CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
Chapter i.
An Invocation.
Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I will
call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe
on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but
thee, fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nymph, first on the banks
of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua
charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud
metropolis of Britain, sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the
heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages
yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is
yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia, she
reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from
her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me
not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future praise.
Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in
which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box,
I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me, and
whom I shall neither know nor see.
And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of
imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly
stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte,
in some Dutch canal, the fat ufrow gelt, impregnated by a jolly
merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou
suck in the elements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer
age, taught poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the
patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air; while tragedy
storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its thunders. To
soothe thy wearied limbs in slumber, Alderman History tells his
tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs
his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed bookseller
obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy, unread, folio lump,
which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into numbers,
runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some books, like
quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while others turn
beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou
jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy inspiration, but
hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy
quickly convertible bank-bill, big with unseen riches; thy
often-varying stock; the warm, the comfortable house; and, lastly, a
fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield
redundant sustenance for all her numerous offspring, did not some too
greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat. Come thou,
and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm my heart
with the transporting thought of conveying them to others. Tell me,
that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent play hath
often been interrupted by my labours, may one time be amply rewarded
for them.
And now, this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance,
have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I invoke to direct
my pen?
First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we
struggle against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the generous
seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly
take me by the hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding
labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries which
profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult
task, to know mankind better than they know themselves. Remove that
mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them to adore
men for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in deceiving
others, when they are, in reality, the objects only of ridicule, for
deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of wisdom from
self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from ambition.
Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy
Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy
Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the
good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility
to grieve at their own.
And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity,
bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them
all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while
from their bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From
these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting
love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft
compassion, the candid opinion; and all those strong energies of a
good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing
cheeks with blood, and swell the heart with tides of grief, joy, and
benevolence.
And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure,
nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy
favourite fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy
Etonian banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy
birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood.
Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity
piled up, pour forth the rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy
Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy
poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman
characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous chests: give me
a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton thou
hast entrusted.
Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the
learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind of
character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his
spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind
her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to which
the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning
may be, hath ever been a stranger.
Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have
undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be too
heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours I hope
still to bring them to a happy conclusion.
Chapter ii.
What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
The learned Dr Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him
was _To Dr_ Misaubin, _in the World_; intimating that there were few
people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps,
upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this
circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of
grandeur.
The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of
which we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the
portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our names,
as Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift
beyond the power of title and wealth; and is scarce to be purchased,
unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous
imputation, while we yet live, of being _one whom nobody knows_ (a
scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer[*]) will always be the
envied portion of those, who have a legal title either to honour or
estate.
[*] See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.
From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia
to town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude,
doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his
house in London without knowing the particular street or square which
he inhabited, since he must have been one _whom everybody knows_. To
say the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are
accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the
great are generally no less easy to find than it is difficult to get
entrance into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire
stranger in London; and as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of
the town, the inhabitants of which have very little intercourse with
the householders of Hanover or Grosvenor-square (for he entered
through Gray's-inn-lane), so he rambled about some time before he
could even find his way to those happy mansions where fortune
segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous heroes, the descendants
of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose ancestors, being born in
better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have entailed riches and honour
on their posterity.
Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields,
would now soon have discovered his lordship's mansion; but the peer
unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he
was just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet
sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a successless
enquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the
advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn,
that being the inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired
to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his
circumstances.
Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many
a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last,
whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in
her power to disappoint him, he came into the very street which was
honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being directed to the
house, he gave one gentle rap at the door.
The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high
idea of the person approaching, conceived but little better from the
appearance of Mr Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by
his side the weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which,
though the blade might be composed of well-tempered steel, the handle
was composed only of brass, and that none of the brightest. When
Jones, therefore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town
with his lordship, this fellow answered surlily, “That there were no
ladies there.” Jones then desired to see the master of the house; but
was informed that his lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon
growing more pressing the porter said, “he had positive orders to let
no person in; but if you think proper,” said he, “to leave your name,
I will acquaint his lordship; and if you call another time you shall
know when he will see you.”
Jones now declared, “that he had very particular business with the
young lady, and could not depart without seeing her.” Upon which the
porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, “that there
was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;”
adding, “sure you are the strangest man I ever met with, for you will
not take an answer.”
I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus,
the porter of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might possibly intend to
satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at
least, resembles those who have the honour to attend at the doors of
our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in
his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be
gained to his master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light,
and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to procure
an entrance for Aeneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with
such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began to offer a bribe to the
human Cerberus, which a footman, overhearing, instantly advanced, and
declared, “if Mr Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would
conduct him to the lady.” Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith
conducted to the lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had
attended the ladies thither the day before.
Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good.
The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point, laments
his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect
of the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to
that which wins the great prize are apt to account themselves much
more unfortunate than their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of
hairbreadth missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune,
who may be considered as thus playing tricks with us, and wantonly
diverting herself at our expense.
Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome
disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be
tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs
Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now
addressed himself to the waiting-woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick;
who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was gone, but could
not tell him whither; and the same answer he afterwards received from
Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but that Mr
Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, in pursuit of his
daughter, so she was too generous to betray her.
Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a
cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This,
however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his
memory; but when the footman, who had conducted him from his
lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy between the ladies,
and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the
story of the marriage which he had formerly heard; and as he was
presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became more
surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly
desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she as positively
refused him that honour.
Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than
most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to
a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he
retired for the present, saying to the waiting-woman, “That if this
was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the
afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her.”
The civility with which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness
of his person, made an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could
not help answering; “Perhaps, sir, you may;” and, indeed, she
afterwards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most
likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young
gentleman; for so she called him.
Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her
cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of
what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to
procure him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the
door where he thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did he
see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he
returned to pay his visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady at
last condescended to admit.
There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in
the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr Jones, as hath been
before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met,
therefore, with a reception from the lady somewhat different from what
his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his proper
respects, was desired to sit down.
The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the
particulars of this conversation, which ended very little to the
satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick soon discovered
the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet
she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous friend of the
lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the
very Mr Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown; and all the answers which
she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr Allworthy's family,
confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any
knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia was gone; nor could
Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next
evening.
When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion
concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; who answered, “Sure, madam, he is
too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run
away from. I had rather fancy it is Mr Jones.”--“Mr Jones!” said the
lady, “what Jones?” For Sophia had not given the least hint of any
such person in all their conversation; but Mrs Honour had been much
more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the
whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her mistress.
Mrs Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she
immediately agreed with the opinion of her maid; and, what is very
unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had
overlooked in the slighted squire. “Betty,” says she, “you are
certainly in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don't wonder
that my cousin's maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I
am sorry now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if he
be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should ever see
him any more; for what but her ruin can happen from marrying a rake
and a beggar against her father's consent? I protest, if he be such a
man as the wench described him to you, it is but an office of charity
to keep her from him; and I am sure it would be unpardonable in me to
do otherwise, who have tasted so bitterly of the misfortunes attending
such marriages.”
Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no
other than his lordship; and as nothing passed at this visit either
new or extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall
here put an end to this chapter.
Chapter iii.
A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady Bellaston.
When Mrs Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely taken
up by her cousin Sophia and Mr Jones. She was, indeed, a little
offended with the former, for the disingenuity which she now
discovered. In which meditation she had not long exercised her
imagination before the following conceit suggested itself; that could
she possibly become the means of preserving Sophia from this man, and
of restoring her to her father, she should, in all human probability,
by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself both her
uncle and her aunt Western.
As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success
seemed so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of proper
methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case with
Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty had
reported from Mrs Honour, that Sophia had a violent inclination to
Jones, she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an
endeavour of the same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly
to entreat a moth not to fly into a candle.
If the reader will please to remember that the acquaintance which
Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the house of Mrs
Western, and must have grown at the very time when Mrs Fitzpatrick
lived with this latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs
Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted with her likewise. They were,
besides, both equally her distant relations.
After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the
morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and
to acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least
doubt, but that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic
love, and indiscreet marriages, in her conversation, would very
readily concur in her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend
her utmost assistance to prevent it.
This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning before
the sun, she huddled on her cloaths, and at a very unfashionable,
unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to whom she
got access, without the least knowledge or suspicion of Sophia, who,
though not asleep, lay at that time awake in her bed, with Honour
snoring by her side.
Mrs Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early, abrupt visit, at an
hour when, she said, “she should not have thought of disturbing her
ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence.” She then
opened the whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did
not forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the preceding
evening.
Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, “Then you have seen this
terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as he is
represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with
him. The wench I believe is in love with him by reputation.” Here the
reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs Etoff, who
had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received
compleat information concerning the said Mr Jones, and had faithfully
conveyed the same to her lady last night (or rather that morning)
while she was undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in
her office above the space of an hour and a half.
The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the
narratives of Mrs Etoff at those seasons, gave an extraordinary
attention to her account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a
very handsome fellow, and Mrs Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to
the beauty of his person to her report, that Lady Bellaston began to
conceive him to be a kind of miracle in nature.
The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased
by Mrs Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in favour of the person of Jones
as she had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character, and
fortune.
When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely,
“Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great consequence. Nothing can
certainly be more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be
very glad to have my share in the preservation of a young lady of so
much merit, and for whom I have so much esteem.”
“Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly, “that it
would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and acquaint
him where my cousin is?”
The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered--“Why, no,
madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to be
such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power
who hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to
his own wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a
right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the
cause of my sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under
their power.--The business, dear cousin, will be only to keep Miss
Western from seeing this young fellow, till the good company, which
she will have an opportunity of meeting here, give her a properer
turn.”
“If he should find her out, madam,” answered the other, “your ladyship
may be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to come at her.”
“But, madam,” replied the lady, “it is impossible he should come
here--though indeed it is possible he may get some intelligence where
she is, and then may lurk about the house--I wish therefore I knew his
person.
“Is there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of him? for,
otherwise, you know, cousin, she may contrive to see him here without
my knowledge.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, “That he had threatened her
with another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased
to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail
of seeing him between six and seven; and if he came earlier she would,
by some means or other, detain him till her ladyship's arrival.”--Lady
Bellaston replied, “She would come the moment she could get from
dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that it
was absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his person.
Upon my word, madam,” says she, “it was very good to take this care of
Miss Western; but common humanity, as well as regard to our family,
requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match indeed.”
Mrs Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the compliment
which Lady Bellaston had bestowed on her cousin, and, after some
little immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she
could into her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home.
Chapter iv.
Which consists of visiting.
Mr Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole
day, which, though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of
the longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck
five, he returned to Mrs Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full hour
earlier than the decent time of visiting, received him very civilly;
but still persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia.
Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon
which Mrs Fitzpatrick said, “Then, sir, you know we are related: and,
as we are, you will permit me the right of enquiring into the
particulars of your business with my cousin.” Here Jones hesitated a
good while, and at last answered, “He had a considerable sum of money
of hers in his hands, which he desired to deliver to her.” He then
produced the pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs Fitzpatrick with the
contents, and with the method in which they came into his hands. He
had scarce finished his story, when a most violent noise shook the
whole house. To attempt to describe this noise to those who have heard
it would be in vain; and to aim at giving any idea of it to those who
have never heard the like, would be still more vain: for it may be
truly said--
_--Non acuta
Sic geminant Corybantes aera._
The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.
In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones
was a little surprized at the sound, having never heard it before; but
Mrs Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were coming,
she could not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to stay till
they were gone, she intimated she had something to say to him.
The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop
sideways before her, entered Lady Bellaston, who having first made a
very low courtesy to Mrs Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr Jones,
was ushered to the upper end of the room.
We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country ladies of
our acquaintance, who think it contrary to the rules of modesty to
bend their knees to a man.
The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer
lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a repetition of
ceremonials.
These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is)
extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be
thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself,
I shall omit the relation; the rather, as I have known some very fine
polite conversation grow extremely dull, when transcribed into books,
or repeated on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a dainty, of
which those who are excluded from polite assemblies must be contented
to remain as ignorant as they must of the several dainties of French
cookery, which are served only at the tables of the great. To say the
truth, as neither of these are adapted to every taste, they might both
be often thrown away on the vulgar.
Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an actor
in it; for though, in the short interval before the peer's arrival,
Lady Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs Fitzpatrick, had addressed
some of their discourse to him; yet no sooner was the noble lord
entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of the two ladies to
himself; and as he took no more notice of Jones than if no such person
had been present, unless by now and then staring at him, the ladies
followed his example.
The company had now staid so long, that Mrs Fitzpatrick plainly
perceived they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore
resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she
thought the least ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of
a cessation of chat, she addressed herself gravely to him, and said,
“Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an answer to-night as
to that business; but if you please to leave word where I may send to
you to-morrow---”
Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead therefore
of communicating the secret of his lodgings to a servant, he
acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and soon after very
ceremoniously withdrew.
He was no sooner gone than the great personages, who had taken no
notice of him present, began to take much notice of him in his
absence; but if the reader hath already excused us from relating the
more brilliant part of this conversation, he will surely be very ready
to excuse the repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse; though,
perhaps, it may be material to our history to mention an observation
of Lady Bellaston, who took her leave in a few minutes after him, and
then said to Mrs Fitzpatrick, at her departure, “I am satisfied on the
account of my cousin; she can be in no danger from this fellow.”
Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take leave
of the present company, which was now reduced to two persons; between
whom, as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our reader,
we shall not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from matters which
must seem of more consequence to all those who are at all interested
in the affairs of our heroe.
Chapter v.
An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his lodgings, with some
account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the mistress of
the house, and her two daughters.
The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs
Fitzpatrick's door, where he was answered that the lady was not at
home; an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked
backwards and forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had
gone out, he must have seen her. This answer, however, he was obliged
to receive, and not only now, but to five several visits which he made
her that day.
To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason or
other, perhaps from a regard for the lady's honour, insisted that she
should not see Mr Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any more; and
the lady had complied in making that promise to which we now see her
so strictly adhere.
But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the
young gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have some concern,
should it be apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from
Sophia, he took up his residence either at an inn, or in the street;
we shall now give an account of his lodging, which was indeed in a
very reputable house, and in a very good part of the town.
Mr Jones, then, had often heard Mr Allworthy mention the gentlewoman
at whose house he used to lodge when he was in town. This person, who,
as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was the widow of a
clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in possession of two
daughters, and of a compleat set of manuscript sermons.
Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age
of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that of ten.
Hither Jones had despatched Partridge, and in this house he was
provided with a room for himself in the second floor, and with one for
Partridge in the fourth.
The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen, who, in
the last age, were called men of wit and pleasure about town, and
properly enough; for as men are usually denominated from their
business or profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the only
business or profession of those gentlemen to whom fortune had made all
useful occupations unnecessary. Playhouses, coffeehouses, and taverns
were the scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were the
entertainment of their looser hours, and love was the business of
their more serious moments. Wine and the muses conspired to kindle the
brightest flames in their breasts; nor did they only admire, but some
were able to celebrate the beauty they admired, and all to judge of
the merit of such compositions.
Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure; but
I question whether the same appellation may, with the same propriety,
be given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have the same
ambition to be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they have
nothing to do with. To give them their due, they soar a step higher
than their predecessors, and may be called men of wisdom and vertù
(take heed you do not read virtue). Thus at an age when the gentlemen
above mentioned employ their time in toasting the charms of a woman,
or in making sonnets in her praise; in giving their opinion of a play
at the theatre, or of a poem at Will's or Button's; these gentlemen
are considering the methods to bribe a corporation, or meditating
speeches for the House of Commons, or rather for the magazines. But
the science of gaming is that which above all others employs their
thoughts. These are the studies of their graver hours, while for their
amusements they have the vast circle of connoisseurship, painting,
music, statuary, and natural philosophy, or rather _unnatural_, which
deals in the wonderful, and knows nothing of Nature, except her
monsters and imperfections.
When Jones had spent the whole day in vain enquiries after Mrs
Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment. Here,
while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar
below-stairs; and soon after a female voice begged him for heaven's
sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never backward on any
occasion to help the distressed, immediately ran down-stairs; when
stepping into the dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld
the young gentleman of wisdom and vertù just before mentioned, pinned
close to the wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by,
wringing her hands, and crying out, “He will be murdered! he will be
murdered!” and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some danger of
being choaked, when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued
him, just as he was breathing his last, from the unmerciful clutches
of the enemy.
Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little
gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it a kind of
scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have contented
himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such
respect; he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly handled
by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the
guts which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphitheatre have
such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey but very little pleasure
in the feeling.
The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he meditated a
most grateful return; and now ensued a combat between Jones and the
footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more
able to contend with Jones than his master had before been to contend
with him.
And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of
affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the
vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr Jones for
his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of
the young woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss Nancy, the
eldest daughter of the house.
The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones,
and, with a sagacious look, cried--“O d--n me, I'll have nothing more
to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm d--nably
mistaken.” And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such was
the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was, perhaps, a match
for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have
beaten all the muffled[*] graduates of Mr Broughton's school.
[*] Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper
to explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. 1, 1747.
N.B.--Mr Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an
academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those
who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the
whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the
various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c., incident to combatants,
will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and
distinction may not be deterred from entering into _A course of
those lectures_, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and
regard to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil,
for which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure
them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody
noses.
The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip,
to which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of receiving his
wages. This condition was presently complied with, and the fellow was
discharged.
And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very
strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle
of wine with him; to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented,
though more out of complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of
his mind fitted him very little for conversation at this time. Miss
Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma
and sister being both gone to the play, condescended to favour them
with her company.
When the bottle and glasses were on the table the gentleman began to
relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance.
“I hope, sir,” said he to Jones, “you will not from this accident
conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I assure
you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance,
and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before
he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath happened this
evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come
home several hours before my usual time, when I found four gentlemen
of the cloth at whist by my fire;--and my Hoyle, sir--my best Hoyle,
which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a quantity of
porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole book.
This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the rest
of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle
rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a pert answer,
`That servants must have their diversions as well as other people;
that he was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but
that several of his acquaintance had bought the same for a shilling,
and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.' I now gave
him a severer reprimand than before, when the rascal had the insolence
to---In short, he imputed my early coming home to----In short, he cast
a reflection----He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner--in
such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience, and, in my
passion, I struck him.”
Jones answered, “That he believed no person living would blame him;
for my part,” said he, “I confess I should, on the last-mentioned
provocation, have done the same thing.”
Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and
daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent a very
chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and
even he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his
natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper,
was sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding
the heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the
present occasion, that, at their breaking up, the young gentleman
earnestly desired his further acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well
pleased with him; and the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger,
invited him, with the other, next morning to breakfast.
Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a
very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all
the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the
most innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most
chearful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had
constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest
of all desires in this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its
ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her power
was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She
had been a most affectionate wife, and was a most fond and tender
mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great
characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be
heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this excellent
woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history.
Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself, whose
wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much good
sense, though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but what
recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity
and humanity, which occasionally dropt from him; and particularly many
expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On
which subject the young gentleman delivered himself in a language
which might have very well become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and
which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a
modern fine gentleman; but he was only one by imitation, and meant by
nature for a much better character.
Chapter vi.
What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with some hints
concerning the government of daughters.
Our company brought together in the morning the same good inclinations
towards each other, with which they had separated the evening before;
but poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he had just received
information from Partridge, that Mrs Fitzpatrick had left her lodging,
and that he could not learn whither she was gone. This news highly
afflicted him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in
defiance of all his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed manifest
indications of a disordered mind.
The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr
Nightingale again expressed many of those warm, generous, and
disinterested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men
call romantic, but which wise and sober women generally regard in a
better light. Mrs Miller (for so the mistress of the house was called)
greatly approved these sentiments; but when the young gentleman
appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only, “That she believed the
gentleman who had spoke the least was capable of feeling most.”
This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should
have been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her indeed a
very polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint, that her own
silence subjected her to a suspicion of the same kind: for indeed she
had scarce opened her lips either now or the last evening.
“I am glad, Nanny,” says Mrs Miller, “the gentleman hath made the
observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. What can be the
matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become
of all your gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little
prattler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week.”
Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a
maid-servant, who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she said, “was
delivered by a porter for Mr Jones.” She added, “That the man
immediately went away, saying, it required no answer.”
Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must
be some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was certain of the
name, all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately
opened; which operation was at length performed by little Betsy, with
the consent of Mr Jones: and the contents were found to be a domino, a
mask, and a masquerade ticket.
Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these things
must have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs Miller herself expressed
some doubt, and said, “She knew not what to think.” But when Mr
Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. “All I
can conclude from it, sir,” said he, “is, that you are a very happy
man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady whom you
will have the happiness of meeting at the masquerade.”
Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such
flattering imagination; nor did Mrs Miller herself give much assent to
what Mr Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the
domino, a card dropt from the sleeve, in which was written as
follows:--
To MR JONES.
The queen of the fairies sends you this;
Use her favours not amiss.
Mrs Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr Nightingale; nay,
Jones himself was almost persuaded to be of the same opinion. And as
no other lady but Mrs Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he
began to flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her, and
that he might possibly see his Sophia. These hopes had surely very
little foundation; but as the conduct of Mrs Fitzpatrick, in not
seeing him according to her promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had
been very odd and unaccountable, he conceived some faint hopes, that
she (of whom he had formerly heard a very whimsical character) might
possibly intend to do him that service in a strange manner, which she
declined doing by more ordinary methods. To say the truth, as nothing
certain could be concluded from so odd and uncommon an incident, he
had the greater latitude to draw what imaginary conclusions from it he
pleased. As his temper therefore was naturally sanguine, he indulged
it on this occasion, and his imagination worked up a thousand
conceits, to favour and support his expectations of meeting his dear
Sophia in the evening.
Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully repay
them by wishing thee to be possessed of this sanguine disposition of
mind; since, after having read much and considered long on that
subject of happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I am
almost inclined to fix it in the possession of this temper; which puts
us, in a manner, out of the reach of Fortune, and makes us happy
without her assistance. Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it gives
are much more constant as well as much keener, than those which that
blind lady bestows; nature having wisely contrived, that some satiety
and languor should be annexed to all our real enjoyments, lest we
should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt from further pursuits. I
make no manner of doubt but that, in this light, we may see the
imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the archbishop in
crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an opposition, more truly
happy than those who are invested with all the power and profit of
those respective offices.
Mr Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that evening,
Mr Nightingale offered to conduct him thither. The young gentleman, at
the same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the
good woman would not accept them. She said, “she did not conceive the
harm which some people imagined in a masquerade; but that such
extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of quality and
fortune, and not for young women who were to get their living, and
could, at best, hope to be married to a good tradesman.”----“A
tradesman!” cries Nightingale, “you shan't undervalue my Nancy. There
is not a nobleman upon earth above her merit.” “O fie! Mr
Nightingale,” answered Mrs Miller, “you must not fill the girl's head
with such fancies: but if it was her good luck” (says the mother with
a simper) “to find a gentleman of your generous way of thinking, I
hope she would make a better return to his generosity than to give her
mind up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young ladies bring
great fortunes themselves, they have some right to insist on spending
what is their own; and on that account I have heard the gentlemen say,
a man has sometimes a better bargain with a poor wife, than with a
rich one.----But let my daughters marry whom they will, I shall
endeavour to make them blessings to their husbands:----I beg,
therefore, I may hear of no more masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain,
too good a girl to desire to go; for she must remember when you
carried her thither last year, it almost turned her head; and she did
not return to herself, or to her needle, in a month afterwards.”
Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to
argue some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, she did not dare
openly to oppose them. For as this good woman had all the tenderness,
so she had preserved all the authority of a parent; and as her
indulgence to the desires of her children was restrained only by her
fears for their safety and future welfare, so she never suffered those
commands which proceeded from such fears to be either disobeyed or
disputed. And this the young gentleman, who had lodged two years in
the house, knew so well, that he presently acquiesced in the refusal.
Mr Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very
desirous of his company that day to dinner at the tavern, where he
offered to introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged
to be excused, “as his cloaths,” he said, “were not yet come to town.”
To confess the truth, Mr Jones was now in a situation, which sometimes
happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much better figure than
himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a situation in
much greater credit among the antient philosophers than among the
modern wise men who live in Lombard-street, or those who frequent
White's chocolate-house. And, perhaps, the great honours which those
philosophers have ascribed to an empty pocket may be one of the
reasons of that high contempt in which they are held in the aforesaid
street and chocolate-house.
Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably on
virtue only, be, as the modern wise men just above-mentioned pretend
to have discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I apprehend,
that position of some writers of romance, that a man can live
altogether on love; for however delicious repasts this may afford to
some of our senses or appetites, it is most certain it can afford none
to others. Those, therefore, who have placed too great a confidence in
such writers, have experienced their error when it was too late; and
have found that love was no more capable of allaying hunger, than a
rose is capable of delighting the ear, or a violin of gratifying the
smell.
Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set
before him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the masquerade; on
which, however ill-founded his imagination might be, he had
voluptuously feasted during the whole day, the evening no sooner came
than Mr Jones began to languish for some food of a grosser kind.
Partridge discovered this by intuition, and took the occasion to give
some oblique hints concerning the bank-bill; and, when these were
rejected with disdain, he collected courage enough once more to
mention a return to Mr Allworthy.
“Partridge,” cries Jones, “you cannot see my fortune in a more
desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin heartily to repent
that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to
follow me. However, I insist now on your returning home; and for the
expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to on my
account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would
take as your own. I am sorry I can make you no other acknowledgment.”
He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge, among
whose vices ill-nature or hardness of heart were not numbered, burst
into tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his distress,
he began with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return home.
“For heaven's sake, sir,” says he, “do but consider; what can your
honour do?--how is it possible you can live in this town without
money? Do what you will, sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved
not to desert you. But pray, sir, consider--do pray, sir, for your own
sake, take it into your consideration; and I'm sure,” says he, “that
your own good sense will bid you return home.”
“How often shall I tell thee,” answered Jones, “that I have no home to
return to? Had I any hopes that Mr Allworthy's doors would be open to
receive me, I want no distress to urge me--nay, there is no other
cause upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying to his
presence; but, alas! that I am for ever banished from. His last words
were--O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears--his last words were,
when he gave me a sum of money--what it was I know not, but
considerable I'm sure it was--his last words were--`I am resolved from
this day forward, on no account to converse with you any more.'”
Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment did
that of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of speech, and after
a short preface, in which he declared he had no inquisitiveness in his
temper, enquired what Jones meant by a considerable sum--he knew not
how much--and what was become of the money.
In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which he
was proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a message from
Mr Nightingale, who desired his master's company in his apartment.
When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr
Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be sent for, a circumstance
of distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to
many of my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such
readers will reflect a little on what they have themselves felt from
the want of a thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to
execute a favourite scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what Mr
Jones felt on this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied to
Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance, and
was the last he intended that poor fellow should advance in his
service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer of this
kind. Whether it was that he desired to see the bank-bill broke in
upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to return home, or from
what other motive it proceeded, I will not determine.
Chapter vii.
Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great
Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides; and,
like other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended
presence of the deity, when in reality no such deity is there.
Mr Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon
left him, and walked off with a female, saying, “Now you are here,
sir, you must beat about for your own game.”
Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and
these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, the music, and the
company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen.
He now accosted every woman he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore
any resemblance to his angel. To all of whom he endeavoured to say
something smart, in order to engage an answer, by which he might
discover that voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake.
Some of these answered by a question, in a squeaking voice, Do you
know me? Much the greater number said, I don't know you, sir, and
nothing more. Some called him an impertinent fellow; some made him no
answer at all; some said, Indeed I don't know your voice, and I shall
have nothing to say to you; and many gave him as kind answers as he
could wish, but not in the voice he desired to hear.
Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of
a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping him on
the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear, “If you
talk any longer with that trollop, I will acquaint Miss Western.”
Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former
companion, he applied to the domino, begging and entreating her to
show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.
The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment
before she spoke; and then, instead of answering him, sat down, and
declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still persisted in
his entreaties; at last the lady coldly answered, “I imagined Mr Jones
had been a more discerning lover, than to suffer any disguise to
conceal his mistress from him.” “Is she here, then, madam?” replied
Jones, with some vehemence. Upon which the lady cried--“Hush, sir, you
will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not
here.”
Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the
most earnest manner, to acquaint him where he might find Sophia; and
when he could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her gently
for having disappointed him the day before; and concluded, saying,
“Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your majesty very well,
notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs
Fitzpatrick, it is a little cruel to divert yourself at the expense of
my torments.”
The mask answered, “Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I
must still speak in the same voice, lest I should be known by others.
And do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard for my
cousin, than to assist in carrying on an affair between you two, which
must end in her ruin, as well as your own? Besides, I promise you, my
cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own destruction, if you are
so much her enemy as to tempt her to it.”
“Alas, madam!” said Jones, “you little know my heart, when you call me
an enemy of Sophia.”
“And yet to ruin any one,” cries the other, “you will allow, is the
act of an enemy; and when by the same act you must knowingly and
certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as well
as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very little more than her father
will please to give her; very little for one of her fashion--you know
him, and you know your own situation.”
Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, “That he would rather
suffer the most violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his
desires.” He said, “he knew how unworthy he was of her, every way,
that he had long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts, but
that some strange accidents had made him desirous to see her once
more, when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No,
madam,” concluded he, “my love is not of that base kind which seeks
its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its
object. I would sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia,
but Sophia herself.”
Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of
the virtue of the lady in the mask; and though possibly she may
hereafter appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her
sex; yet, it is certain, these generous sentiments made a strong
impression upon her, and greatly added to the affection she had before
conceived for our young heroe.
The lady now, after silence of a few moments, said, “She did not see
his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of presumption, as of
imprudence. Young fellows,” says she, “can never have too aspiring
thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have you
cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed with those
who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced there are
women----but don't you think me a strange creature, Mr Jones, to be
thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little acquainted, and
one with whose behaviour to me I have so little reason to be pleased?”
Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in
anything he had said of her cousin.--To which the mask answered, “And
are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a
lady more than by entertaining her with your passion for another
woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion of your
gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the
masquerade.”
Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but
gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he
held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if
it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made it
necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he made no doubt but
she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the other.
He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when
a mask, in the character of an old woman, joined them. This mask was
one of those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent ill-nature, by
telling people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the phrase is, to
spoil as much sport as they are able. This good lady, therefore,
having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well knew, in close
consultation together in a corner of the room, concluded she could
nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by interrupting them. She
attacked them, therefore, and soon drove them from their retirement;
nor was she contented with this, but pursued them to every place which
they shifted to avoid her; till Mr Nightingale, seeing the distress of
his friend, at last relieved him, and engaged the old woman in another
pursuit.
While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid
themselves of the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several masks,
with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced.
He could not help expressing his surprize at this; saying, “Sure,
madam, you must have infinite discernment, to know people in all
disguises.” To which the lady answered, “You cannot conceive anything
more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the people of fashion,
who in general know one another as well here as when they meet in an
assembly or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of condition converse
with a person with whom she is not acquainted. In short, the
generality of persons whom you see here may more properly be said to
kill time in this place than in any other; and generally retire from
hence more tired than from the longest sermon. To say the truth, I
begin to be in that situation myself; and if I have any faculty at
guessing, you are not much better pleased. I protest it would be
almost charity in me to go home for your sake.” “I know but one
charity equal to it,” cries Jones, “and that is to suffer me to wait
on you home.” “Sure,” answered the lady, “you have a strange opinion
of me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I would let you
into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you impute the friendship
I have shown my cousin to some other motive. Confess honestly; don't
you consider this contrived interview as little better than a
downright assignation? Are you used, Mr Jones, to make these sudden
conquests?” “I am not used, madam,” said Jones, “to submit to such
sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by surprize, the rest
of my body hath a right to follow; so you must pardon me if I resolve
to attend you wherever you go.” He accompanied these words with some
proper actions; upon which the lady, after a gentle rebuke, and saying
their familiarity would be observed, told him, “She was going to sup
with an acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not follow her; for
if you should,” said she, “I shall be thought an unaccountable
creature, though my friend indeed is not censorious: yet I hope you
won't follow me; I protest I shall not know what to say if you do.”
The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones,
notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had received, presumed to
attend her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned
before, namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by
borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on after the chair in
which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen
present, who wisely take the best care they can to discountenance all
walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who
attend at the Opera-house were too busy to quit their stations, and as
the lateness of the hour prevented him from meeting many of their
brethren in the street, he proceeded without molestation, in a dress,
which, at another season, would have certainly raised a mob at his
heels.
The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where
the door being presently opened, she was carried in, and the
gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after her.
Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and
well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her masquerade
voice, said she was surprized at her friend, who must absolutely have
forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she
suddenly exprest some apprehension from Jones, and asked him what the
world would think of their having been alone together in a house at
that time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important a
question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady to unmask;
and at length having prevailed, there appeared not Mrs Fitzpatrick,
but the Lady Bellaston herself.
It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which
consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted
from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention
all of it that is anywise material to this history. And this was a
promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in a few
days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he would
then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and a
second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they
separated; the lady returned to her house, and Jones to his lodgings.
Chapter viii.
Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary
to most of our readers.
Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned
Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty
pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with
sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in
him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of his master:
to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in
which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad
all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could
possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by
robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should
suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly
imagine any other.
To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the
liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her,
who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the
age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void
of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a
young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no
improper object of this virtue.
Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs
Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen,
with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from
three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been
out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the
following account.
“I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion--I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.--It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but
thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a
better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is
wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in
the world to her mother; and yet I saw her--I saw the poor child, Mr
Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.”
Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and
there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her
in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus:
“In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing
manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she
endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her
husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of
all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,
and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was
never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him
with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the
child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away;
let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve
with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't
help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection
in a child.--And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a
day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all
human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor
man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like
one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at
my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.--When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face
pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with
hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.--He told me himself in a whisper--he told me--I can't repeat
it--he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife
has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest
affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.--The means of
procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from
heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
a single question.
“This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each
other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on my
cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the happiest of
women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is much
otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender
consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable
part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to
which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are
scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most
loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the
happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery
at her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you
now tell me.”--“O child,” answered the mother, “she hath always
endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in
great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon
them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and
about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were
all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of
it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.--What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to
send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The
look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be
described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed
out--“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”--But
recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;”
adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them.”
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he
knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He
inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of
others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and
concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate
family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr
Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a
guinea with all my heart.”
Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered
the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if
either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without
reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an
example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands
who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did
not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as
the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity
than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in
general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the
very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of
this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little
you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a
great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to
be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and
are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely
neglected it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
Chapter ix.
Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
preceding chapter.
In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again
ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary
occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we
despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose
devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints,
wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from
desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to
draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain
French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us
here under the name of translations.
Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that
some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor
master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met
with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to combat
which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind
her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be
disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable
consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had
no hopes of ever obtaining.
Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about
town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we
have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence
beyond what he had ever known.
Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was
the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had
been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to
have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She
had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers,
though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a
wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable
to the breath of love.
Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt
his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly
discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the
extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady
would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought
himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours
were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so
his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This therefore
he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself
to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of
some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of
discharging his debt, to become the slave of his creditor.
While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following
note from the lady:--
“A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since
our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more
at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place
by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.”
This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very
great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an
hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
contained as follows:--
“I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no
stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I
am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever
may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad,
but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
“If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them
show you into the drawing-room.”
To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle
than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from
complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he
had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were
to go with that young gentleman and his company to a new play, which
was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed
to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a
friend to one of Mr Nightingale's acquaintance. And this sort of fun,
our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred
to the above kind appointment; but his honour got the better of his
inclination.
Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we
think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader
may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady
Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was
lodged.
First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto
met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now
become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her
ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had
positively declared that she would, on no account, be instrumental in
carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her
despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that
evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at
the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came
into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was
immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her
companion. Mrs Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the
same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the
safe reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or
three hours of uninterrupted conversation after her return from the
place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a pretty
distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she
had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the revolution
that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.
Chapter x.
A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.
Mr Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller
rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his
company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.
Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to
him, saying, “This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly
beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his
sincerest thanks.”
The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so
kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each
other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the
latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his
speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, “It is so, I am convinced
it is so!”
“Bless me! what's the meaning of this?” cries Mrs Miller; “you are not
ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant.”
“Be not frighted, madam,” cries Jones, “I have almost as much need of
a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this unexpected
meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller.”
“An acquaintance!” cries the man.--“Oh, heaven!”
“Ay, an acquaintance,” repeated Jones, “and an honoured acquaintance
too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction,
may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!”
“Oh, you are an excellent young man,” cries Mrs Miller:--“Yes, indeed,
poor creature! he hath ventured everything.--If he had not had one of
the best of constitutions, it must have killed him.”
“Cousin,” cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself,
“this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom,
before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to
whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured
for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest; of
all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of
such a nature!”
“Mention nothing of obligations,” cries Jones eagerly; “not a word, I
insist upon it, not a word” (meaning, I suppose, that he would not
have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). “If, by the
trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole family,
sure pleasure was never bought so cheap.”
“Oh, sir!” cries the man, “I wish you could this instant see my house.
If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am
convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with
the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed,
and chiefly by your goodness.----My children have now a bed to lie
on----and they have----they have----eternal blessings reward you for
it!----they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is
out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my
cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at
my house.--Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.--My children
too must express their gratitude.----Indeed, sir, they are not without
a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling when I reflect to
whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their
gratitude.----Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now
been cold as ice without your assistance.”
Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but
indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped
his words. And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth
thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin, and
concluded with saying, “She doubted not but such goodness would meet a
glorious reward.”
Jones answered, “He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
cousin's account, madam,” said he, “hath given me a sensation more
pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at
hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them,
as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater
honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the ambitious,
the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain.”
The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a
hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the
hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that
he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own
house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady
Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured
to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror,
on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he
listened rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy,
when he was attacked on the high road.
Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening,
in which Mr Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied
her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the
circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself,
and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the greater,
as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this
lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the
better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which
would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any
circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.
Chapter xi.
In which the reader will be surprized.
Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than
the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the
place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
door opened, and in came----no other than Sophia herself, who had left
the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who
safely conveyed her to her chair.
As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home
till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily
in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without
once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of
Jones now stood motionless.---In this glass it was, after
contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said
statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of
the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved
herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support
her in his arms.
To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my
power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged
to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed
that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few
of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts
what past at this time in theirs.
After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said--“I see,
madam, you are surprized.”--“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens!
Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you
seem.”--“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this
once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
this long, fruitless pursuit.”--“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.--“Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of
me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important
business with me?”--“To some, madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an
important business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you
will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the
pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
thus:--“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”--“My
pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
after what I have heard.”--“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones.
“By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”
Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow,
and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of
Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had
scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He
understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia!
my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened
there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my
heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I
was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired
of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still
on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if
my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently
fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe
me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never
intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in her heart, was very
glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness
than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the
trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it
worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature
indeed.”--“What is it, for heaven's sake?” answered Jones, trembling
and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,”
said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and everything
base be lodged together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the
ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind,
and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded
Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any
man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the
meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may
have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to
hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!”
Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but
yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend
himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his
conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,
that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his
love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at
the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an
offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to
hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death,
which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared
up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that
Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to
give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear
to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were aware
they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded
like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her
duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin
with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune
with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let
drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his
breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No;
by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia,
whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will
tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real
good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall
be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from
whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb
your ears. And when I am dead”--He would have gone on, but was stopt
by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she
leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off,
which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance;
but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and,
to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found
she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she
never had time to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He
began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her
suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door
opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.
Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she
suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting
herself with admirable presence of mind, she said--though with
sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance--“I
thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”
Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he
had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the
real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she
was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all
their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against
her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through
the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the cause
of her hasty return.
The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as
the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed
her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have
broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had
company.”
Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words.
To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes
and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I
shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company----” “I hope,
at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt no business.”--“No,
madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an end. Your ladyship
may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my
pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so
kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”
Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to
sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,
and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby
squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began,
however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour
of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance
with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part.
He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had
used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in
it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”
Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady
Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once
hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one
syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme
quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of
Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though
she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she
was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western,
you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it
fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to
discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it
advertised.--It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to
whom the note belonged.”
“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which
the young lady's name was written.”
“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:--“And it was no
less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very
little known.”
Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he
conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the
question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he
proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest
chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had
found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the
masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would
inform me, I went according to her appointment, but she was not at
home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she
directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did
myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I
had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;
where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
play.”
Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was
visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a
little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the
agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of
relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
occasions;--I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;--it is,
madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit
here.”
“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman,
and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”
Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed
lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too
well.
Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to
behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged,
with which Sophia was unacquainted.
Chapter xii.
In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much
truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie
is not only excusable but commendable.
And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right
to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair
of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all,
the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by which they
are restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature
(for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from owning them.
We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued
the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As
she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of
the person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance,
though at the expense of a little fibbing.
Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, “Upon my
word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't
remember ever to have seen his face before.”
“Nor I neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “I must say he behaved very
handsomely in relation to my note.”
“Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady: “don't you
think so?”
“I did not take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but I thought
he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise.”
“You are extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston: “you may see, by his
manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his
returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question
whether he is a gentleman.----I have always observed there is a
something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.----I
think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”
“Nay, sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can't suspect after what he
hath done;--besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an
elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression
that, that----”
“I confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words----And
indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.”
“I forgive your ladyship!” said Sophia.
“Yes, indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I had a horrible
suspicion when I first came into the room----I vow you must forgive
it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones himself.”
“Did your ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a
laugh.
“Yes, I vow I did,” answered she. “I can't imagine what put it into my
head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest; which, I
think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend.”
“This raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston,
after my promise to your ladyship.”
“Not at all, child,” said the lady;----“It would have been cruel
before; but after you have promised me never to marry without your
father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones,
sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable
enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you
have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if
you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to
fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you
have dealt ingenuously with me.”
“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes me, if you
imagine I had any concern on his account.”
“On his account!” answered the lady: “You must have mistaken me; I
went no farther than his dress;----for I would not injure your taste
by any other comparison--I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr
Jones had been such a fellow as this--”
“I thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him to be
handsome”----
“Whom, pray?” cried the lady hastily.
“Mr Jones,” answered Sophia;--and immediately recollecting herself,
“Mr Jones!--no, no; I ask your pardon;--I mean the gentleman who was
just now here.”
“O Sophy! Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am afraid, still
runs in your head.”
“Then, upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones is as entirely
indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”
“Upon my honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. Forgive me,
therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never
mention his name any more.”
And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of
Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her
rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her
away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first
practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to her chamber, she
reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could
the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case,
at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind
was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a
falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought
once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.