BOOK XI.

CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.

Chapter i.

A crust for the critics.

In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that

formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than

becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great

condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the

reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall,

perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been

seen.

This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence

I presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have

seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it

meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as

equivalent to condemnation.

I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number

of critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of

these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in

Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the

playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have

given judgment, _i.e._, condemned without mercy.

The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to

leave them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable

offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their

favour, we would do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and

plainly too with them, we must remind them of another officer of

justice of a much lower rank; to whom, as they not only pronounce, but

execute, their own judgment, they bear likewise some remote

resemblance.

But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics

may, with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a

common slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others,

with no other design but to discover their faults, and to publish them

to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of

men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view,

be as properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation of books?

Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a

more odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of

him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I

am afraid, regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he

deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal

lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the thief looks

innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand

in competition with his guilt: for slander is a more cruel weapon than

a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable.

One method, indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most

execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here

disclaimed against, and that is poison: a means of revenge so base,

and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely distinguished by our laws

from all other murders, in the peculiar severity of the punishment.

Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of

the means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances

that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds

from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless

some black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of

having procured the ruin and misery of another.

Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says--

“Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM,

BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED.”

With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will

probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But

let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked

disposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation.

Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when

we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child

of his brain.

The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin

state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal

fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff,

“Alas! Thou hast written no book.” But the author whose muse hath

brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me

with tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while I

mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden,

the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care,

the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite,

till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the world.

Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of

absolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly

wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of

their father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed their

parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the

interest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers,

whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.

Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author:

for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother a

whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid

nonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead;

which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that

of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.

Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt

not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps,

think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely

a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to

depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very

ill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be

suspected to be a bad man.

I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to

explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here

intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very

persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of

writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of

literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned

world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and

Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and

some perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorised to

execute at least a judicial authority _in foro literario_.

But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic,

which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to

the censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself

read. Such censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess

or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others, may properly

be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn.

Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who,

without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general

defamatory terms; such as vile, dull, d--d stuff, &c., and

particularly by the use of the monosyllable low; a word which becomes

the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.

Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work,

yet, if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are

compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice

of a slanderer than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe

sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This

is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace:

_Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis

Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,

Aut humana parum cavit natura----_

But where the beauties, more in number, shine,

I am not angry, when a casual line

(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)

A careless hand or human frailty shows.--MR FRANCIS.

For, as Martial says, _Aliter non fit, Avite, liber_. No book can be

otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of

countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this

manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which

hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be

liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps

chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And

yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books

supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and

that they are not always), do by no means go to the merit of the

whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which doth not

coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic

of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one scene which should be

disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To write within such severe

rules as these is as impossible as to live up to some splenetic

opinions: and if we judge according to the sentiments of some critics,

and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no

man in the next.

Chapter ii.

The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton.

Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel

backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the

inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature,

and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck,

or rather his ill-conduct.

Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across

the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile

from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several

horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and

she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible.

He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the

faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses

behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at

length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears,

joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits; but she was

now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the

softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as

soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility, and with the

highest satisfaction to herself, returned.

The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror,

consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two

parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered

again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got

the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the

other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and

had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange

lady in a most obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find

they were both travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost,

only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was

entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and

was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had

perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology,

in keeping pace with her.” More civilities passed between these two

ladies; for Mrs Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the

stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though Sophia had great

curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on through

the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this gave her some

uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration,

restrained her from asking the question.

The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost

below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown

from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could

she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When

Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a

handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her

pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse,

for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his

fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.

Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received

not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps

contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane

which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with

trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light, and was

moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was almost

perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty, which was

extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she

was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm

than a little fright by her fall.

Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two

ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly

at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both

their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy

pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.

This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I

believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the

strange lady could be no other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of

Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn a

few minutes after her.

So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at

this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance

and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western),

that it is impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed

between them, before either asked a very natural question of the

other, namely, whither she was going?

This at last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and

natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it

a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to

suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, “which I

suppose,” says she, “can hardly be far distant; and, believe me,

Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I

believe our astonishment is pretty equal.”

The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I

apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between

the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their

compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from

the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and the

other obliged to bring up the rear.

In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide

and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought

them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so

fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last

five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of

dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had

hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his

arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his

service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the

blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than

the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in

his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely

handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no

less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his

charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall;

for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock

given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from

the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the

bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what

we shall not here relate for the indulgence of those readers who are

capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's delicacy.

Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor

will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the

modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to

so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.

This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her

mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent

constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to

totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no

sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour,

very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.

Mrs Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in

bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale

and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself

with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her

apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the same

advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long journey

through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she

was herself perfectly easy on that account.

Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend,

which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise

offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much

complacence, accepted.

The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her

example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for

leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt

her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the

honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a

share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after

many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the

waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.

It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole

fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen,

postboys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their

estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at that

the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and

especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual

an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,

therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who

the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they

faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction.

On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished

it.

This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a

very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into

things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted.

Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure him this

reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully wise and

significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth; which,

indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly

assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he

was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he

always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though his sentences

were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay

ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words

with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the

head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his hearers

to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a

hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This

last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his

character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship what

they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on

mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds.

This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she

thought of the ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?” said the wife,

“why, what should I think of them?” “I know,” answered he, “what I

think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from

Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what I

can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever travel

across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And one of

the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this

was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances

together, and whom do you think I have found them out to be?” “Nay,”

answered she, “you know I never pretend to guess at your

discoveries.”----“It is a good girl,” replied he, chucking her under

the chin; “I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of

these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say--depend upon

it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel

with the young Chevalier; and have taken a roundabout way to escape

the duke's army.”

“Husband,” quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it; for one of them

is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks for all

the world like one.----But yet, when I consider one thing”----“When

you consider,” cries the landlord contemptuously----“Come, pray let's

hear what you consider.”----“Why, it is,” answered the wife, “that she

is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our Betty was

warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and

sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and

stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her

the trouble.”

“Pugh!” answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost think, because

you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below

them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come

before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see

them--I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she

came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know

they would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a

fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now,

would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon

some such extraordinary occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries

she, “you know these matters better than I, or most folk.” “I think I

do know something,” said he. “To be sure,” answered the wife, “the

poor little heart looked so piteous, when she sat down in the chair, I

protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as much as

if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? If an she

be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the court. Well,

she's a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and

I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or

beheaded.” “Pooh!” answered the husband.----“But, as to what's to be

done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes

away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should

get the better, she may gain us interest at court, and make our

fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that's true,” replied the wife;

“and I heartily hope she will have it in her power. Certainly she's a

sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her come to

any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the landlord, “women are always so

tender-hearted. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you?” “No,

certainly,” answered the wife; “and as for betraying her, come what

will on't, nobody can blame us. It is what anybody would do in our

case.”

While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the

reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in

debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the

opinion of his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke

the slip, and had got a day's march towards London; and soon after

arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his

countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, “All's our own,

boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England

for ever! ten thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away

directly.”

This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to

make his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he

said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron

herself.

Chapter iii.

A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a moon, a star, and

an angel.

The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had

been some time retired to rest when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by

her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue

could have occasioned; for, though she had told her maid, and perhaps

herself too, that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it

is certain her mind was a little affected with that malady which is

attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the

very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the

fever on the spirits.

Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having

summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very

pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that of

Sophia, might have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs Honour of her

own accord attended (for her mistress would not suffer her to be

waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs Fitzpatrick,

who had performed the office of the morning-star, and had preceded

greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally

eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth.

Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this

instant. We ought not, therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for

her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire,

declared, and ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an

angel upon earth, she was now above-stairs.

Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and

Mrs Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of her

husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to

her aunt Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea than

Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then shining extremely bright,

and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she any of those

apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt at travelling by

night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little degree of

natural courage; and this, her present sensations, which bordered

somewhat on despair, greatly encreased. Besides, as she had already

travelled twice with safety by the light of the moon, she was the

better emboldened to trust to it a third time.

The disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the

greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her

husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton,

yet, being now arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from

his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what operated so

strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till the

next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by

night.

Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh

nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to

them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at Upton,

it might have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as to

Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of being

overtaken by him; nay, to confess the truth, I believe she rather

wished than feared it; though I might honestly enough have concealed

this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous

emotions of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger.

When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in

their inn they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know what

their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the

voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that

she ravished the landlady to the highest degree; and that good woman,

concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a

stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young Pretender's

cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been

treated by his supposed mistress.

The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal

curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides

occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs

Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating

likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he is

desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter.

Chapter iv.

The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Mrs Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep

sigh, thus began:

“It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting

those periods of their lives which have been most delightful to them.

The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of tender

grief, like what we suffer for departed friends; and the ideas of both

may be said to haunt our imaginations.

“For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the

happiest far of my life) which we spent together when both were under

the care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss

Giddy no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no

other names. Indeed, you gave the latter appellation with too much

cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved it. You, my

Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope you

will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the wise and matronly

advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball,

though you could not be then fourteen years old.----O my Sophy, how

blest must have been my situation, when I could think such a

disappointment a misfortune; and when indeed it was the greatest I had

ever known!”

“And yet, my dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “it was then a serious

matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking, that

whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and

contemptible as a ball would at this time.”

“Alas, my Sophia,” replied the other lady, “you yourself will think

otherwise of my present situation; for greatly must that tender heart

be altered if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a

tear, from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from

relating what I am convinced will so much affect you.” Here Mrs

Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she

thus proceeded:

“Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may

probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very

commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband;

which was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to

your father.

“Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr

Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, _dégagé,_ extremely gallant, and

in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was

unluckily to see him now, I could describe him no better than by

telling you he was the very reverse of everything which he is: for he

hath rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild

Irishman. But to proceed in my story: the qualifications which he then

possessed so well recommended him, that, though the people of quality

at that time lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded

them from all their parties, Mr Fitzpatrick found means to gain

admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he

required very little or no invitation; and as, being handsome and

genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to ingratiate himself

with the ladies, so, he having frequently drawn his sword, the men did

not care publickly to affront him. Had it not been for some such

reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own sex; for

surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English gentry;

nor did they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary favour. They

all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed from

envy; for by the women he was well received, and very particularly

distinguished by them.

“My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived

about the court, was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever means

you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is

sufficient merit for you that you are there. This observation, young

as you was, you could scarce avoid making from my aunt, who was free,

or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or less of this

merit.

“And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr

Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was

always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning

such distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his behaviour

to her, that the scandal club first began to take notice of it, and

the better-disposed persons made a match between them. For my own

part, I confess, I made no doubt but that his designs were strictly

honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by

way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor

handsome enough to attract much wicked inclination; but she had

matrimonial charms in great abundance.

“I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary

respect which he showed to myself from the first moment of our

acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible,

that disinclination which my interest might be supposed to give me

towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it had that

effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all

people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be

violently the enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was greatly

pleased; and the more so, as I was the only object of such respect;

for he behaved at the same time to many women of quality without any

respect at all.

“Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of

behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and

tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times, indeed,

whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual

loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in general company, and

with other women; for even in a country-dance, when he was not my

partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the

moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all things so very

particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have

discovered it. And, and, and----” “And you was more pleased still, my

dear Harriet,” cries Sophia; “you need not be ashamed,” added she,

sighing; “for sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness, which

too many men are able to affect.” “True,” answered her cousin; “men,

who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels in

the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.--Well, scandal

now began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt;

and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr Fitzpatrick had

an intrigue with us both.

“But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least

seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both

our behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the

eyes of an old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses

which are made to them, that, like an outrageous glutton, they are not

at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the same table.

This I have observed in more cases than my own; and this was so

strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she often found us together

at her return from the pump, the least canting word of his, pretending

impatience at her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One

artifice succeeded with her to admiration. This was his treating me

like a little child, and never calling me by any other name in her

presence but that of pretty miss. This indeed did him some disservice

with your humble servant; but I soon saw through it, especially as in

her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a different manner.

However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a conduct of which I had

discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it; for my aunt

really conceived me to be what her lover (as she thought him) called

me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say the

truth, I wonder she had not insisted on my again wearing

leading-strings.

“At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn

manner, to disclose a secret which I had known long before. He now

placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account.

He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given

him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in which he had

undergone her conversation.--What shall I tell you, my dear

Sophia?--Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I

was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to rival

so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave

as I should do, even upon the very first declaration--I wish I did not

almost give him positive encouragement before we parted.

“The Bath now talked loudly--I might almost say, roared against me.

Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much,

perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me

from a company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man. And

here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude to the kindness intended me

by Mr Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I

had followed, I had been a happy woman. `Child,' says he, `I am sorry

to see the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is

altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As

for your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my

pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his words), I should be

heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to

her. I never advise old women: for, if they take it into their heads

to go to the devil, it is no more possible than worth while to keep

them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy a better

fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let me advise you

therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with

you again.' Many more things he said to me, which I have now

forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at the time; for

inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I could not be

persuaded that women of quality would condescend to familiarity with

such a person as he described.

“But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many

minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married;

imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine

the maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination

will suggest to you no more than what really happened.

“The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr

Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one

else; for, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly,

I believe she was then a little confounded at her disappointment.

Since that time, I have written to her many letters, but never could

obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the heavier, as she

herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings:

for, had it not been under the colour of paying his addresses to her,

Mr Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have

engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances, I still flatter

myself would not have been an easy conquest to such a person. Indeed,

I believe I should not have erred so grossly in my choice if I had

relied on my own judgment; but I trusted totally to the opinion of

others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man for granted whom I

saw so universally well received by the women. What is the reason, my

dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the wisest and

greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest

fellows for companions and favourites? It raises my indignation to the

highest pitch to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have

been undone by fools.” Here she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no

answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter.

Chapter v.

In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.

“We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding; for

as to any reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of my

fortune not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which

I now wanted more than two years. My husband therefore was resolved to

set out for Ireland; against which I remonstrated very earnestly, and

insisted on a promise which he had made me before our marriage that I

should never take this journey against my consent; and indeed I never

intended to consent to it; nor will anybody, I believe, blame me for

that resolution; but this, however, I never mentioned to my husband,

and petitioned only for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the

day, and to that day he obstinately adhered.

“The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point

with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his

chair, and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was

hardly out of the house when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which,

I suppose, he had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together with his

handkerchief. This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a letter, I

made no scruple to open and read it; and indeed I read it so often

that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then was the

letter:

_'To Mr Brian Fitzpatrick._

'SIR,

'YOURS received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner,

as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one linsey-woolsey

coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider, sir, how often

you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this

lady and t'other lady; but I can neither live on hopes or promises,

nor will my woollen-draper take any such in payment. You tell me you

are secure of having either the aunt or the niece, and that you

might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you say is

immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready

money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for once, and marry the first

you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I

sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour

of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which doubt

not your honouring, and am,

Sir, your humble servant, 'SAM. COSGRAVE.'

“This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl--guess how

this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready

money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with

pleasure have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount my

frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears

before his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in my

swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long

time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, `I

hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; for the

coach will be ready by six in the morning.' My patience was totally

subdued by this provocation, and I answered, `No, sir, there is a

letter still remains unpacked;' and then throwing it on the table I

fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I could invent.

“Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him I cannot say;

but, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on

this occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the

most gentle means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I

principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He

owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that preference

which he had given to myself, but denied with many oaths the having

mentioned any such matter at all on account of the straits he was in

for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his

estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to

discover to me, was the only reason of his having so strenuously

insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing

expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many violent

protestations of love.

“There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had

much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word jointure in

the taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this

Mr Fitzpatrick well knew.----As I imagined, therefore, that the fellow

must have inserted this of his own head, or from hearsay, I persuaded

myself he might have ventured likewise on that odious line on no

better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not an

advocate rather than a judge?--But why do I mention such a

circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of my

forgiveness?--In short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much,

half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on

me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our

setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little more than

a week arrived at the seat of Mr Fitzpatrick.

“Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which

past during our journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to

travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.

“This seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of

those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could

describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been

formerly inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the

less room on account of the furniture; for indeed there was very

little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and

greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us

at the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me unintelligible,

welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and

melancholy, that it threw my spirits into the lowest dejection; which

my husband discerning, instead of relieving, encreased by two or three

malicious observations. `There are good houses, madam,' says he, `as

you find, in other places besides England; but perhaps you had rather

be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.'

“Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a

cheerful good-natured companion to support and comfort her! But why do

I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my

companion, far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced

me that I must have been wretched with him in any place, and in any

condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you

have never seen; for, indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but in

a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though you have a father, he

is not of that character. This surly fellow had formerly appeared to

me the very reverse, and so he did still to every other person. Good

heaven! how is it possible for a man to maintain a constant lie in his

appearance abroad and in company, and to content himself with shewing

disagreeable truth only at home? Here, my dear, they make themselves

amends for the uneasy restraint which they put on their tempers in the

world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay and good-humoured

my husband hath at any time been in company, the more sullen and

morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I

describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible. My

little comical ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others, have

called so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious

moments he sung and whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected

and miserable he was angry, and abused me: for, though he was never

pleased with my good-humour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in

him, yet my low spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to

my repentance of having (as he said) married an Irishman.

“You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I

really forgot myself), that, when a woman makes an imprudent match in

the sense of the world, that is, when she is not an arrant prostitute

to pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and

affection for her man. You will as easily believe that this affection

may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly

eradicate it. This contempt I now began to entertain for my husband,

whom I now discovered to be--I must use the expression--an arrant

blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long

before; but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for

the folly of those they like: besides, give me leave to tell you, it

requires a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the

disguises of gaiety and good breeding.

“It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as

I confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his company;

and indeed I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it;

for our house was now most elegantly furnished, our cellars well

stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great abundance. As my

gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with great hospitality,

so his neighbours resorted to him with great alacrity; and sports and

drinking consumed so much of his time, that a small part of his

conversation, that is to say, of his ill-humours, fell to my share.

“Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided all

other disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some which

constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being

relieved from them. These companions were my own racking thoughts,

which plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In this

situation I past through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be

painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you can, to yourself,

what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the man I scorned,

hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a

lying-in (ten times more painful in such a circumstance than the worst

labour can be when one endures it for a man one loves) in a desert, or

rather, indeed, a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a

companion, or without any of those agreeable circumstances which often

alleviate, and perhaps sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings

of our sex at that season.”

Chapter vi.

In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful

consternation.

Mrs Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was

interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of

Sophia; for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety, and

left her no appetite but what Mrs Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her

relation.

The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the

same respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on

had the ladies arrived in a coach and six.

The married lady seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than

was her cousin; for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter

could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and

sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having

observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted,

saying, “Perhaps all may yet end better than either you or I expect.”

Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and

was resolved not to omit it. “I am sorry, madam,” cries he, “that your

ladyship can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after so long

fasting. I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything, for, as madam

there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A gentleman who

was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps some folks who

have given other folks the slip may get to London before they are

overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they will find people

who will be very ready to receive them.”

All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see

and hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore

immediately concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was known,

and pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost

consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of the power of speech;

which she no sooner recovered than she desired the landlord to send

his servants out of the room, and then, addressing herself to him,

said, “I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech you--nay, I

am convinced, if you have any compassion or goodness, you will not

betray us.”

“I betray your ladyship!” quoth the landlord; “no (and then he swore

several very hearty oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten thousand

pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my life

yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your

ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it

will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife can

witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the

house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your horse,

and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's service to the

grave; but what signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To

be sure some people this morning would have thought of getting a

reward; but no such thought ever entered into my head. I would sooner

starve than take any reward for betraying your ladyship.”

“I promise you, sir,” says Sophia, “if it be ever in my power to

reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity.”

“Alack-a-day, madam!” answered the landlord; “in your ladyship's

power! Heaven put it as much into your will! I am only afraid your

honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your

ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I

refused--refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may

be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure

you might have been in some houses;--but, for my part, would not

methinks for the world have your ladyship wrong me so much as to

imagine I ever thought of betraying you, even before I heard the good

news.”

“What news, pray?” says Sophia, something eagerly.

“Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?” cries the landlord; “nay,

like enough, for I heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I had never

heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would have

betrayed your honour! no, if I would, may I--” Here he subjoined

several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted, and

begged to know what he meant by the news.--He was going to answer,

when Mrs Honour came running into the room, all pale and breathless,

and cried out, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they are come,

they are come!” These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but

Mrs Fitzpatrick asked Honour who were come?--“Who?” answered she,

“why, the French; several hundred thousands of them are landed, and we

shall be all murdered and ravished.”

As a miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value twenty

shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire,

turns pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful

palaces only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes

instantly to himself, and smiles at his good fortunes: or as (for we

dislike something in the former simile) the tender mother, when

terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is

struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but when she is

told that little master is safe, and the Victory only, with twelve

hundred brave men, gone to the bottom, life and sense again return,

maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the

general benevolence which at another time would have deeply felt the

dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in her mind;--so Sophia, than

whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling the general calamity of

her country, found such immediate satisfaction from the relief of

those terrors she had of being overtaken by her father, that the

arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently

chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown her, and said

“she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared somebody else

was come.”

“Ay, ay,” quoth the landlord, smiling, “her ladyship knows better

things; she knows the French are our very best friends, and come over

hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make Old

England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was

coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to

tell your ladyship the news.--His honour's majesty, Heaven bless him,

hath given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to

London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road.”

Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman

who related it; but, as she still imagined he knew her (for she could

not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show

any dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the cloth from the

table, withdrew; but at his departure frequently repeated his hopes of

being remembered hereafter.

The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being

known at this house; for she still applied to herself many things

which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore

ordered her maid to pump out of him by what means he had become

acquainted with her person, and who had offered him the reward for

betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in readiness by

four in the morning, at which hour Mrs Fitzpatrick promised to bear

her company; and then, composing herself as well as she could, she

desired that lady to continue her story.

Chapter vii.

In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.

While Mrs Honour, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress,

ordered a bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to

partake of it, Mrs Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.

“Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our

neighbourhood were of my husband's acquaintance. Among these there was

a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a

woman, so agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our

first knowing each other, which was soon after my lying-in, we were

almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to make

myself equally agreeable to her.

“The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was frequently

of our parties; indeed he was very little with my husband, and no more

than good breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost

constantly at our house. My husband often expressed much

dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to his; he

was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty

curse for drawing away his companions; saying, `I ought to be d--n'd

for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by

making a milksop of him.'

“You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger

of my husband arose from my depriving him of a companion; for the

lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be

pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little

right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that I

am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to

come to the house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most

rancorous kind of envy, the envy of superiority of understanding. The

wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his, by a

man of whom he could not entertain the least jealousy. O my dear

Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a man, as is most

probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent

trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to

submit to such a superiority.--Promise me, Sophy, you will take this

advice; for you will hereafter find its importance.” “It is very

likely I shall never marry at all,” answered Sophia; “I think, at

least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any

defects before marriage; and I promise you I would rather give up my

own than see any such afterwards.” “Give up your understanding!”

replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “oh, fie, child! I will not believe so meanly

of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up; but

never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the

wife in so many instances, if she had intended we should all of us

have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of sense never

expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one

notable example; for though he had a very good understanding, he

always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better.

And this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.

“Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an

ugly b-- (for, indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very

agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon

earth at the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said,

he wondered what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company:

since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your

beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could

not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country;

and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way;

for the ladies there are at least no better than the mere country

ladies here; and I think I need make no other excuse to you for

declining any intimacy with them.

“This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the

while the lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was

contented to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner

above mentioned by my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he was

frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin, and once made a journey

of two months to London: in all which journeys I thought it a very

singular happiness that he never once desired my company; nay, by his

frequent censures on men who could not travel, as he phrased it,

without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that,

had I been never so desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have

been in vain; but, Heaven knows, such wishes were very far from my

thoughts.

“At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my

solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and

to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day long.

How many books do you think I read in three months?” “I can't guess,

indeed, cousin,” answered Sophia. “Perhaps half a score.” “Half a

score! half a thousand, child!” answered the other. “I read a good

deal in Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's

Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the

Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.

“During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I thought,

moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to any of

them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application.” Here

she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia, said, “Methinks, my dear,

I read something in your eyes which reproaches me of a neglect in

another place, where I should have met with a kinder return.” “Indeed,

dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “your story is an apology for any

neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of a remissness,

without so good an excuse.--Yet pray proceed; for I long, though I

tremble, to hear the end.”

Thus, then, Mrs Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:--“My husband now

took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of three

months; during the greater part of this time I led a life which

nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable; for

perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind, like mine,

but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate. What

added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not that I

pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which I

believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I

resolved, in every instance, to discharge the duty of the tenderest

mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that

heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie heavy on our

hands.

“I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen

nobody all that time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when

a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of

Ireland to visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and

then I gave her a pressing invitation to return; for she was a very

agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper

education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest.

“A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits,

without enquiring the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the

young lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, `Though

politeness had prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations

of his behaviour, yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt

great concern upon that account; but none more than herself.' And

after some more general discourse on this head, which I own I could

not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution and

enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound

secret--that my husband kept a mistress.

“You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost

insensibility--Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead

you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that

hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this?

Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at others

having possession even of what we despise? Or are we not rather

abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our

vanity? What think you, Sophia?”

“I don't know, indeed,” answered Sophia; “I have never troubled myself

with any of these deep contemplations; but I think the lady did very

ill in communicating to you such a secret.”

“And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural,” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick;

“and, when you have seen and read as much as myself, you will

acknowledge it to be so.”

“I am sorry to hear it is natural,” returned Sophia; “for I want

neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very

dishonourable and very ill-natured: nay, it is surely as ill-bred to

tell a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them of

their own.”

“Well,” continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, “my husband at last returned; and,

if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him now

more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly nothing

so much weakens our contempt, as an injury done to our pride or our

vanity.

“He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had

lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behaviour the first week of

our marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he

might, possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though

hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of it,

love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too

restless to remain contented without the gratification which it

receives from its object; and one can no more be inclined to love

without loving than we can have eyes without seeing. When a husband,

therefore, ceases to be the object of this passion, it is most

probable some other man--I say, my dear, if your husband grows

indifferent to you--if you once come to despise him--I say--that

is--if you have the passion of love in you--Lud! I have bewildered

myself so--but one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose

the concatenation of ideas, as Mr Locke says:--in short, the truth

is--in short, I scarce know what it is; but, as I was saying, my

husband returned, and his behaviour, at first, greatly surprized me;

but he soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me to account

for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of

my fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was

now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by

selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do without my

assistance; and to obtain this favour was the whole and sole motive of

all the fondness which he now put on.

“With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told

him truly, that, had I been possessed of the Indies at our first

marriage, he might have commanded it all; for it had been a constant

maxim with me, that where a woman disposes of her heart, she should

always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind, long ago, to

restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to

retain what little remained of the latter.

“I will not describe to you the passion into which these words, and

the resolute air in which they were spoken, threw him: nor will I

trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came,

you may be well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it did

come, with all the embellishments which anger and disdain could bestow

upon it.

“Mr Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more

confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused

enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate

himself; but took a method which almost equally confounded me. What

was this but recrimination? He affected to be jealous:--he may, for

aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper;

nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have put it

into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my

character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure

my reputation. My fame, I thank heaven, hath been always as spotless

as my life; and let falsehood itself accuse that if it dare. No, my

dear Graveairs, however provoked, however ill-treated, however injured

in my love, I have firmly resolved never to give the least room for

censure on this account.--And yet, my dear, there are some people so

malicious, some tongues so venomous, that no innocence can escape

them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look, the least

familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and

magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear

Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you,

ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all

that.--But where was I? O let me see, I told you my husband was

jealous--And of whom, I pray?--Why, of whom but the lieutenant I

mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a year and

more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if,

indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit in

order to abuse me.

“But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now

bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short, then, after many

scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so

heartily on my side, that Mr Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of

doors; when he found I was neither to be soothed nor bullied into

compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will

conclude he beat me; but this, though he hath approached very near to

it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room, without

suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a servant

every day made my bed, and brought me my food.

“When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a

visit, and, with the voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much

the same, of a tyrant, asked me, `If I would yet comply?' I answered,

very stoutly, `That I would die first.' `Then so you shall, and be

d--nd!' cries he; `for you shall never go alive out of this room.'

“Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my

constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission;

when, one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for

some short time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an

accident happened.--I--at a time when I began to give way to the

utmost despair----everything would be excusable at such a time--at

that very time I received----But it would take up an hour to tell you

all particulars.--In one word, then (for I will not tire you with

circumstances), gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door,

and set me at liberty.

“I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage to

England; and was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself into the

protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would

afford it me. My husband overtook me last night at the inn where I

lay, and which you left a few minutes before me; but I had the good

luck to escape him, and to follow you.

“And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it is

to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its

dullness.”

Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity you

from my soul!----But what could you expect? Why, why, would you marry

an Irishman?”

“Upon my word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is unjust. There

are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any among the

English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more

common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good

husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me,

rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you

a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”--“Can no man,” said

Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, “do you think, make a bad

husband, who is not a fool?” “That,” answered the other, “is too

general a negative; but none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to

prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the worst

husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of sense

rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well.”

Chapter viii.

A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an unexpected friend

of Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related--not what follows,

but what hath gone before in this history: for which reason the reader

will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.

One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative, namely,

that she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning to the end,

than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither

endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called

a kind of dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent

openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady.--But so it was.

Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived

in the room where the two ladies were sitting a noise, not unlike, in

loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel;

nor, in shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to screech owls;

or, indeed, more like (for what animal can resemble a human voice?) to

those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems

to derive its name from a duplicity of tongues, issue from the mouths,

and sometimes from the nostrils, of those fair river nymphs, ycleped

of old the Naïades; in the vulgar tongue translated oyster-wenches;

for when, instead of the antient libations of milk and honey and oil,

the rich distillation from the juniper-berry, or, perhaps, from malt,

hath, by the early devotion of their votaries, been poured forth in

great abundance, should any daring tongue with unhallowed license

prophane, _i.e._, depreciate, the delicate fat Milton oyster, the

plaice sound and firm, the flounder as much alive as when in the

water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine cod alive but a few

hours ago, or any other of the various treasures which those

water-deities who fish the sea and rivers have committed to the care

of the nymphs, the angry Naïades lift up their immortal voices, and

the prophane wretch is struck deaf for his impiety.

Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below; and

soon the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to

approach nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs,

it at last entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to

drop all metaphor and figure, Mrs Honour, having scolded violently

below-stairs, and continued the same all the way up, came in to her

mistress in a most outrageous passion, crying out, “What doth your

ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the

master of this house, hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand

it out to my face, that your ladyship is that nasty, stinking wh--re

(Jenny Cameron they call her), that runs about the country with the

Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy villain had the assurance to tell me

that your ladyship had owned yourself to be so; but I have clawed the

rascal; I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My

lady! says I, you saucy scoundrel; my lady is meat for no pretenders.

She is a young lady of as good fashion, and family, and fortune, as

any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great Squire Western,

sirrah? She is his only daughter; she is----, and heiress to all his

great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch wh--re by such a

varlet!--To be sure I wish I had knocked his brains out with the

punch-bowl.”

The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this

occasion Honour had herself caused, by having in her passion

discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord

sufficiently accounted for those passages which Sophia had before

mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account; nor could she, upon

the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour, and she cried,

“Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship would have made a

laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an impudent low

rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know, for

taking your part, since proffered service, they say, stinks; but to be

sure I could never bear to hear a lady of mine called whore.--Nor will

I bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat

foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes out who

dares for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the

contrary. Nobody ever could say the least ill of the character of any

lady that ever I waited upon.”

_Hinc illae lachrymae;_ in plain truth, Honour had as much love for

her mistress as most servants have, that is to say--But besides this,

her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited

on; for she thought her own was in a very close manner connected with

it. In proportion as the character of her mistress was raised, hers

likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it; and, on the contrary,

she thought the one could not be lowered without the other.

On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story.

“The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day, from a house where she had

made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her

footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his mistress

the reason of his being in that condition, answered, `I have been

fighting, madam, with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a

wh--re.' `You blockhead,' replied Mrs Gwynn, `at this rate you must

fight every day of your life; why, you fool, all the world knows it.'

`Do they?' cries the fellow, in a muttering voice, after he had shut

the coach-door, `they shan't call me a whore's footman for all that.'”

Thus the passion of Mrs Honour appears natural enough, even if it were

to be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was another

cause of her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind our reader

of a circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed

certain liquors, which, being applied to our passions, or to fire,

produce effects the very reverse of those produced by water, as they

serve to kindle and inflame, rather than to extinguish. Among these,

the generous liquor called punch is one. It was not, therefore,

without reason, that the learned Dr Cheney used to call drinking punch

pouring liquid fire down your throat.

Now, Mrs Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down

her throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her pericranium

and blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed to keep her

residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the

heart, and there inflamed the noble passion of pride. So that, upon

the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage of the

waiting-woman; though at first sight we must confess the cause seems

inadequate to the effect.

Sophia and her cousin both did all in their power to extinguish these

flames which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at length

prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the fire,

having consumed all the fuel which the language affords, to wit, every

reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.

But, though tranquillity was restored above-stairs, it was not so

below; where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the

beauty of her husband by the flesh-spades of Mrs Honour, called aloud

for revenge and justice. As to the poor man, who had principally

suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the blood

which he lost might have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not only

applied her nails to his cheeks, but likewise her fist to his

nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood in great

abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake; but indeed

nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as the manner in which

he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour of Mrs Honour, it

had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was now assured by a

person of great figure, and who was attended by a great equipage, that

one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate

acquaintance.

By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and

acquainted our fair travellers that a great gentleman below desired to

do them the honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled

at this message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil,

notwithstanding the landlord's blunder, to have come from her father;

but fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace, and is apt to

conclude hastily from every slight circumstance, without examining the

evidence on both sides.

To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his

apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer had arrived

very late that evening at the inn, in his way to London. This

nobleman, having sallied from his supper at the hurricane before

commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and upon a

short enquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very

particularly acquainted, was above. This information he had no sooner

received than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified him, and

sent him upstairs with compliments rather civiller than those which

were delivered.

It may perhaps be wondered at that the waiting-woman herself was not

the messenger employed on this occasion; but we are sorry to say she

was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office.

The rum (for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt)

had basely taken the advantage of the fatigue which the poor woman had

undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties,

at a time when they were very unable to resist the attack.

We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we thought

ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity which we profess,

shortly to hint a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to

have spared. Many historians, indeed, for want of this integrity, or

of diligence, to say no worse, often leave the reader to find out

these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to his great

confusion and perplexity.

Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the

noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs

Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To

say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been enabled to

escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same gallant

disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic

story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was

indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised

by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex,

as ever knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay,

to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with

which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the

husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the

enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.

This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and

had been for some time acquainted with the lady. No sooner, therefore,

did he hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to

procure her liberty; which he presently effected, not by storming the

castle, according to the example of antient heroes, but by corrupting

the governor, in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft

is held to be preferable to valour, and gold is found to be more

irresistible than either lead or steel.

This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material

enough to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to

the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition

that she had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps

supernatural means, had possessed herself of the money with which she

had bribed her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a

hint of what seemed to her of too little importance to be mentioned.

The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing

some surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor could he refrain

from telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs

Fitzpatrick very freely answered, “That she had been prevented in her

purpose by the arrival of a person she need not mention. In short,”

says she, “I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not affect to

conceal what the world knows too well already). I had the good fortune

to escape in a most surprizing manner, and am now going to London with

this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped

from as great a tyrant as my own.”

His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made

a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of

invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique

glances at the matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust

powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more meritorious

part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of his

protection, and of his coach and six, which was instantly accepted by

Mrs Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her persuasions, by Sophia.

Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the

ladies retired to rest, where Mrs Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin

with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peer, and

enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for his wife; saying,

she believed he was almost the only person of high rank who was

entirely constant to the marriage bed. “Indeed,” added she, “my dear

Sophy, that is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never

expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will

certainly be deceived.”

A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps

contributed to form a dream of no very pleasant kind; but, as she

never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to

see it related here.

Chapter ix.

The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stagecoach. The

civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of Sophia. Her generosity.

The return to it. The departure of the company, and their arrival at

London; with some remarks for the use of travellers.

Those members of society who are born to furnish the blessings of life

now began to light their candles, in order to pursue their daily

labours for the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings.

The sturdy hind now attends the levee of his fellow-labourer the ox;

the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from their hard

mattress; and now the bonny housemaid begins to repair the disordered

drum-room, while the riotous authors of that disorder, in broken

interrupted slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the hardness of down

disquieted their repose.

In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven than the ladies

were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his lordship and

his equipage were prepared to attend them.

And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his

lordship himself should be conveyed; for though in stage-coaches,

where passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the

ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place

of four; for well he contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed

alderman, may take up no more room than the slim miss, or taper

master; it being the nature of guts, when well squeezed, to give way,

and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in these vehicles, which are

called, for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they are

often larger than the others, this method of packing is never

attempted.

His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very

gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no

means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails

should, by turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship's horses,

which was presently equipped with a side-saddle for that purpose.

Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their

former guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to

repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on

account of what he had suffered under the hands of her enraged

waiting-woman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her

some uneasiness; and this was of the hundred-pound bank-bill which her

father had given her at their last meeting; and which, within a very

inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present worth.

She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things to no

purpose, the bill was not to be found: and she was at last fully

persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the

misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before

recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she now recollected

some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time, and

the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her handkerchief

the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the distress of

Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be

attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is any

strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though

nothing could be worse timed than this accident at such a season,

immediately got the better of her concern, and, with her wonted

serenity and cheerfulness of countenance, returned to her company. His

lordship conducted the ladies into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs

Honour, who, after many civilities, and more dear madams, at last

yielded to the well-bred importunities of her sister Abigail, and

submitted to be complimented with the first ride in the coach; in

which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to have pursued

her whole journey, had not her mistress, after several fruitless

intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on horseback.

The coach, now having received its company, began to move forwards,

attended by many servants, and led by two captains, who had before

rode with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the

vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of

accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as gentlemen; but

they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman,

or indeed would have condescended lower, for the honour of his

lordship's company, and for the convenience of his table.

My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from

Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his

scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the _quantum_ of

this present; but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it

satisfied the landlord for his bodily hurt; but he lamented he had not

known before how little the lady valued her money; “For to be sure,”

says he, “one might have charged every article double, and she would

have made no cavil at the reckoning.”

His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she

really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I

will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the

generosity of Sophia. “Indeed,” cries she, “my dear, the lady knows

better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might very

well think we should not put up such a business without some

satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite deal more

than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take.” “You are

always so bloodily wise,” quoth the husband: “it would have cost her

more, would it? dost fancy I don't know that as well as thee? but

would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets?

Indeed, if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad

to have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a

good picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer,

and why should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?” “Nay, to be

sure,” answered she, “you must know best.” “I believe I do,” replied

he. “I fancy, when money is to be got, I can smell it out as well as

another. Everybody, let me tell you, would not have talked people out

of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not have cajoled this out

of her, mind that.” The wife then joined in the applause of her

husband's sagacity; and thus ended the short dialogue between them on

this occasion.

We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his

lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition that

they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the

second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one

adventure on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate.

Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes,

and our history shall keep pace with the travellers who are its

subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious

traveller in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any

place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which it affords.

At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's Park, days

are too short for the ravished imagination; while we admire the

wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of these, art

chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend for

our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here

Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the

modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature

indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on

this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which

can be exceeded only in the other.

The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these

elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The

woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye

of the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he

afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of

Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from

Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in

sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in

compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions

to our prospect.

Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice,

the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the numerous

offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through

the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring

four miles and a half per hour with the utmost exactness; the eyes of

the beast and of his master being alike directed forwards, and

employed in contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With

equal rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the

architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath

adorned the rich cloathing town; where heaps of bricks are piled up as

a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have been piled there

before.

And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will

leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and

to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly

able to perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this

occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper assistance in

difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use

the arts of divination to discover our meaning, yet we shall not

indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is required;

for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended,

when we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do; or

that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to

travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself.

Chapter x.

Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning

suspicion.

Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship's

house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of

their journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the

two ladies; for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick

would by no means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer.

Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I

may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must make

allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very

ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we

must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right

side, and which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do

well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only

an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations, seem

to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this

formality; but it will, however, be always more commended; and this, I

believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in some

very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or

the other.

A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that

evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady

into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had

determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And

this she was the more eager in doing from some observations she had

made during her journey in the coach.

Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on

Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which

filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly

entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to

enter into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think proper not to

mention more plainly till we have first suggested a word or two to our

reader touching suspicion in general.

Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first

of these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of

its discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the

rather as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees

what is not, and always more than really exists. This is that

quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil can

escape; which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words

and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart of the observer,

so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies evil, as

it were, in the first embryo; nay, sometimes before it can be said to

be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible; but, as this

degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being;

so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have arisen many sad

mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches to innocence and virtue. I

cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast quick-sightedness into evil

as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious evil in itself. And I am

the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid it always proceeds

from a bad heart, for the reasons I have above mentioned, and for one

more, namely, because I never knew it the property of a good one. Now,

from this degree of suspicion I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.

A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is,

indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes,

and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is

unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no

less certain and necessary a consequence of our having any brains.

This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to

innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though,

through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For

instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in the

lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who

profess the art of cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame

him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the

familiarities which he really had seen, and which we are at least

favourable enough to when we call them innocent freedoms. The reader

will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I shall add

but one more, which, however unchristian it may be thought by some, I

cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a

suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done already,

and that it is possible for one who hath been a villain once to act

the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this degree of

suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion

she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was really not

better than she should be.

The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely considered that

the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation

with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to

meet its enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner

therefore was she determined to take the first opportunity of quitting

the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast herself under

the protection of some other man; and whom could she so properly

choose to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune, of

honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to

knight-errantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies in distress,

had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already

given her all the instances of it in his power?

But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or

guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to denominate him by

a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship

should perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and

without publickly assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to

prevent any other person from seeing him in this light, it was agreed

that the lady should proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship

should first go to London, and thence should go down to that place by

the advice of his physicians.

Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or

behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely

less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps

the exact secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in

her narrative served not a little to heighten those suspicions which

were now risen in the mind of her cousin.

Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was

not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known;

and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing

invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did

not desire her cousin to stay with her with more earnestness than

civility required. Whether she had discerned and resented the

suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other motive it arose, I

cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of parting

with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of going.

The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not

avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for heaven's

sake, to take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a

situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of

reconciling her to her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” says

she, “the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us

both; That whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war

declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a

disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my

aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in the

world.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, “Never

fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than I. I

will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me give

you one piece of advice: leave the character of Graveairs in the

country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this

town.”

Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady

Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite,

welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her

formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see

her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her

to leave the squire and to fly to London than she highly applauded her

sense and resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in

the opinion which Sophia had declared she entertained of her ladyship,

by chusing her house for an asylum, she promised her all the

protection which it was in her power to give.

As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I

apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a

little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we

have left long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as

is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him

themselves.