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.