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.