BOOK XIV.

CONTAINING TWO DAYS.

Chapter i.

An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having some

knowledge of the subject on which he writes.

As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius

only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps, without being

well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of

letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert,

that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a writer; and,

indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness

and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed down, and

prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise it would

be able to reach.

This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far: for

why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The nimbleness

of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move;

nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by

having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot conceive that

Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if instead of being

masters of all the learning of their times, they had been as ignorant

as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I believe that all

the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could have produced those

orations that have made the senate of England, in these our times, a

rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read

in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred

their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their spirit, their

knowledge too.

I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning

in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to the

composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I

conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of

all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of Poetry,

and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate

heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection of

political journals.

To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some

little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the

old maxim of law, _Quam quisque nôrit artem in eâ se exerceat_. With

this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed,

without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in

little stead.

For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and

Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have

clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art

of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have

equalled the excellent treatise which Mr Essex hath given us on that

subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And, indeed,

should the excellent Mr Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to

paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down

the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will

have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either

antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.

To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to come at

once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why many

English writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper

life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of it.

This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to

arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will

the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the

former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself

upon the latter, a coxcomb.

Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported.

Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as

unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout

or a drum in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation

here will not do the business. The picture must be after Nature

herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by conversation,

and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to be known.

Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen,

like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the streets,

shops, and coffee-houses; nor are they shown, like the upper rank of

animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to which no

persons are admitted without one or other of these qualifications,

viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is equivalent to both, the

honourable profession of a gamester. And, very unluckily for the

world, persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon themselves

the bad trade of writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower

and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many think requires no kind of

stock to set up with.

Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and

brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and

ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their

clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the

galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life than the

centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to

let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very

necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a

writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels which, like

this I am writing, is of the comic class.

What Mr Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this station,

who are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation, that

they have no character at all, at least none which appears. I will

venture to say the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very

little humour or entertainment. The various callings in lower spheres

produce the great variety of humorous characters; whereas here, except

among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the

fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is vanity and servile

imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking, bowing and

courtesying, make up the business of their lives.

Some there are, however, of this rank upon whom passion exercises its

tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum

prescribes; of these the ladies are as much distinguished by their

noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from

the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is by

the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of a

yeoman and shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character;

but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the

general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them

as such. They might as well suppose that every clergyman was

represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.

There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally

prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some

ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these

times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love

intrigue carried on among persons of condition than now. Our present

women have been taught by their mothers to fix their thoughts only on

ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures of love as unworthy

their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of such mothers,

married without having husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in

the justness of those sentiments; whence they content themselves, for

the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more innocent, but I

am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention of which would

ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble opinion, the

true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather folly than

vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of frivolous.

Chapter ii.

Containing letters and other matters which attend amours.

Jones had not been long at home before he received the following

letter:--

“I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When you

left the room I little imagined you intended to have left the house

without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and

convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon

an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning

more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood

not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the

assurance, the----what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she

knows you, or ever saw you before.----Was this a scheme laid between

you, and have you been base enough to betray me?----O how I despise

her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for----I dare not

write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can

detest as violently as I have loved.”

Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before

a second was brought him from the same hand; and this, likewise, we

shall set down in the precise words.

“When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ,

you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.--Yet,

perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would,

if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the

impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my

appointment.----How easy is it to think well of those we

love!----Perhaps you desire I should think so. I have resolved to

see you to-night; so come to me immediately.

“_P.S._--I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.

“_P.S._--Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence;

for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to

impose on myself.

“_P.S._--Come immediately.”

To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or

the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones. Certain it

is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening,

unless to one single person. However, he thought his honour engaged,

and had not this been motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to

blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had

reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence

might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some

discontented walks therefore about the room, he was preparing to

depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by another letter, but

by her own presence. She entered the room very disordered in her

dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw herself into a

chair, where, having recovered her breath, she said--“You see, sir,

when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none. If

any person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have

believed it of myself.” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “my charming Lady

Bellaston will be as difficult to believe anything against one who is

so sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred upon him.”

“Indeed!” says she, “sensible of obligations! Did I expect to hear

such cold language from Mr Jones?” “Pardon me, my dear angel,” said

he, “if, after the letters I have received, the terrors of your anger,

though I know not how I have deserved it.”--“And have I then,” says

she, with a smile, “so angry a countenance?--Have I really brought a

chiding face with me?”--“If there be honour in man,” said he, “I have

done nothing to merit your anger.--You remember the appointment you

sent me; I went in pursuance.”--“I beseech you,” cried she, “do not

run through the odious recital.--Answer me but one question, and I

shall be easy. Have you not betrayed my honour to her?”--Jones fell

upon his knees, and began to utter the most violent protestations,

when Partridge came dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk

with joy, crying out, “She's found! she's found!--Here, sir, here,

she's here--Mrs Honour is upon the stairs.” “Stop her a moment,” cries

Jones--“Here, madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor

closet, nor place on earth to hide you in; sure never was so damned an

accident.”--“D--n'd indeed!” said the lady, as she went to her place

of concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour.

“Hey-day!” says she, “Mr Jones, what's the matter?--That impudent

rascal your servant would scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath

not the same reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton.--I suppose

you hardly expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my

lady. Poor dear young lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if

she was my own sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her

a good husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad

enough for you.” Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was

a lady dying in the next room. “A lady!” cries she; “ay, I suppose one

of your ladies.--O Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world;

I believe we are got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston I

darst to say is no better than she should be.”--“Hush! hush!” cries

Jones, “every word is overheard in the next room.” “I don't care a

farthing,” cries Honour, “I speaks no scandal of any one; but to be

sure the servants make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets

men at another place--where the house goes under the name of a poor

gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing

besides, they say, she hath of her.”--Here Jones, after expressing the

utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:--“Hey-day! why sure, Mr

Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says

what I heard from others--and thinks I to myself, much good may it do

the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked

manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest.” “The servants

are villains,” cries Jones, “and abuse their lady unjustly.”--“Ay, to

be sure, servants are always villains, and so my lady says, and won't

hear a word of it.”--“No, I am convinced,” says Jones, “my Sophia is

above listening to such base scandal.” “Nay, I believe it is no

scandal, neither,” cries Honour, “for why should she meet men at

another house?--It can never be for any good: for if she had a lawful

design of being courted, as to be sure any lady may lawfully give her

company to men upon that account: why, where can be the sense?”--“I

protest,” cries Jones, “I can't hear all this of a lady of such

honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will distract the poor

lady in the next room.--Let me entreat you to walk with me down

stairs.”--“Nay, sir, if you won't let me speak, I have done.--Here,

sir, is a letter from my young lady--what would some men give to have

this? But, Mr Jones, I think you are not over and above generous, and

yet I have heard some servants say----but I am sure you will do me the

justice to own I never saw the colour of your money.” Here Jones

hastily took the letter, and presently after slipped five pieces into

her hand. He then returned a thousand thanks to his dear Sophia in a

whisper, and begged her to leave him to read her letter: she presently

departed, not without expressing much grateful sense of his

generosity.

Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe

her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but streams

of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her

heart was all in a flame. And now as soon as her voice found way,

instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her own

servants, she began to attack poor Jones. “You see,” said she, “what I

have sacrificed to you; my reputation, my honour--gone for ever! And

what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a country girl, for

an idiot.”--“What neglect, madam, or what slight,” cries Jones, “have

I been guilty of?”--“Mr Jones,” said she, “it is in vain to dissemble;

if you will make me easy, you must entirely give her up; and as a

proof of your intention, show me the letter.”--“What letter, madam?”

said Jones. “Nay, surely,” said she, “you cannot have the confidence

to deny your having received a letter by the hands of that

trollop.”--“And can your ladyship,” cries he, “ask of me what I must

part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner by

your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent girl

to you, what security could you have that I should not act the same

part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you

that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be the

most contemptible of wretches.”--“Very well,” said she--“I need not

insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own opinion;

for the inside of the letter could inform me of nothing more than I

know already. I see the footing you are upon.”--Here ensued a long

conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious, will thank me

for not inserting at length. It shall suffice, therefore, to inform

him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more pacified, and at length

believed, or affected to believe, his protestations, that his meeting

with Sophia that evening was merely accidental, and every other matter

which the reader already knows, and which, as Jones set before her in

the strongest light, it is plain that she had in reality no reason to

be angry with him.

She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his

refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason,

when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed, well

convinced that Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's affections;

and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she submitted at last

to bear the second place; or, to express it more properly in a legal

phrase, was contented with the possession of that of which another

woman had the reversion.

It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at the

house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would place

these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself would be

considered as the person imposed upon.

This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones,

who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any

rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the

imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could not possibly

discover to her for his own sake.

The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after proper

ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.

Chapter iii.

Containing various matters.

Jones was no sooner alone than he eagerly broke open his letter, and

read as follows:--

“Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you

left this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming

here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she

tells me she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by

all the regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for

it will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some

things which have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already

without some suspicion. Something favourable perhaps may happen; we

must wait with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have

any concern for my ease, do not think of returning hither.”

This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones,

which Job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing

all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he was

reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston; for

there are some certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do very

difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after the

strict prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human

power. At length, after much deliberation, which during that night

supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself sick: for

this suggested itself as the only means of failing the appointed

visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more than one

reason of desiring to avoid.

The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write

an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then

despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned

excuse; and to this he soon received the following answer:--

“I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more

concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have

the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.--I am so

tormented all this morning with fools, that I have scarce a moment's

time to write to you. Adieu.

“_P.S._--I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.--Be

sure to be alone.”

Mr Jones now received a visit from Mrs Miller, who, after some formal

introduction, began the following speech:--“I am very sorry, sir, to

wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will consider the

ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of my poor girls,

if my house should once be talked of as a house of ill-fame. I hope

you won't think me, therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you

not to bring any more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had

struck two before one of them went away.”--“I do assure you, madam,”

said Jones, “the lady who was here last night, and who staid the

latest (for the other only brought me a letter), is a woman of very

great fashion, and my near relation.”--“I don't know what fashion she

is of,” answered Mrs Miller; “but I am sure no woman of virtue, unless

a very near relation indeed, would visit a young gentleman at ten at

night, and stay four hours in his room with him alone; besides, sir,

the behaviour of her chairmen shows what she was; for they did nothing

but make jests all the evening in the entry, and asked Mr Partridge,

in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with his

master all night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be

repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr Jones, upon your

own account; nay, I have a very high obligation to you for your

generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I did not know how very good you had

been till lately. Little did I imagine to what dreadful courses the

poor man's distress had driven him. Little did I think, when you gave

me the ten guineas, that you had given them to a highwayman! O

heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you preserved this

family!--The character which Mr Allworthy hath formerly given me of

you was, I find, strictly true.--And indeed, if I had no obligation to

you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his account, I should

shew you the utmost respect in my power.--Nay, believe me, dear Mr

Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation were out of the case, I

should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young gentleman

should converse with these women; but if you are resolved to do it, I

must beg you to take another lodging; for I do not myself like to have

such things carried on under my roof; but more especially upon the

account of my girls, who have little, heaven knows, besides their

characters, to recommend them.” Jones started and changed colour at

the name of Allworthy. “Indeed, Mrs Miller,” answered he, a little

warmly, “I do not take this at all kind. I will never bring any

slander on your house; but I must insist on seeing what company I

please in my own room; and if that gives you any offence, I shall, as

soon as I am able, look for another lodging.”--“I am sorry we must

part then, sir,” said she; “but I am convinced Mr Allworthy himself

would never come within my doors, if he had the least suspicion of my

keeping an ill house.”--“Very well, madam,” said Jones.--“I hope,

sir,” said she, “you are not angry; for I would not for the world

offend any of Mr Allworthy's family. I have not slept a wink all night

about this matter.”--“I am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam,”

said Jones, “but I beg you will send Partridge up to me immediately;”

which she promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy retired.

As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most

outrageous manner. “How often,” said he, “am I to suffer for your

folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours

resolved upon my destruction?” “What have I done, sir?” answered

affrighted Partridge. “Who was it gave you authority to mention the

story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?”

“I, sir?” cries Partridge. “Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in

denying it,” said Jones. “If I did mention such a matter,” answers

Partridge, “I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have opened

my lips, if it had not been to his own friends and relations, who, I

imagined, would have let it go no farther.” “But I have a much heavier

charge against you,” cries Jones, “than this. How durst you, after all

the precautions I gave you, mention the name of Mr Allworthy in this

house?” Partridge denied that he ever had, with many oaths. “How

else,” said Jones, “should Mrs Miller be acquainted that there was any

connexion between him and me? And it is but this moment she told me

she respected me on his account.” “O Lord, sir,” said Partridge, “I

desire only to be heard out; and to be sure, never was anything so

unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own how wrongfully you have

accused me. When Mrs Honour came downstairs last night she met me in

the entry, and asked me when my master had heard from Mr Allworthy;

and to be sure Mrs Miller heard the very words; and the moment Madam

Honour was gone, she called me into the parlour to her. `Mr

Partridge,' says she, `what Mr Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman

mentioned? is it the great Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire?' `Upon my

word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.' `Sure,' says

she, `your master is not the Mr Jones I have heard Mr Allworthy talk

of?' `Upon my word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.'

`Then,' says she, turning to her daughter Nancy, says she, `as sure as

tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he agrees exactly with

the squire's description.' The Lord above knows who it was told her:

for I am the arrantest villain that ever walked upon two legs if ever

it came out of my mouth. I promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when

I am desired. Nay, sir, so far was I from telling her anything about

Mr Allworthy, that I told her the very direct contrary; for, though I

did not contradict it at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they

say, are best, so when I came to consider that somebody must have

informed her, thinks I to myself, I will put an end to the story; and

so I went back again into the parlour some time afterwards, and says

I, upon my word, says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman

was Mr Jones; that is, says I, that this Mr Jones was that Mr Jones,

told you a confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention

any such matter, says I; for my master, says I, will think I must have

told you so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned

any such word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have

been thinking with myself ever since, how it was she came to know it;

not but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who

looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that

mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old woman

without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for all

the world shall never persuade me but that they have a great power to

do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old woman again, but

I shall think to myself, _Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem._”

The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end

to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his mind;

and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he intended

presently to leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go and endeavour

to get him others.

Chapter iv.

Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of both

sexes.

Partridge had no sooner left Mr Jones than Mr Nightingale, with whom

he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a

short salutation, said, “So, Tom, I hear you had company very late

last night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been in

town above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door till

two in the morning.” He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of

the same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, “I suppose

you have received all this information from Mrs Miller, who hath been

up here a little while ago to give me warning. The good woman is

afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters.” “Oh! she is

wonderfully nice,” says Nightingale, “upon that account; if you

remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the masquerade.” “Nay,

upon my honour, I think she's in the right of it,” says Jones:

“however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent Partridge to

look for another lodging.” “If you will,” says Nightingale, “we may, I

believe, be again together; for, to tell you a secret, which I desire

you won't mention in the family, I intend to quit the house to-day.”

“What, hath Mrs Miller given you warning too, my friend?” cries Jones.

“No,” answered the other; “but the rooms are not convenient enough.

Besides, I am grown weary of this part of the town. I want to be

nearer the places of diversion; so I am going to Pall-mall.” “And do

you intend to make a secret of your going away?” said Jones. “I

promise you,” answered Nightingale, “I don't intend to bilk my

lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking a formal leave.”

“Not so private,” answered Jones; “I promise you, I have seen it ever

since the second day of my coming to the house. Here will be some wet

eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her, faith! Indeed, Jack,

you have played the fool with that girl. You have given her a longing,

which I am afraid nothing will ever cure her of.” Nightingale

answered, “What the devil would you have me do? would you have me

marry her to cure her?” “No,” answered Jones, “I would not have had

you make love to her, as you have often done in my presence. I have

been astonished at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it.”

“Pugh, see it!” cries Nightingale. “What, the devil should she see?”

“Why, see,” said Jones, “that you have made her daughter distractedly

in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal it a moment; her eyes

are never off from you, and she always colours every time you come

into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for she seems to be one of

the best-natured and honestest of human creatures.” “And so,” answered

Nightingale, “according to your doctrine, one must not amuse oneself

by any common gallantries with women, for fear they should fall in

love with us.” “Indeed, Jack,” said Jones, “you wilfully misunderstand

me; I do not fancy women are so apt to fall in love; but you have gone

far beyond common gallantries.” “What, do you suppose,” says

Nightingale, “that we have been a-bed together?” “No, upon my honour,”

answered Jones, very seriously, “I do not suppose so ill of you; nay,

I will go farther, I do not imagine you have laid a regular

premeditated scheme for the destruction of the quiet of a poor little

creature, or have even foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou

art a very good-natured fellow; and such a one can never be guilty of

a cruelty of that kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own

vanity, without considering that this poor girl was made a sacrifice

to it; and while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour,

you have actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the

most serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly;

to what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of

happiness arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm

professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did you

imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you

intend she should?” “Upon my soul, Tom,” cries Nightingale, “I did not

think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I

suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?”

“No,” cries Jones, “may I be d--n'd if I would.” “Tom, Tom,” answered

Nightingale, “last night; remember last night----

When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,

And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft.”

“Lookee, Mr Nightingale,” said Jones, “I am no canting hypocrite, nor

do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my neighbours. I have

been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I have

ever injured any.--Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself, be

knowingly the cause of misery to any human being.”

“Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I am convinced you

acquit me of any such thing.”

“I do, from my heart,” answered Jones, “of having debauched the girl,

but not from having gained her affections.”

“If I have,” said Nightingale, “I am sorry for it; but time and

absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I must

take myself; for, to confess the truth to you--I never liked any girl

half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole

secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I

never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my

addresses to her.”

At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when

Nightingale cried--“Nay, prithee, don't turn me into ridicule. The

devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy!

Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession.”

“I heartily wish you had,” cries Jones; “for, if this be the case, I

sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't intend to go away

without taking your leave of her?”

“I would not,” answered Nightingale, “undergo the pain of taking

leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead of

answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor

Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it

to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart.”

Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as

he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took the most

prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to

lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed

between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the ground

floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman himself was

to occupy that which was between them.

This Nightingale, of whom we shall be presently obliged to say a

little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of strict

honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one

of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in

his morals; not that he was even here as void of principle as

gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it is certain

he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women, and had,

in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many deceits,

which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted the

greatest villain upon earth.

But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this

treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his

iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often

boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their

hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from

Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to

the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they

ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be

cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and

tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a

man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.

Chapter v.

A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.

Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to

say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon he

received an invitation from Mrs Miller to drink tea; for that good

woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other

means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr

Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an

angry manner.

Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the tea-kettle

removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without

much preface, began as follows: “Well, there are very surprizing

things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business

that I should have a relation of Mr Allworthy in my house, and never

know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a

friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am

not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I did not long

since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches, two

destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to the

cruelty, of the world.

“You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by

letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was an

officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up

to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death,

became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good luck to

die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take the

second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of

this lady had been a servant to my grand-mother; and, having inherited

a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was

married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion. She used my sister

so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth and poverty,

calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she at length

broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise died within a

twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to provide better

for me, and within a month from his decease I was married to a

clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before, and who had been

very ill used by my father on that account: for though my poor father

could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred us up as delicately,

considered us, and would have had us consider ourselves, as highly as

if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all

this usage, and the moment we were become fatherless he immediately

renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always liked, and

now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did I live

in a state of perfect happiness with that best of men, till at

last--Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived

me of the kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest

parent.--O my poor girls! you never knew the blessing which ye

lost.--I am ashamed, Mr Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall

never mention him without tears.” “I ought rather, madam,” said Jones,

“to be ashamed that I do not accompany you.” “Well, sir,” continued

she, “I was now left a second time in a much worse condition than

before; besides the terrible affliction I was to encounter, I had now

two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than

ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr Allworthy, who

had some little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my

distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it

is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I

must and will read it to you.

“'Madam,

“'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your

own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt from

the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice

which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I

have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any

immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your

duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your

tenderness.

“`However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of

much worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a

person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg

you will accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe

me to be, madam, &c.'

“This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the irreparable

loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight afterwards, Mr

Allworthy--the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he

placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of

money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me,

which I have constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in

what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation

of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake alone my life

is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since

I must esteem one for whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if

I beg you not to converse with these wicked women. You are a young

gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry

with me, sir, for what I said upon account of my house; you must be

sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you

cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy himself would never forgive

my conniving at such matters, and particularly with you.”

“Upon my word, madam,” said Jones, “you need make no farther apology;

nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but give me

leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr Allworthy, to

deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether

for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his.”

“Alas! sir,” answered she, “I know you are not, I know very well who

you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you, had

you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard

for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be

ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will

esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words

`dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to

say, unless the word `dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for

the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they

are intirely innocent.”

Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, “Since I perceive,

madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to

mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as

to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances

concerning myself.” And these Mrs Miller having expressed great desire

and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history,

without once mentioning the name of Sophia.

There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they

give an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones

told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She

was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for,

as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a

second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should

be the last at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one

of great distinction, and that nothing but what was intirely innocent

was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep

his word.

Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his

chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston

appeared.

As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as

it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps

wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him

to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to

require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by

some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our

business is only to record truth.

Chapter vi.

Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers.

Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night;

not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed

by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking

hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of

dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the

best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called

compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character from that

noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within himself,

and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without

being once stopped by the calamities which happen to others. He could

not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy,

whose love for Mr Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was

astonished at the blindness of her mother, who had more than once, the

preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of

her daughter, “who from being,” she said, “one of the liveliest,

merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden, become all gloom and

melancholy.”

Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now,

as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an

offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.--To

speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the

next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet

situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.

Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,

answered, “That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that

Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother,

were both crying and lamenting over her.” Jones expressed much

concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by

saying, with a smile, “he fancied the young lady was in no danger of

death; for that Susan” (which was the name of the maid) “had given

him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In

short,” said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her

mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat

down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming

for the Foundling Hospital.”----“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,”

cries Jones. “Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of

mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave--Stay,

you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to

breakfast with her.” He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he

could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many

severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of

brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no

sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door,

was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour, which

was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs

Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, whence the maid

presently brought a message to Mr Jones, “That her mistress hoped he

would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which

made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at

breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up

notice sooner.” Jones desired, “She would give herself no trouble

about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was

heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any

service to her, she might command him.”

He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all,

suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of

tears, said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men

alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your

service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor

girl.--O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!”

“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain”----“O Mr Jones!” said she,

“that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my poor

girl; hath destroyed her.--I know you are a man of honour. You have a

good--a noble heart, Mr Jones. The actions to which I have been myself

a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay,

indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a

secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath undone my

daughter. She is--she is--oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him;

and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his

cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another monster

lives.”

The letter was as follows:

“DEAR NANCY,

“As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will

be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this

method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately

paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath

provided for my--I need not write the detested word. Your own good

understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to

an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear

arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her

with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a

secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as

I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have

suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and

forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain

ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I

mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in

your faithful, though unhappy,

“J. N.”

When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a

minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I cannot

express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me

beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the

reputation of your daughter.”----“It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,”

cryed she, “as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a

room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening it,

the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her

reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she

hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath

been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I

myself outlive any accident of that nature.--What then will become of

my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch

will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees

her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause.

O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The

barbarous, cruel----hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this

the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?

Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?

Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?

Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the

conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to

lose one or both in such a manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Jones, with

tears in his eyes, “I pity you from my soul.”--“O! Mr Jones,” answered

she, “even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no

idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of

children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my

eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those

foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin.

Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her.

I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity

with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so much her superior.

And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath

endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by the most generous

expressions of disinterested love, which he hath always directed to my

poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed to be real. Could I

have believed that these were only snares laid to betray the innocence

of my child, and for the ruin of us all?”--At these words little Betsy

came running into the room, crying, “Dear mamma, for heaven's sake

come to my sister; for she is in another fit, and my cousin can't hold

her.” Mrs Miller immediately obeyed the summons; but first ordered

Betsy to stay with Mr Jones, and begged him to entertain her a few

minutes, saying, in the most pathetic voice, “Good heaven! let me

preserve one of my children at least.”

Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort

the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very highly

affected with Mrs Miller's story. He told her “Her sister would be

soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she would not

only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too.” “Indeed,

sir,” says she, “I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I

would burst my heart rather than they should see me cry.--But my poor

sister can't see me cry.--I am afraid she will never be able to see me

cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her; indeed, I can't.--And

then poor mamma too, what will become of her?--She says she will die

too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won't be left behind.” “And are

you not afraid to die, my little Betsy?” said Jones. “Yes,” answered

she, “I was always afraid to die; because I must have left my mamma,

and my sister; but I am not afraid of going anywhere with those I

love.”

Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the

child; and soon after Mrs Miller returned, saying, “She thanked heaven

Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy,” says she, “you may go

in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you.” She then turned

to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having disappointed him

of his breakfast.

“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “I shall have a more exquisite repast

than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be

the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But

whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt

it. I am very much deceived in Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding

what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom,

as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this be the

case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will affect

him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as

you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to

bring you good news.”

Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven

upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate

expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr Nightingale, and

the good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat

cheared at what her mother told her; and both joined in resounding the

praises of Mr Jones.

Chapter vii.

The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.

The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on

ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of

beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are

scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing

injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they

bring on their fellow-creatures.

Mr Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,

Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,

and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed

poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily

to meet him; and after much congratulation said, “Nothing could be

more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the

spleen in my life.”

“I am sorry,” answered Jones, “that I bring news very unlikely to

relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you

the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further

preface, then, I come to you, Mr Nightingale, from a worthy family,

which you have involved in misery and ruin.” Mr Nightingale changed

colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded, in

the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the

reader was acquainted in the last chapter.

Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered

violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after

fetching a deep sigh, he said, “What you tell me, my friend, affects

me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident

as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise

have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret;

and then the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such

things happen in this town: and if the husband should suspect a

little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal

his suspicion both from his wife and the world.”

“Indeed, my friend,” answered Jones, “this could not have been the

case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her affections,

that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which afflicts

her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family.” “Nay, for

that matter, I promise you,” cries Nightingale, “she hath my

affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to be, will

have very little share in them.” “And is it possible then,” said

Jones, “you can think of deserting her?” “Why, what can I do?”

answered the other. “Ask Miss Nancy,” replied Jones warmly. “In the

condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought

to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone,

and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if you ask me

what you shall do, what can you do less,” cries Jones, “than fulfil

the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell

you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you together. You will

pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with,

moved as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own

heart will best suggest to you, whether you have never intended, by

your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an

opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so, though there may

have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I will leave to

your own good understanding, how far you are bound to proceed.”

“Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted,” said Nightingale;

“but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I have given.”

“And can you, after owning that,” said Jones, “hesitate a moment?”

“Consider, my friend,” answered the other; “I know you are a man of

honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules; if there

were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her

disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?” “Undoubtedly,”

replied Jones, “and the very best and truest honour, which is

goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,

you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of

having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,

and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her

innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful occasion,

nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you, with

honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both the life and

soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the thought, that this

creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young woman? A young

woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies for you; who hath placed

the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence hath

sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such

contemplations as these a moment?”

“Common sense, indeed,” said Nightingale, “warrants all you say; but

yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that,

was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever

showing my face again.”

“Fie upon it, Mr Nightingale!” said Jones, “do not call her by so

ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her she became your

wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And what

is this world which you would be ashamed to face but the vile, the

foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a shame must

proceed from false modesty, which always attends false honour as its

shadow.--But I am well assured there is not a man of real sense and

goodness in the world who would not honour and applaud the action.

But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my friend,

applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel

from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent

action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of

millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On the one

side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the arms of

her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking heart in

agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than accusing,

the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to your

imagination the circumstances of her fond despairing parent, driven to

madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely daughter.

View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind hath dwelt

a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause of all the

ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On the other

side, consider yourself as relieving them from their temporary

sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that lovely

creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to her pale

cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured

breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness of all.

Think of this little family made by one act of yours completely happy.

Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my friend if it

requires any long deliberation whether he will sink these wretches

down for ever, or, by one generous, noble resolution, raise them all

from the brink of misery and despair to the highest pitch of human

happiness. Add to this but one consideration more; the consideration

that it is your duty so to do--That the misery from which you will

relieve these poor people is the misery which you yourself have

wilfully brought upon them.”

“O, my dear friend!” cries Nightingale, “I wanted not your eloquence

to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly give

anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed between us.

Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I could

prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which hath caused all

the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult

but my own, I would marry her to-morrow morning: I would, by heaven!

but you will easily imagine how impossible it would be to prevail on

my father to consent to such a match; besides, he hath provided

another for me; and to-morrow, by his express command, I am to wait on

the lady.”

“I have not the honour to know your father,” said Jones; “but, suppose

he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the only means of

preserving these poor people?” “As eagerly as I would pursue my

happiness,” answered Nightingale: “for I never shall find it in any

other woman.--O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have felt

within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she would

not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if I had

any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them: could

my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be

wanting to compleat my own happiness or that of my Nancy.”

“Then I am resolved to undertake it,” said Jones. “You must not be

angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this

affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid

from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once

they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any

fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless

immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a manner

which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If you

will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not

lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you cannot do a

more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl. You will

find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given of the

wretchedness of the family.”

Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having

acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where

he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,

“My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew

my father you would never think of obtaining his consent.----Stay,

there is one way--suppose you told him I was already married, it might

be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my

honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my Nancy

so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the

consequence.”

Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then

separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the

old gentleman.

Chapter viii.

What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with the arrival of

a person not yet mentioned in this history.

Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the

divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same purpose;

Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of them, expressly

holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are some incidents in

life so very strange and unaccountable, that it seems to require more

than human skill and foresight in producing them.

Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr Nightingale

the elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she was really

worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived

such another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of the young

lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for many hours;

and the latter was just now gone, and had left the former delighted

with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long contention, which

had been between the two fathers of the future bride and bridegroom;

in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and, as it not

rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully satisfied of

having obtained the victory.

This gentleman, whom Mr Jones now visited, was what they call a man of

the world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this world

as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to

make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade;

but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had lately declined his

business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in

goods, to dealing only in money, of which he had always a plentiful

fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to make a very

plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of private men, and

sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed conversed so entirely

with money, that it may be almost doubted whether he imagined there

was any other thing really existing in the world; this at least may be

certainly averred, that he firmly believed nothing else to have any

real value.

The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled out

a more improper person for Mr Jones to attack with any probability of

success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a

more unseasonable time.

As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts, so

the moment he saw a stranger within his doors it immediately occurred

to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to bring him

money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these

thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of

the person who approached him.

Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present;

for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill

from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of

Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no

sooner told him that he was come on his son's account than the old

gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an

exclamation, “That he would lose his labour.” “Is it then possible,

sir,” answered Jones, “that you can guess my business?” “If I do guess

it,” replied the other, “I repeat again to you, you will lose your

labour. What, I suppose you are one of those sparks who lead my son

into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his

destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I

expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined

otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be

instrumental in the ruin of nobody.” “How, sir,” said Jones, “and was

this lady of your providing?” “Pray, sir,” answered the old gentleman,

“how comes it to be any concern of yours?”--“Nay, dear sir,” replied

Jones, “be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your

son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was

upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the

satisfaction you have given me by what you say; for I do assure you

your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour.--Nay, sir, it

is not easy to express the esteem I have for you; who could be so

generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for

your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him one of the

happiest men upon earth.”

There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good

liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when

once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears

which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our

present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.

Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no

demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased with his

presence. “Pray, good sir,” said he, “be pleased to sit down. I do not

remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before; but if

you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say concerning this

young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy,

it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty,

in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune

capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy.”

“Undoubtedly,” cries Jones, “for she is in herself a fortune; so

beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she is

indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and hath

a most delicate hand at the harpsichord.” “I did not know any of these

matters,” answered the old gentleman, “for I never saw the lady: but I

do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am the better

pleased with her father for not laying any stress on these

qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his

understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these articles as

an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he never

mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no

disparagements to a woman.” “I do assure you, sir,” cries Jones, “she

hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I was

afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less inclined

to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady;

therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you,

as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match

with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have

mentioned, but many more.”--“If that was your business, sir,” said the

old gentleman, “we are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly

easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her

fortune.” “Sir,” answered Jones, “I honour you every moment more and

more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is

a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well as the

nobleness of your mind.”----“Not so very moderate, young gentleman,

not so very moderate,” answered the father.--“Still more and more

noble,” replied Jones; “and give me leave to add, sensible: for sure

it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole

foundation of happiness. Such a woman as this with her little, her

nothing of a fortune”--“I find,” cries the old gentleman, “you have a

pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better

acquainted with the person of the lady than with her circumstances.

Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have?” “What

fortune?” cries Jones, “why, too contemptible a one to be named for

your son.”--“Well, well, well,” said the other, “perhaps he might have

done better.”--“That I deny,” said Jones, “for she is one of the best

of women.”--“Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean,” answered the

other. “And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine your friend

is to have?”--“How much?” cries Jones, “how much? Why, at the utmost,

perhaps £200.” “Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?” said the

father, a little angry. “No, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “I am in

earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do

the lady an injury, I ask her pardon.” “Indeed you do,” cries the

father; “I am certain she hath fifty times that sum, and she shall

produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son.”

“Nay,” said Jones, “it is too late to talk of consent now; if she had

not fifty farthings your son is married.”--“My son married!” answered

the old gentleman, with surprize. “Nay,” said Jones, “I thought you

was unacquainted with it.” “My son married to Miss Harris!” answered

he again. “To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no, sir; to Miss Nancy

Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; a young

lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings--“--“Are you

bantering, or are you in earnest?” cries the father, with a most

solemn voice. “Indeed, sir,” answered Jones, “I scorn the character of

a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I

find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with a match so

much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation of the

lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret.”

While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a

gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.

But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they

were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The

brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he

no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate

with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he

married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who,

though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to

his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a very

large share.

With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more

resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden age,

than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times.

By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity,

except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and his wife

had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and

fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had actually

refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little turned of

forty, because she could not bring herself to part with her parents.

The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his son was a near

neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and in

reality it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now

come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother

from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew;

for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris,

notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person

nor mind seemed to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity:

for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very

silly, and very ill-natured.

His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew

with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction; and when

the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence

of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner:

“If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love

your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose,

and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his

happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.

“Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always

appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very

tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an

error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the

affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends entirely on the

affection which subsists between the parties.

“I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire

to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force affection

is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I

know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in

our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion.

“It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think, wisely

prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in

strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,

therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been

guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a

little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on

this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there

was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present

anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his

duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority when you

absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom

you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen and known as well as

I, it must have been madness in you to have ever thought of bringing

her into your family?

“Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an

unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a

matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in

which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and

will acknowledge that you consulted his interest only, and if he

unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion

of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry him still

wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his

simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to

him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother, because he

hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as

you would, will you distress them as much as you can?”

By the force of the true Catholic faith St Anthony won upon the

fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms

of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but

neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance

of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed over

habitual avarice.

Mr Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his

brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always

differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their

children. “I wish,” said he, “brother, you would have confined your

care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my

son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by

your example.” For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had

lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had often

declared he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.

Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after

much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more

irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his

nephew at the house of Mrs Miller.

Chapter ix.

Containing strange matters.

At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs

greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The

mother, the two daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down

to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced

without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well

known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that house.

The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and

wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister;

and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the

same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal

or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first

performed.

Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked

rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but Mrs Miller took

the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into

the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most

passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of

her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing

appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest

benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.

After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she

declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded

to inform Mr Jones that all matters were settled between Mr

Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the

next morning; at which Mr Jones having expressed much pleasure, the

poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at

length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with

him back to the company, whom they found in the same good humour in

which they had left them.

This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours

together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his

bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not

drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr Nightingale, taking

the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately

occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:--

“As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as

you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match,

which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never

forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything.” He then

confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.

“How, Jack?” said the old gentleman, “and are you really then not

married to this young woman?” “No, upon my honour,” answered

Nightingale, “I have told you the simple truth.” “My dear boy,” cries

the uncle, kissing him, “I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was

better pleased in my life. If you had been married I should have

assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad

matter; but there is a great difference between considering a thing

which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do.

Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in

so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no need of any

dissuasive arguments.” “How, sir?” replies young Nightingale, “is

there this difference between having already done an act, and being in

honour engaged to do it?” “Pugh!” said the uncle, “honour is a

creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a

creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they please. Now you

well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought; even the

grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man

who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his sister, or

daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more

backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these

engagements.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” cries Nightingale, “I can never

think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are

concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the

young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should look

upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of

all methods, by breaking her heart.” “Break her heart, indeed! no, no,

Jack,” cries the uncle, “the hearts of women are not so soon broke;

they are tough, boy, they are tough.” “But, sir,” answered

Nightingale, “my own affections are engaged, and I never could be

happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that

children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that

you would let my cousin Harriet do so?” “Why, ay,” replied the old

gentleman, “so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse

wisely.--Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl.”----“Indeed,

uncle,” cries the other, “I must and will have her.” “You will, young

gentleman;” said the uncle; “I did not expect such a word from you. I

should not wonder if you had used such language to your father, who

hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance which

a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with you

upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I know

how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous

education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,

now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything without

my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her.” “You have

never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,” said

Nightingale; “for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would be

very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her

inclinations.” “Don't abuse my girl,” answered the old gentleman with

some emotion; “don't abuse my Harriet. I have brought her up to have

no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever

she pleases, I have enured her to a habit of being pleased to do

whatever I like.” “Pardon, me, sir,” said Nightingale, “I have not the

least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest

esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe

a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me.--But,

dear sir, let us return to the company; for they will begin to be

uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle,

which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her

mother.” “Oh! you need not fear me,” answered he, “I understand myself

too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour;

and in return I must expect another of you.” “There are but few of

your commands, sir,” said Nightingale, “which I shall not very

chearfully obey.” “Nay, sir, I ask nothing,” said the uncle, “but the

honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case

a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the

satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong

folly of my brother, who, in his own opinion, is the wisest man in the

world.”

Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his

father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back

into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with

the same decorum which he had before maintained.

Chapter x.

A short chapter, which concludes the book.

The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet

in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as,

during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated

his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not

distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and

her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible

alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their

last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now

changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed,

common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds,

from June to December.

This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for

as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and

to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be

spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms

of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter

remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit

satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.

Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole

attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to

act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the

arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow

no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.

From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be

overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater

loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in

payment.

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off

his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a

whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all

his engagements.

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did

indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great

alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and

his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom

from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding

that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young

Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness

of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these

poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him

that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.----He went immediately

out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant

upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such

dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all

consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of

compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery,

and on that of his unfortunate angel.

What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we

have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and

those will be the subject of the following book.