you have made so very ill a use----” “Mr Allworthy,”
   says she, interrupting him, “I know I have faults, but ingratitude to
  you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget your goodness,
  which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to wave all
  upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair to
  communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have given
  my maiden name of Jones.”
  
  “Have I then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an innocent man,
  in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of
  the child?” “Indeed he was not,” said Mrs Waters. “You may be pleased
  to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and I
  acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not
  having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how
  necessary it was.” “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “be pleased to
  proceed.” “You must remember, sir,” said she, “a young fellow, whose
  name was Summer.” “Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a
  clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest
  friendship.” “So it appeared, sir,” answered she; “for I believe you
  bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where, I
  think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your
  house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides
  the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much
  wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was
  indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins
  of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to
  tell me he was the father of your child.”
  
  “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “he was not.” “How!” said Allworthy, “to
  what then tends all this preface?” “To a story,” said she, “which I am
  concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear
  something which will surprize you, will grieve you.” “Speak,” said
  Allworthy, “I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be afraid to hear.”
   “Sir,” said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of your friend, educated at
  your expense, who, after living a year in the house as if he had been
  your own son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented by
  you, and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the
  father of this child.” “How!” said Allworthy; “you contradict
  yourself.” “That I do not,” answered she; “he was indeed the father of
  this child, but not by me.” “Take care, madam,” said Allworthy, “do
  not, to shun the imputation of any crime, be guilty of falshood.
  Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing, and before
  whose tribunal falshood will only aggravate your guilt.” “Indeed,
  sir,” says she, “I am not his mother; nor would I now think myself so
  for the world.” “I know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall
  rejoice as much as you to find it otherwise; yet you must remember,
  you yourself confest it before me.” “So far what I confest,” said she,
  “was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed
  it thither at the command of its mother; at her commands I afterwards
  owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both
  for my secrecy and my shame.” “Who could this woman be?” said
  Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs Waters. “By
  all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine,”
   cried he. “Indeed she was a near one.” At which words Allworthy
  started, and she continued--“You had a sister, sir.” “A sister!”
   repeated he, looking aghast.--“As there is truth in heaven,” cries
  she, “your sister was the mother of that child you found between your
  sheets.” “Can it be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!” “Have
  patience, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “and I will unfold to you the whole
  story. Just after your departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day
  to the house of my mother. She was pleased to say she had heard an
  extraordinary character of me, for my learning and superior
  understanding to all the young women there, so she was pleased to say.
  She then bid me come to her to the great house; where, when I
  attended, she employed me to read to her. She expressed great
  satisfaction in my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and made me
  many presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of
  secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory answers, that, at last,
  having locked the door of her room, she took me into her closet, and
  then locking that door likewise, she said she should convince me of
  the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by communicating a secret
  in which her honour, and consequently her life, was concerned. She
  then stopt, and after a silence of a few minutes, during which she
  often wiped her eyes, she enquired of me if I thought my mother might
  safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her
  fidelity. She then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in
  her breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than
  she afterwards suffered in child-birth. It was then contrived that my
  mother and myself only should attend at the time, and that Mrs Wilkins
  should be sent out of the way, as she accordingly was, to the very
  furthest part of Dorsetshire, to enquire the character of a servant;
  for the lady had turned away her own maid near three months before;
  during all which time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she
  said, though, as she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy
  for the place. This, and many other such things which she used to say
  of me, were all thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins
  might hereafter have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it
  could never be believed she would venture to hurt a young woman with
  whom she had intrusted such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was
  well paid for all these affronts, which, together with being informed
  with the occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady
  had a greater suspicion of Mrs Wilkins than of any other person; not
  that she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought
  her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I
  have often heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs Wilkins had committed
  a murder, she believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the
  expected day came, and Mrs Wilkins, who had been kept a week in
  readiness, and put off from time to time, upon some pretence or other,
  that she might not return too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was
  born, in the presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my
  mother conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept by her
  till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss
  Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all
  suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful conduct of your
  sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and that any regard she
  shewed him was out of meer complacence to you.”
  
  Mrs Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story,
  and concluded by saying, “Thus, sir, you have at last discovered your
  nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I question
  not but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you under that
  appellation.”
  
  “I need not, madam,” said Allworthy, “express my astonishment at what
  you have told me; and yet surely you would not, and could not, have
  put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I confess I
  recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which formerly gave
  me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I mentioned it to
  her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well on his own
  account as on his father's, that I should willingly have consented to
  a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain of my unkind
  suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the
  subject. Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.--Yet sure
  it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this secret
  with her out of the world.” “I promise you, sir,” said Mrs Waters,
  “she always profest a contrary intention, and frequently told me she
  intended one day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was
  highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had
  of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child, that it was yet
  unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh! sir, had that lady
  lived to have seen this poor young man turned like a vagabond from
  your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that you had
  yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he
  was not guilty----Forgive me, Mr Allworthy, I must say it was
  unkind.--Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved it of you.”
   “Indeed, madam,” said Allworthy, “I have been abused by the person,
  whoever he was, that told you so.” “Nay, sir,” said she, “I would not
  be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of any wrong.
  The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said,
  taking me for Mr Fitzpatrick's wife, that, if Mr Jones had murdered my
  husband, I should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the
  prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well
  apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It was by this man I found
  out who Mr Jones was; and this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr Jones
  tells me is your steward. I discovered his name by a very odd
  accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but Partridge, who met
  him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew him formerly at
  Salisbury.”
  
  “And did this Mr Dowling,” says Allworthy, with great astonishment
  in his countenance, “tell you that I would assist in the
  prosecution?”--“No, sir,” answered she, “I will not charge him
  wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name.
  Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it could
  be no other.”--“Indeed, madam,” says Allworthy, “from circumstances I
  am too well convinced it was another. Good Heaven! by what wonderful
  means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes discovered!--Shall
  I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have mentioned comes,
  for I expect him every minute? nay, he may be, perhaps, already in the
  house.”
  
  Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when in
  came, not Mr Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the next
  chapter.
  
  
  
  Chapter viii.
  
  Further continuation.
  
  
  The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr Western. He no
  sooner saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least the
  presence of Mrs Waters, he began to vociferate in the following
  manner: “Fine doings at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have
  discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued with a daughter?”
   “What's the matter, neighbour?” said Allworthy. “Matter enough,”
   answered Western: “when I thought she was just a coming to; nay, when
  she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when I
  was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the
  lawyer, and finished all; what do you think I have found out? that the
  little b-- hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying
  on a correspondence with that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I
  have quarrelled with upon her account, sent me word o't, and I ordered
  her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un
  signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience to
  read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of parson Supple's sermons;
  but I find plainly it is all about love; and indeed what should it be
  else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-morrow morning
  down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married
  directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water
  all her days; and the sooner such a b-- breaks her heart the better,
  though, d--n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long
  enough to plague me.” “Mr Western,” answered Allworthy, “you know I
  have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that
  none should be used.” “Ay,” cries he, “that was only upon condition
  that she would consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus!
  shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire
  nothing but her own good?” “Well, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “if
  you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young
  lady.” “Will you?” said Western; “why that is kind now, and
  neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do
  with her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you.”
   “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “if you will go home, and release the
  young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within this
  half-hour.” “But suppose,” said Western, “she should run away with un
  in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of
  hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, and like to do
  well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again presently.”
   “How!” said Allworthy; “what, did you employ him then to enquire or to
  do anything in that matter?” “Not I,” answered Western, “he mentioned
  it to me just now of his own accord.” “Just now!” cries Allworthy,
  “why, where did you see him then? I want much to see Mr Dowling.”
   “Why, you may see un an you will presently at my lodgings; for there
  is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a mortgage.
  'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand pounds, I believe, by that
  honest gentleman, Mr Nightingale.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “I
  will be with you within the half-hour.” “And do for once,” cries the
  squire, “take a fool's advice; never think of dealing with her by
  gentle methods, take my word for it those will never do. I have tried
  'um long enough. She must be frightened into it, there is no other
  way. Tell her I'm her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience,
  and of the dreadful punishment of it in t'other world, and then tell
  her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being
  kept only on bread and water.” “I will do all I can,” said Allworthy;
  “for I promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance
  with this amiable creature.” “Nay, the girl is well enough for matter
  o' that,” cries the squire; “a man may go farther and meet with worse
  meat; that I may declare o'her, thof she be my own daughter. And if
  she will but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a
  hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better than I do;
  but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and
  expect you; and so your humble servant.”
  
  As soon as Mr Western was gone Mrs Waters said, “I see, sir, the
  squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr
  Allworthy, you would not have known me neither. I am very considerably
  altered since that day when you so kindly gave me that advice, which I
  had been happy had I followed.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it
  gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary.” “Indeed, sir,”
   says she, “I was ruined by a very deep scheme of villany, which if you
  knew, though I pretend not to think it would justify me in your
  opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence, and induce you to pity
  me: you are not now at leisure to hear my whole story; but this I
  assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn promises of marriage;
  nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to him; for, after much
  reading on the subject, I am convinced that particular ceremonies are
  only requisite to give a legal sanction to marriage, and have only a
  worldly use in giving a woman the privileges of a wife; but that she
  who lives constant to one man, after a solemn private affiance,
  whatever the world may call her, hath little to charge on her own
  conscience.” “I am sorry, madam,” said Allworthy, “you made so ill a
  use of your learning. Indeed, it would have been well that you had
  been possessed of much more, or had remained in a state of ignorance.
  And yet, madam, I am afraid you have more than this sin to answer
  for.” “During his life,” answered she, “which was above a dozen years,
  I most solemnly assure you I had not. And consider, sir, on my behalf,
  what is in the power of a woman stript of her reputation and left
  destitute; whether the good-natured world will suffer such a stray
  sheep to return to the road of virtue, even if she was never so
  desirous. I protest, then, I would have chose it had it been in my
  power; but necessity drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with
  whom, though still unmarried, I lived as a wife for many years, and
  went by his name. I parted with this gentleman at Worcester, on his
  march against the rebels, and it was then I accidentally met with Mr
  Jones, who rescued me from the hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the
  worthiest of men. No young gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer
  from vice, and few have the twentieth part of his virtues; nay,
  whatever vices he hath had, I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a
  resolution to abandon them.” “I hope he hath,” cries Allworthy, “and I
  hope he will preserve that resolution. I must say, I have still the
  same hopes with regard to yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to
  be too unmerciful on these occasions; yet time and perseverance will
  get the better of this their disinclination, as I may call it, to
  pity; for though they are not, like heaven, ready to receive a
  penitent sinner; yet a continued repentance will at length obtain
  mercy even with the world. This you may be assured of, Mrs Waters,
  that whenever I find you are sincere in such good intentions, you
  shall want no assistance in my power to make them effectual.”
  
  Mrs Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of
  tears, made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his goodness,
  which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than human
  nature.
  
  Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making
  use of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort
  her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Dowling, who, upon
  his first entrance, seeing Mrs Waters, started, and appeared in some
  confusion; from which he soon recovered himself as well as he could,
  and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr
  Western's lodgings; but, however, thought it his duty to call and
  acquaint him with the opinion of counsel upon the case which he had
  before told him, which was that the conversion of the moneys in that
  case could not be questioned in a criminal cause, but that an action
  of trover might be brought, and if it appeared to the jury to be the
  moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for the
  value.
  
  Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and
  then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, “Whatever be
  your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do
  you know this lady?”--“That lady, sir!” answered Dowling, with great
  hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said, “Look
  you, Mr Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a moment
  longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but answer
  faithfully and truly to every question I ask.----Do you know this
  lady?”--“Yes, sir,” said Dowling, “I have seen the lady.” “Where,
  sir?” “At her own lodgings.”--“Upon what business did you go thither,
  sir; and who sent you?” “I went, sir, to enquire, sir, about Mr
  Jones.” “And who sent you to enquire about him?” “Who, sir? why, sir,
  Mr Blifil sent me.” “And what did you say to the lady concerning that
  matter?” “Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word.” “Will
  you please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory?” “He told me,
  sir,” said Mrs Waters, “that if Mr Jones had murdered my husband, I
  should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution,
  by a very worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what a villain I had
  to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were the very words he
  spoke.”--“Were these the words, sir?” said Allworthy. “I cannot charge
  my memory exactly,” cries Dowling, “but I believe I did speak to that
  purpose.”--“And did Mr Blifil order you to say so?” “I am sure, sir, I
  should not have gone on my own accord, nor have willingly exceeded my
  authority in matters of this kind. If I said so, I must have so
  understood Mr Blifil's instructions.” “Look you, Mr Dowling,” said
  Allworthy; “I promise you before this lady, that whatever you have
  done in this affair by Mr Blifil's order I will forgive, provided you
  now tell me strictly the truth; for I believe what you say, that you
  would not have acted of your own accord and without authority in this
  matter.----Mr Blifil then likewise sent you to examine the two fellows
  at Aldersgate?”--“He did, sir.” “Well, and what instructions did he
  then give you? Recollect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as
  possible, the very words he used.”--“Why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me to
  find out the persons who were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he
  feared they might be tampered with by Mr Jones, or some of his
  friends. He said, blood required blood; and that not only all who
  concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in their power to
  bring him to justice, were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you
  was very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it
  was not proper you should appear in it.” “He did so?” says
  Allworthy.--“Yes, sir,” cries Dowling; “I should not, I am sure, have
  proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other person living but
  your worship.”--“What lengths, sir?” said Allworthy.--“Nay, sir,”
   cries Dowling, “I would not have your worship think I would, on any
  account, be guilty of subornation of perjury; but there are two ways
  of delivering evidence. I told them, therefore, that if any offers
  should be made them on the other side, they should refuse them, and
  that they might be assured they should lose nothing by being honest
  men, and telling the truth. I said, we were told that Mr Jones had
  assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, they
  should declare it; and I did give them some hints that they should be
  no losers.”--“I think you went lengths indeed,” cries
  Allworthy.--“Nay, sir,” answered Dowling, “I am sure I did not desire
  them to tell an untruth;----nor should I have said what I did, unless
  it had been to oblige you.”--“You would not have thought, I believe,”
   says Allworthy, “to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr Jones
  was my own nephew.”--“I am sure, sir,” answered he, “it did not become
  me to take any notice of what I thought you desired to
  conceal.”--“How!” cries Allworthy, “and did you know it then?”--“Nay,
  sir,” answered Dowling, “if your worship bids me speak the truth, I am
  sure I shall do it.--Indeed, sir, I did know it; for they were almost
  the last words which Madam Blifil ever spoke, which she mentioned to
  me as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the letter I
  brought your worship from her.”--“What letter?” cries Allworthy.--“The
  letter, sir,” answered Dowling, “which I brought from Salisbury, and
  which I delivered into the hands of Mr Blifil.”--“O heavens!” cries
  Allworthy: “Well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to
  you?”--“She took me by the hand,” answered he, “and, as she delivered
  me the letter, said, `I scarce know what I have written. Tell my
  brother, Mr Jones is his nephew--He is my son.--Bless him,' says she,
  and then fell backward, as if dying away. I presently called in the
  people, and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes
  afterwards.”--Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes;
  and then, turning to Dowling, said, “How came you, sir, not to deliver
  me this message?” “Your worship,” answered he, “must remember that you
  was at that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed
  I always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr Blifil, who told
  me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he
  did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr Jones, and
  partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it mentioned,
  and did intend to conceal it from the world; and therefore, sir, if
  you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have
  thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to
  your worship or any other person.”
  
  We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to
  convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present; for
  Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not
  imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In
  reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling were the
  motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly
  saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to
  make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, joined to the
  threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had
  made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares, and
  had no time to consider of evasions.
  
  Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having
  enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that
  gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was
  returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last
  deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed
  below-stairs.
  
  As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs Miller in the entry,
  who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him, “O! sir, I
  find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do
  not on this account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was
  ignorant it was his own mother; and the discovery itself will most
  probably break his heart, without your unkindness.”
  
  “Madam,” says Allworthy, “I am under such an astonishment at what I
  have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me
  into my room. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries,
  and you shall soon know them.”
  
  The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to
  Mrs Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs Miller,
  said, “What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the
  services she hath done me?--O! Mrs Miller, you have a thousand times
  heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend, my
  son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all.--Your
  friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper
  which I have so long nourished in my bosom.--She will herself tell you
  the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed,
  Mrs Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have
  been abused; abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a
  villain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains.”
  
  The joy which Mrs Miller now felt bereft her of the power of speech,
  and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had
  not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At
  length, recovering so far from her transport as to be able to speak,
  she cried, “And is my dear Mr Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the
  son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I
  live to see him as happy as he deserves?” “He certainly is my nephew,”
   says Allworthy, “and I hope all the rest.”--“And is this the dear good
  woman, the person,” cries she, “to whom all this discovery is
  owing?”--“She is indeed,” says Allworthy.--“Why, then,” cried Mrs
  Miller, upon her knees, “may Heaven shower down its choicest blessings
  upon her head, and for this one good action forgive her all her sins,
  be they never so many!”
  
  Mrs Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very
  shortly be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with a
  nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that
  Mr Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his
  prisoner his liberty.
  
  Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his
  return home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of
  consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and
  presently left the two ladies together.
  
  Mr Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon
  his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked
  his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man
  whither he is going: to which the other making no answer, he again
  desired to know when he would be pleased to return?--Allworthy made no
  answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and
  then, turning about, he said--“Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my
  return, the letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed.”
   Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied
  only by a man who is just going to be hanged.
  
  
  
  Chapter ix.
  
  A further continuation.
  
  
  Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading
  the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him; and
  there were some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears
  from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr Western's, and was
  introduced to Sophia.
  
  When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady had
  taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which the
  latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing
  with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance
  and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a little
  disconcerted, began thus: “I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath
  been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I fear, I
  have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured,
  madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals had been, I
  should not have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope,
  therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble
  you with any further solicitations of that kind, but entirely to
  relieve you from them.”
  
  “Sir,” said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, “this behaviour
  is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr
  Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you
  will pardon me for saying it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness,
  and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from
  a father who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest
  of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to
  resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our own
  power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his
  favour.” “I assure you, most amiable young lady,” said Allworthy, “I
  am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son, and
  had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly,
  madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be
  directed by another.” “Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “every word you
  speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent
  character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less
  than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist
  the commands of my father.” “I sincerely believe you, madam,” replied
  Allworthy, “and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent
  foresight, since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided
  misery indeed!” “You speak now, Mr Allworthy,” cries she, “with a
  delicacy which few men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my
  opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must
  be a state of wretchedness.----Perhaps that wretchedness would be
  even increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom we
  cannot give our affections. If I had married Mr Blifil--” “Pardon my
  interrupting you, madam,” answered Allworthy, “but I cannot bear the
  supposition.--Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I
  rejoice in your escape.--I have discovered the wretch for whom you
  have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a
  villain.” “How, sir!” cries Sophia--“you must believe this surprizes
  me.”--“It hath surprized me, madam,” answered Allworthy, “and so it
  will the world.----But I have acquainted you with the real truth.”
   “Nothing but truth,” says Sophia, “can, I am convinced, come from the
  lips of Mr Allworthy.----Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected
  news.----Discovered, you say----may villany be ever so!”--“You will
  soon enough hear the story,” cries Allworthy;--“at present let us not
  mention so detested a name.--I have another matter of a very serious
  nature to propose.--O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can
  I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to it.--I have a
  near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I am convinced,
  the very opposite to that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will
  make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you
  would admit a visit from him?” Sophia, after a minute's silence,
  answered, “I will deal with the utmost sincerity with Mr Allworthy.
  His character, and the obligation I have just received from him,
  demand it. I have determined at present to listen to no such
  proposals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to the
  affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family.
  This, sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me beseech you,
  let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who know
  you, have experienced, do not, the very moment when you have released
  me from one persecution, do not engage me in another as miserable and
  as fruitless.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” replied Allworthy, “I am
  capable of no such conduct; and if this be your resolution, he must
  submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer under
  it.” “I must smile now, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “when you
  mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and who can
  consequently have so little acquaintance with me.” “Pardon me, dear
  young lady,” cries Allworthy, “I begin now to be afraid he hath had
  too much acquaintance for the repose of his future days; since, if
  ever man was capable of a sincere, violent, and noble passion, such,
  I am convinced, is my unhappy nephew's for Miss Western.” “A nephew
  of your's, Mr Allworthy!” answered Sophia. “It is surely strange. I
  never heard of him before.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it is
  only the circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a
  stranger, and which, till this day, was a secret to me.--Mr Jones,
  who has long loved you, he! he is my nephew!” “Mr Jones your nephew,
  sir!” cries Sophia, “can it be possible?”--“He is, indeed, madam,”
   answered Allworthy; “he is my own sister's son--as such I shall
  always own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more
  ashamed of my past behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his
  merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him
  cruelly----Indeed I have.”--Here the good man wiped his eyes, and
  after a short pause proceeded--“I never shall be able to reward him
  for his sufferings without your assistance.----Believe me, most
  amiable young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which
  I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; but there
  is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there
  is.” Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently
  received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from
  the hurry of spirits into which so strange and sudden information had
  thrown her: “I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a discovery in which
  you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all
  the comfort you can promise yourself from it. The young gentleman
  hath certainly a thousand good qualities, which makes it impossible
  he should not behave well to such an uncle.”--“I hope, madam,” said
  Allworthy, “he hath those good qualities which must make him a good
  husband.--He must, I am sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a
  lady of your merit should condescend--” “You must pardon me, Mr
  Allworthy,” answered Sophia; “I cannot listen to a proposal of this
  kind. Mr Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit; but I shall never
  receive Mr Jones as one who is to be my husband--Upon my honour I
  never will.”--“Pardon me, madam,” cries Allworthy, “if I am a little
  surprized, after what I have heard from Mr Western--I hope the
  unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if
  he had ever the honour to enjoy it.--Perhaps, he may have been
  misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villany may have
  injured him everywhere.--He is no murderer, I assure you; as he hath
  been called.”--“Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “I have told you my
  resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you; but,
  whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I
  have given no occasion for them; since it hath always been a fixed
  principle with me, never to have married without his consent. This
  is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent; and this, I hope,
  nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do not
  indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to
  marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of
  this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house,
  and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and
  if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own
  conscience will acquit me.” “I hear you, Miss Western,” cries
  Allworthy, “with admiration. I admire the justness of your
  sentiments; but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of
  offending you, young lady; but am I to look on all which I have
  hitherto heard or seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much
  cruelty from your father on the account of a man to whom you have
  been always absolutely indifferent?” “I beg, Mr Allworthy,” answered
  Sophia, “you will not insist on my reasons;--yes, I have suffered
  indeed; I will not, Mr Allworthy, conceal----I will be very sincere
  with you--I own I had a great opinion of Mr Jones--I believe--I know
  I have suffered for my opinion--I have been treated cruelly by my
  aunt, as well as by my father; but that is now past--I beg I may not
  be farther pressed; for, whatever hath been, my resolution is now
  fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues--he hath great virtues, Mr
  Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the world, and
  make you happy.”--“I wish I could make him so, madam,” replied
  Allworthy; “but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that
  conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favour.”
   “You are deceived indeed, sir; you are deceived,” said Sophia. “I
  hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me. Mr Allworthy,
  I must insist on being pressed no farther on this subject. I should
  be sorry--nay, I will not injure him in your favour. I wish Mr Jones
  very well. I sincerely wish him well; and I repeat it again to you,
  whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good
  qualities. I do not disown my former thoughts; but nothing can ever
  recal them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would
  more resolutely reject than Mr Jones; nor would the addresses of Mr
  Blifil himself be less agreeable to me.”
  
  Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference, and
  was just now arrived at the door to listen; when, having heard the
  last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and,
  bursting open the door in a rage, cried out--“It is a lie! It is a
  d--n'd lie! It is all owing to that d--n'd rascal Jones; and if she
  could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day.” Here Allworthy
  interposed, and addressing himself to the squire with some anger in
  his look, he said, “Mr Western, you have not kept your word with me.
  You promised to abstain from all violence.”--“Why, so I did,” cries
  Western, “as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench telling such
  confounded lies----Zounds! doth she think, if she can make vools of
  other volk, she can make one of me?--No, no, I know her better than
  thee dost.” “I am sorry to tell you, sir,” answered Allworthy, “it
  doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady, that you know
  her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our intimacy,
  your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your daughter,
  Mr Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I was capable
  of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any other man
  whatever.”--“Odrabbit it!” cries the squire, “I wish she was thine,
  with all my heart--wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the trouble o'
  her.” “Indeed, my good friend,” answered Allworthy, “you yourself are
  the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that confidence in
  the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will
  be the happiest father on earth.”--“I confidence in her?” cries the
  squire. “'Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won't
  do as I would ha' her? Let her gi' but her consent to marry as I would
  ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha'
  me.”--“You have no right, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “to insist
  on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and
  God and nature have thought proper to allow you no more.”--“A negative
  voice!” cries the squire, “Ay! ay! I'll show you what a negative voice
  I ha.--Go along, go into your chamber, go, you stubborn----.” “Indeed,
  Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “indeed you use her cruelly--I cannot
  bear to see this--you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder
  manner. She deserves the best of treatment.” “Yes, yes,” said the
  squire, “I know what she deserves: now she's gone, I'll shew you what
  she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady
  Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me to understand that the
  fellow is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all
  the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don't
  know what it is to govern a daughter.”
  
  The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity;
  and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with the
  whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to
  Blifil, and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the
  reader in the preceding chapters.
  
  Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
  changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr
  Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily
  with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and became as
  eager for her marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her
  to Blifil.
  
  Here Mr Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what
  had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great
  surprize.
  
  The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at
  this account.--At last he cried out, “Why, what can be the meaning of
  this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o'un she was, that I'll be sworn
  to.----Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the
  very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a
  hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at
  my cousin my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's
  certain--but d--n me if he shall ha her--I'll ha no lords nor
  courtiers in my vamily.”
  
  Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution
  to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly recommended gentle
  methods to Mr Western, as those by which he might be assured of
  succeeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and
  returned back to Mrs Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest
  entreaties of the squire, in promising to bring Mr Jones to visit him
  that afternoon, that he might, as he said, “make all matters up with
  the young gentleman.” At Mr Allworthy's departure, Western promised to
  follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, “I don't know
  how 'tis, but d--n me, Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just
  as you please; and yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the
  commission of the peace as well as yourself.”
  
  
  Chapter x.
  
  Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
  
  
  When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just
  arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty
  chamber, whither he ordered Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.
  
  It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
  meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader
  may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret
  of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides
  are indeed beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore attempt
  it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had
  prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my child!” he
  cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends
  can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I
  have entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to
  you?” “Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my
  sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly
  repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers,
  unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast
  upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be
  once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous
  benefactor.”--“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you
  cruelly.”----He then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and
  again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having been
  induced by that treachery to use him so ill. “O, talk not so!”
   answered Jones; “indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man
  might be deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best
  must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the
  midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that
  goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on
  self-accusation, by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas!
  sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved; and it shall
  be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happiness you
  now bestow on me; for, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath
  not been thrown away upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a
  hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past
  life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet
  I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be
  ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful
  consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of
  destruction.” “I am rejoiced, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “to
  hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good
  Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was never among
  your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom,
  to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am
  now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the
  duty which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own
  enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is
  deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the
  foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to
  build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will
  reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from
  this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them
  only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to
  avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this
  great difference between those faults which candor may construe into
  imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The
  former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he
  reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
  world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and
  he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers
  he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is
  irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash
  away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will
  abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will
  go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is
  afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here
  his murdered conscience will haunt him.--Repose, like a false friend,
  will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself;
  if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels; if
  forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till, like a
  condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present
  condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to
  relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is
  not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered
  you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that
  destruction to which a persistance in even those errors must have led
  you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such,
  that happiness seems in your own power.” At these words Jones fetched
  a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, “Sir, I
  will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my
  vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost
  a treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy; “I will be
  explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen the young lady,
  and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as
  an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the
  stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To
  abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it
  shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from
  solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further
  constraint to my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment
  her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's; but I
  am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence,
  no more uneasy hours.” “O, my dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I
  beseech you, some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in
  obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey
  you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am
  so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of
  forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her
  misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the
  greatest, and now the only additional blessing which heaven can
  bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone.” “I will
  not flatter you, child,” cries Allworthy; “I fear your case is
  desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in
  any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against
  receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you can account better
  than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can account too well,” answered Jones; “I
  have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am,
  my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the
  real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable;
  and all your goodness cannot save me from perdition.”
  
  A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for
  his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon
  which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to
  entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself;
  to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be
  shewn into a parlour, went down to him.
  
  Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet
  seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the
  room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his
  new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could
  give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so
  inexorable I never saw.”
  
  Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant.
  “Why then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, and have
  explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son
  Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of
  that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take
  his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the
  letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the
  letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her
  account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your
  profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a single
  instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town: I am
  afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your future
  behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can;
  but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she had
  forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such
  detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely
  silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness of her
  accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and
  one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could
  have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a
  sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. `I once fancied madam.'
  and she, `I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr Jones; and
  for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire profligacy of
  manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a
  good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains
  of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an angelic creature,
  that is the truth on't.” “O, Mrs Miller!” answered Jones, “can I bear
  to think that I have lost such an angel?” “Lost! no,” cries Mrs
  Miller; “I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such
  vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes, nay, if she would remain
  inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young lady,
  and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I
  heard of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I
  went a little beyond the truth again; for I told her you had refused
  her; but indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you
  a little comfort; when I mentioned the young lady's name, who is no
  other than the pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but when
  I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over
  scarlet in an instant; and these were her very words: `I will not deny
  but that I believe he has some affection for me.'”
  
  Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who
  could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of
  Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful
  power over him.
  
  Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend Tom,
  I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I
  could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here
  knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and
  where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One
  Christian must forget and forgive another.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones,
  “I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as
  for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.” “A't,”
   says Western, “then give me thy fist; a't as hearty an honest cock as
  any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy
  mistress this moment.” Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire being
  unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some
  litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia
  till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to
  Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western, was
  prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.
  
  The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which,
  had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our
  reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very
  material, it shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted
  as to the afternoon visit Mr Western again returned home.
  
  
  
  Chapter xi.
  
  The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
  
  
  When Mr Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr Allworthy and
  Mrs Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who,
  together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr Nightingale's, had
  attended the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on
  the surgeons' oaths, that the wounded person was out of all manner of
  danger from his wound, he was discharged.
  
  One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no
  more than once; but the other had greatly surprized him by asking his
  pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned,
  he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was.
  
  Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till
  afterwards, was this:--The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had employed,
  according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a
  vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lordship
  the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the
  behaviour of Mr Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord
  that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a
  gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a man of
  honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action which the
  world in general would have condemned, began to be much concerned for
  the advice which he had taken.
  
  Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with
  the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his
  company with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did
  not do strict justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said
  she was the most innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from
  compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an
  intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in
  order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation
  from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life,
  if she should ever return to be under the power of her husband. Lord
  Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more
  concerning Jones and the circumstances of the duel; for he was by no
  means easy concerning the part he had acted. The moment his lordship
  gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it
  was eagerly embraced by the other nobleman, who depended much on the
  authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly contribute
  to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the right;
  for the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken
  the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of separation
  were soon drawn up and signed between the parties.
  
  Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs Waters concerning
  the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some
  other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he
  spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame
  upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a
  gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord's further enquiry
  concerning Mr Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman
  of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just
  received from Mrs Waters after her interview with Dowling.
  
  Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power
  to make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured,
  and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over
  all thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr Jones's liberty,
  being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the
  wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to
  accompany him to the place where Jones was confined, to whom he
  behaved as we have already related.
  
  When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones
  into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well
  what he had heard from Mrs Waters as what he had discovered from Mr
  Dowling.
  
  Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this
  account, but without making any comment or observation upon it. And
  now a message was brought from Mr Blifil, desiring to know if his
  uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started
  and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe he
  had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not.
  “Consider, dear sir,” cries Jones, in a trembling voice. “I have
  considered,” answered Allworthy, “and you yourself shall carry my
  message to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own
  ruin so properly as the man whose ruin he hath so villanously
  contrived.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a moment's reflection
  will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be
  but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to
  whom?--my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so
  barbarously--indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than
  anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad
  dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only from black and
  rancorous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me
  beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your
  anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard.”
   Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said,
  with tears gushing from his eyes, “O my child! to what goodness have I
  been so long blind!”
  
  Mrs Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which
  was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor
  woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the
  most ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened; then,
  running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying, “My dearest
  friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest
  day.” And next Mr Allworthy himself received the same congratulations.
  To which he answered, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs Miller, I am beyond
  expression happy.” Some few more raptures having passed on all sides,
  Mrs Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour,
  where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled--being
  indeed no other than Mr Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin
  Harriet with her bridegroom.
  
  Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had
  ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment,
  for that they had much private business to discourse of; but would not
  resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part
  of her society at supper.
  
  Mrs Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? “for indeed,”
   says she, “I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my
  house.”--Allworthy answered, “He was as uneasy as herself on the same
  account.” “Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case, leave the matter to
  me, I'll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you.
  Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” “There will be no
  need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; “if you will carry him a
  message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord.”
   “Will I?” said Mrs Miller; “I never did anything in my life with a
  better will.” Here Jones interfered, and said, “He had considered the
  matter better, and would, if Mr Allworthy pleased, be himself the
  messenger. I know,” says he, “already enough of your pleasure, sir,
  and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me
  beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the dreadful consequences
  of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit, alas! is this
  poor man to die in his present situation.” This suggestion had not the
  least effect on Mrs Miller. She left the room, crying, “You are too
  good, Mr Jones, infinitely too good to live in this world.” But it
  made a deeper impression on Allworthy. “My good child,” said he, “I am
  equally astonished at the goodness of your heart, and the quickness of
  your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that this wretch should be
  deprived of any means or time for repentance! That would be a shocking
  consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own
  discretion; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness;
  for I shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me,
  and that extends not either to our bounty or our conversation.”
  
  Jones went up to Blifil's room, whom he found in a situation which
  moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in
  many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning
  himself to despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears as flow
  from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which have been
  seduced or surprized into it unawares, against the bent of their
  natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty,
  even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief
  sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that concern which
  the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for
  themselves.
  
  It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length.
  Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess.
  He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and
  comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him
  the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening.
  He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his
  hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would
  endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave
  nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.
  
  Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether
  he should yet deny all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong
  against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked
  pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself
  on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short he was now as remarkably
  mean as he had been before remarkably wicked.
  
  Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little
  discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He
  raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised
  him to bear his afflictions more like a man; repeating, at the same
  time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to lessen them;
  for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness, poured
  forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he would
  immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.
  
  Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery
  which he had made concerning the £500 bank-notes. “I have,” said he,
  “already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment,
  that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I
  consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I think a
  highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person.”
  
  “Good Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible?--I am shocked beyond
  measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in
  the world.----The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to
  withstand; for smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand.
  Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness rather
  than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves me, and
  hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I believe
  he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or two
  ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he
  visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I wanted.
  Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter
  distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which must put
  him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the
  like.”
  
  “Child,” cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving temper too far.
  Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on injustice,
  and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The
  dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never
  his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any
  temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and
  merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I
  have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the
  grand jury; and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf
  of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but
  when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty,
  murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then
  become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be
  punished; at least as far as I can punish him.”
  
  This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper
  to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr Western now drew
  so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore
  ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where
  Partridge attended, according to order, with his cloaths.
  
  Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The
  poor fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He
  behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he
  was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing
  himself on the stage.
  
  His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected
  now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had
  remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit
  the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones;
  and concluded with saying, “I always told your honour something boded
  in my mind that you would one time or other have it in your power to
  make my fortune.” Jones assured him that this boding should as
  certainly be verified with regard to him as all the other omens had
  been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which
  the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his master.
  
  
  
  Chapter xii.
  
  Approaching still nearer to the end.
  
  
  Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr
  Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and
  his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but
  we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she
  formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit
  only, to recommend her work.
  
  Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best
  advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so
  extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not
  forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest
  creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper,
  overheard by all present, “So much the better for Tom;--for d--n me if
  he shan't ha the tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these
  words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was
  almost ready to sink from his chair.
  
  The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out
  of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and
  must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.
  
  The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange
  to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when
  danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so
  eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars lay in their
  way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever
  they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless;
  insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might have well
  concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was, however
  strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the
  ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence.
  
  Mr Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but
  was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some
  broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and
  partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew well
  enough he was endeavouring to open, said--
  
  “Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this
  discovery.” “And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said
  Jones, sighing, “while I have incurred your displeasure?”--“Nay, sir,”
   says she, “as to that you best know whether you have deserved it.”
   “Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you yourself are as well apprized of
  all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth.
  O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?”--“I think, Mr
  Jones,” said she, “I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave
  it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct.”--“Alas! madam,”
   answered he, “it is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your
  hands. Justice I know must condemn me.--Yet not for the letter I sent
  to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true
  account.” He then insisted much on the security given him by
  Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their
  expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confest
  that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter
  as that into her power, “which,” said he, “I have dearly paid for, in
  the effect it has upon you.” “I do not, I cannot,” says she, “believe
  otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think,
  shews you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr
  Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at Upton, so soon
  to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you
  pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you have acted
  strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest to me to be
  sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a
  man capable of so much inconstancy?” “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “do not
  doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human
  breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my
  despair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with the most
  distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your feet in
  the manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any other
  woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity could
  have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness
  enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future
  apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more
  sincere. O! let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom.”
   “Sincere repentance, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain the pardon
  of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that
  sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible
  method to prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be
  prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist
  on the strongest proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof in my
  power,” answered Jones eagerly. “Time,” replied she; “time alone, Mr
  Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved
  to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I
  imagined you capable of persevering in them.” “Do not imagine it,”
   cries Jones. “On my knees I intreat, I implore your confidence, a
  confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve.” “Let
  it then,” said she, “be the business of some part of your life to shew
  me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring
  you, that, when I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it.
  After what is past, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your
  word?”
  
  He replied, “Don't believe me upon my word; I have a better security,
  a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to
  doubt.” “What is that?” said Sophia, a little surprized. “I will show
  you, my charming angel,” cried Jones, seizing her hand and carrying
  her to the glass. “There, behold it there in that lovely figure, in
  that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines through
  these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be
  inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord
  Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any
  eyes but your own.” Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing
  again her brow into a frown--“If I am to judge,” said she, “of the
  future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I
  am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of the
  room.” “By heaven, by all that is sacred!” said Jones, “it never was
  out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the
  grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with
  the heart.” “I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia, very gravely,
  “who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am
  myself of making such a distinction.” “I will learn it,” said Jones.
  “I have learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia
  might be my wife taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex
  from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense
  as of passion to my heart.” “Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this
  must be from time. Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I
  assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now
  want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your
  mind is altered too.” “O! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank
  thy goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction
  in my prosperity?----Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone
  have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear
  hope----O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.--I will be all
  obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further
  than you permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short trial.
  O! tell me when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most
  solemnly true.” “When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,”
   said she, “I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not.”--“O! don't
  look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do not, I dare not press
  you.--Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the
  period. O! consider the impatience of love.”--“A twelvemonth,
  perhaps,” said she. “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “you have named an
  eternity.”--“Perhaps it may be something sooner,” says she; “I will
  not be teazed. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I
  think you may now be easy.”--“Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting
  happiness as mine by so cold a name.----O! transporting thought! am I
  not assured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you
  mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that dear, that
  vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia
  happy?”--“Indeed, sir,” said she, “that day is in your own
  power.”--“O! my dear, my divine angel,” cried he, “these words have
  made me mad with joy.----But I must, I will thank those dear lips
  which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss.” He then caught her in his
  arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before.
  
  At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into
  the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, “To her,
  boy, to her, go to her.----That's it, little honeys, O that's it!
  Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What,
  shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute
  longer than next day, I am resolved.” “Let me beseech you, sir,” says
  Jones, “don't let me be the occasion”----“Beseech mine a----,” cries
  Western. “I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to
  give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks.----I tell thee 'tis all
  flimflam. Zoodikers! she'd have the wedding to-night with all her
  heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for
  once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?” “Why should I confess,
  sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you are so well acquainted with my
  thoughts?”----“That's a good girl,” cries he, “and dost consent then?”
   “No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such consent.”---“And
  wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says Western.--“Indeed,
  sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I can tell thee,”
   replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou dost love to be
  disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.” “Pray, sir,” said
  Jones, interfering----“I tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When
  I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and
  languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All
  the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and
  governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to
  disoblige and contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries
  Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi' un thy hand this
  moment.”--“Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you.--There is my
  hand, Mr Jones.” “Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow
  morning?” says Western.--“I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries
  she.--“Why then to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then
  to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,”
   says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an
  agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room,
  presently crying out--“Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without
  now, a talking with that d--d lawyer Dowling, when he should be
  minding other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very
  opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.
  
  But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won't believe me,
  you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be
  married to-morrow?” “Such are your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and
  I dare not be guilty of disobedience.” “I hope, madam,” cries
  Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will be always
  as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An
  alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed
  be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,” cries Western, “but
  if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might
  not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced to use a little
  fatherly authority to bring her to.” “I hope not, sir,” cries
  Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least constraint.” “Why, there,”
   cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost
  repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed, papa,”
   cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any
  promise in favour of Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I
  felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men.
  And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful
  occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who
  will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his
  best endeavours to deserve it.” “His best endeavours!” cries Western,
  “that he will, I warrant un.----Harkee, Allworthy, I'll bet thee five
  pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but prithee
  tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please
  Jupiter, we'll make a night on't.” “Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you
  must excuse me; both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected
  this near approach of his happiness.”--“Engaged!” quoth the squire,
  “never tell me.--I won't part with thee to-night upon any occasion.
  Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry.” “You must pardon me, my dear
  neighbour!” answered Allworthy; “I have given a solemn promise, and
  that you know I never break.” “Why, prithee, who art engaged to?”
   cries the squire.----Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the
  company.----“Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with thee,
  and so shall Sophy! for I won't part with thee to-night; and it would
  be barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” This offer was presently
  embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a
  private promise from her father that he would not mention a syllable
  concerning her marriage.
  
  
  
  Chapter the last.
  
  In which the history is concluded.
  
  
  Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on
  his father, who received him much more kindly than he expected. There
  likewise he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his
  new-married daughter.
  
  This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to
  the young gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of
  contention about the government of their children, both heartily
  despising the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now
  endeavoured, as much as he could, to palliate the offence which his
  own child had committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This
  desire of triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments
  which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman
  that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to
  sup with him that evening at Mrs Miller's.
  
  As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most
  immoderate affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him to
  a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his
  daughter and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly go
  to her. And when he arrived there he scarce suffered her to fall upon
  her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness
  which affected all who saw him; and in less than a quarter of an hour
  was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had
  himself joined their hands.
  
  In this situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his company
  arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs Miller, who no sooner saw
  Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened; and so great was
  her friendship to Jones, that it added not a few transports to those
  she felt on the happiness of her own daughter.
  
  There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people
  met together, where every one was so perfectly happy as in this
  company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the
  least perfect content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son,
  notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together
  with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be
  satisfied with his son's choice; and, perhaps, the presence of Sophia
  herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his concern, as a
  thought now and then suggested itself that his son might have had that
  lady, or some other such. Not that any of the charms which adorned
  either the person or mind of Sophia created the uneasiness; it was the
  contents of her father's coffers which set his heart a longing. These
  were the charms which he could not bear to think his son had
  sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs Miller.
  
  The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they
  eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not been two of the
  best-tempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in
  their breasts; for neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes
  from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving homage, or,
  rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from all around her.
  But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she exacted; for
  she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability as by all
  her other perfections.
  
  The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those
  the most who had been most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and
  fears gave such a relish to their felicity as even love and fortune,
  in their fullest flow, could not have given without the advantage of
  such a comparison. Yet, as great joy, especially after a sudden change
  and revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells
  rather in the heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the
  least merry of the whole company; which Western observed with great
  impatience, often crying out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? Why
  dost look so grave? Hast lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of
  wine; sha't drink another glass.” And, the more to enliven her, he
  would sometimes sing a merry song, which bore some relation to
  matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead. Nay, he would have proceeded
  so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the room, if Mr
  Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice by
  a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began, indeed, once to debate the matter, and
  assert his right to talk to his own daughter as he thought fit; but,
  as nobody seconded him, he was soon reduced to order.
  
  Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the
  chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he insisted on their
  meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the lovely
  Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated as the
  mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the honours
  of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in the
  chapel at Doctors'-Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs
  Miller, were the only persons present.
  
  Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company,
  who were that day to dine with him, should be acquainted with her
  marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs Miller, and Jones
  undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of
  Sophia to the public entertainment which, in compliance with her
  father's will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against her own
  inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy she went through the day
  pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into the second
  bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper,
  drank a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all
  present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the
  great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth, there was not a
  person present made wiser by this discovery; for Mrs Miller had
  whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband
  to his sister, and she to all the rest.
  
  Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies,
  and the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, by degrees,
  deserted by all the company except the uncle of young Nightingale, who
  loved his bottle as well as Western himself. These two, therefore, sat
  stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long after that happy hour
  which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her
  enraptured Jones.
  
  Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion,
  in which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy
  expectation, Mr Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind; for
  what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a
  woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered.
  
  As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this
  history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we
  will proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.
  
  Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he
  hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle
  £200 a-year upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third.
  Upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200
  miles distant from London, and lays up £200 a-year out of it, in order
  to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a neighbouring borough,
  which he has bargained for with an attourney there. He is also lately
  turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect,
  whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom.
  
  Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; and as to
  Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless
  attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate
  himself with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and
  abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr Allworthy hath lately
  taken Mr Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown
  immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her
  children.
  
  Mrs Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little
  remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of
  the town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three times
  the income of her fortune, without running into debt. She maintains a
  perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in acts of
  friendship to her repays all obligations she owes her husband.
  
  Mrs Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent
  two months together with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the
  latter a formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to
  Jones as a perfect stranger, and, with great civility, wished him joy
  on his marriage.
  
  Mr Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the
  neighbourhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs
  Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable
  intercourse subsists between the two families.
  
  As to those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into the country,
  had a pension of £60 a-year settled upon her by Mr Allworthy, and is
  married to Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western
  hath bestowed a considerable living.
  
  Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and
  was never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his family,
  but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.
  
  As for Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and he hath
  again set up a school, in which he meets with much better
  encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage on
  foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the mediation
  of Sophia, is likely to take effect.
  
  We now return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, within two
  days after their marriage, attended Mr Western and Mr Allworthy into
  the country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater
  part of his estate, to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser
  house of his in another part of the country, which is better for
  hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr Jones, who, as well
  as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing everything in their
  power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended with such
  success, that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his
  life till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to himself,
  where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is still as
  ready as formerly to play to him whenever he desires it; for Jones
  hath assured her that, as, next to pleasing her, one of his highest
  satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old man; so,
  the great duty which she expresses and performs to her father, renders
  her almost equally dear to him with the love which she bestows on
  himself.
  
  Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl,
  of whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his time
  in the nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little
  grand-daughter, who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music
  than the finest cry of dogs in England.
  
  Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and
  hath omitted no instance of shewing his affection to him and his lady,
  who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a
  tendency to vice, has been corrected by continual conversation with
  this good man, and by his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia.
  He hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion
  and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively parts.
  
  To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman,
  than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They
  preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an
  affection daily encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and
  mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their relations and
  friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their
  condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below
  them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth
  not most gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his
  Sophia.
  
  
  
  _FINIS_.
  