BOOK XVI.

CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.

Chapter i.

Of prologues.

I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather

write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less

pains write one of the books of this history than the prefatory

chapter to each of them.

To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on

the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing

to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and

which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath

had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it stands,

that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those

indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the same three

topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all

contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to

be represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied,

nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at

the great invention of authors, who have been capable of finding such

various phrases to express the same thing.

In like manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do

me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his

pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first

established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern

prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this

history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other

history as to this.

But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the

reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath

long found in the other.

First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an

opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to

the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical

instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full

concert at the first rising of the curtain.

The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the

critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as

a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more

hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his

sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters

are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we have always

taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order

to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.

Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great

advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to see

the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus

protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer

allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the

advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of

the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who

read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more

general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which

not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil,

of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.

Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they

are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to

enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal

merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short.

Chapter ii.

A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed

situation of Sophia.

We must now convey the reader to Mr Western's lodgings, which were in

Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord

at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was

the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in

those lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited

himself.

Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her

from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the

apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,

and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very

material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in

which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage

with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few

days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and

resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her

father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have

him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words

and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.

While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the

closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down

to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the

landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make

an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of the town,

and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal,

since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house.

In this agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part

of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of

sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time

Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never come out

of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor

did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food,

on which occasions he always attended himself.

The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at

breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a

gentleman was below to wait on him.

“A gentleman!” quoth the squire, “who the devil can he be? Do, doctor,

go down and see who 'tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to town

yet.--Go down, do, and know what his business is.”

The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man,

and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army;

that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver

to none but Mr Western himself.

“An officer!” cries the squire; “what can any such fellow have to do

with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice of

peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.--Let un come up then, if he

must speak to me.”

A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his

compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with

him, delivered himself as follows:--

“Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but

with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after

what past the other night.”

“My lord who?” cries the squire; “I never heard the name o'un.”

“His lordship,” said the gentleman, “is willing to impute everything

to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of that

kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent

attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth

from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you both

that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be

able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation

on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me

make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be

sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you,

in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the

footing of a lover.”

“I don't understand much of what you say, sir,” said the squire; “but

I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the lord

which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something

about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be the

case--you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl is

disposed of already.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said the gentleman, “you are not sufficiently apprized

of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person, title, and

fortune would be nowhere refused.”

“Lookee, sir,” answered the squire; “to be very plain, my daughter is

bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord

upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and

Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them.”

“Well, sir,” said the gentleman, “if that is your resolution, the

message I am to deliver to you is that my lord desires the favour of

your company this morning in Hyde Park.”

“You may tell my lord,” answered the squire, “that I am busy and

cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir

abroad on any account.”

“I am sure, sir,” quoth the other, “you are too much a gentleman to

send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of

you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him

satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great

regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way; but

unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer

his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered

him.”

“I offered him!” cries the squire; “it is a d--n'd lie! I never

offered him anything.”

Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke,

and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual

remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr Western, than

that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,

bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to

summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.

The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not

retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the squire's

vociferation, crying, “Bless me! sir, what's the matter?”--“Matter!”

quoth the squire, “here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob

and murder me--for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in his

hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least provocation.”

“How, sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I lyed?”

“No, as I hope to be saved,” answered the squire, “--I believe I might

say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord--but I

never said the word, `you lie.'--I understand myself better, and you

might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.

If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd

have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this

minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken

head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a

belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure.”

The captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are

below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I

am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you.” At which words he

withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping

him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some

efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success.

However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses

and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips

till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and

louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or

at least did not retard his departure.

Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's

outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot,

and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had

done before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon

silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his

daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of

any harm happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for,

except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of

her life was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his

inclinations.

Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take

the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as

soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and

breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she

collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by the hand, she

cryed passionately, “O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I

hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you.” “No, no,” cries the

squire, “no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me

if I don't ha the la o' un.” “Pray, dear sir,” says she, “tell me

what's the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?” “I don't know

the name o' un,” answered Western; “some officer fellow, I suppose,

that we are to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if

the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he

was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in

the world.” “But, dear sir,” cries she, “what was the occasion of your

quarrel?” “What should it be, Sophy,” answered the squire, “but about

you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the death of

your poor father at last. Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord knows

who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I would

not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a good girl,

Sophy, and put an end to all your father's troubles; come, do consent

to ha un; he will be in town within this day or two; do but promise me

to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest man

in the world, and I will make you the happiest woman; you shall have

the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach and

six at your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my

estate--od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole.”

“Will my papa be so kind,” says she, “as to hear me speak?”--“Why wout

ask, Sophy?” cries he, “when dost know I had rather hear thy voice

than the musick of the best pack of dogs in England.--Hear thee, my

dear little girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I

was ever to lose that pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live

a moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed

you don't, or you never could have run away and left your poor father,

who hath no other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little

Sophy.” At these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with

the tears streaming from hers) answered, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know

you have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I

have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension

of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a

father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with pleasure,

sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to reason

myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution to

endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your

inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force

my mind; nor can I ever.” Here the squire began to look wild, and the

foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard

out, and then proceeded: “If my father's life, his health, or any real

happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved daughter; may

heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve

you!--No, that most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I

embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake.”--“I tell thee,

it will preserve me,” answers the father; “it will give me health,

happiness, life, everything.--Upon my soul I shall die if dost refuse

me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul.”--“Is it possible,”

says she, “you can have such a desire to make me miserable?”--“I tell

thee noa,” answered he loudly, “d--n me if there is a thing upon earth

I would not do to see thee happy.”--“And will not my dear papa allow

me to have the least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true

that happiness consists in opinion, what must be my condition, when I

shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth?”

“Better think yourself so,” said he, “than know it by being married to

a poor bastardly vagabond.” “If it will content you, sir,” said

Sophia, “I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him,

nor any other, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me

dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be again your poor

Sophy, and my whole business and pleasure be, as it hath been, to

please and divert you.” “Lookee, Sophy,” answered the squire, “I am

not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would then have

reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I'd have you to

know I have a got more wisdom, and know more of the world, than to

take the word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned.” “How,

sir, have I deserved this want of confidence?” said she; “have I ever

broke a single promise to you? or have I ever been found guilty of a

falsehood from my cradle?” “Lookee, Sophy,” cries he; “that's neither

here nor there. I am determined upon this match, and have him you

shall, d--n me if shat unt. D--n me if shat unt, though dost hang

thyself the next morning.” At repeating which words he clinched his

fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so loud, that the

poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair, and,

had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps worse

had followed.

Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more

contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the

agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewel of her

condemned husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same

emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his debtor

dragged to prison for £10, which, though a just debt, the wretch is

wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more nearly, he felt

the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor innocent, whom she

hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at the first proposal of

what is called seeing company. Indeed this resemblance would be exact,

was it not that the bawd hath an interest in what she doth, and the

father, though perhaps he may blindly think otherwise, can, in

reality, have none in urging his daughter to almost an equal

prostitution.

In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very

vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room, and

returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the

young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty

required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a violent

rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the

clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred function to

commit to paper.

Chapter iii.

What happened to Sophia during her confinement.

The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early

to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was

informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had

taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she did

not think proper to give any offence; for, though she was not without

some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose great

sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had made so

favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's servants,

yet she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke

one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind of a

gentleman.

Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her

meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that the

squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to

have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some

of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to give her any

kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.

The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet,

the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key)

attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments

passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she left

the country, and she treated every servant with more respect than some

persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their

inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back, saying,

she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly

recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.

All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a

great favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns of

the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to take

many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he

said, very desirous to see his young lady; he made therefore no

scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while

civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he received

only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.

The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George well

knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no

wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care

to supply her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all the

servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she had

scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.

Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually

hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can

be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the

sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the

contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some little

consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as

full of eggs as George had reported it.

But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would

have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three

legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a

thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally

contradicts all the laws of animal oeconomy, as to contain a letter in

its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was

metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil

recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age

nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the

_Académies des Sciences_ in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless

enquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue

which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very

easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its

passage into the fowl.

Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her

favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she

immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:--

“MADAM,

“Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should

endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the

account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have

any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,

so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the

most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must

have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance

in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any

misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and

with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful

consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do

myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs

me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a

greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my

presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any

relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful

observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the

most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you

are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,

to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to

which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world

with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,

on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature

reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if

there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace

of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for

ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no

compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender

bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than

myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first

wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if

I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my

second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal

mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,

Madam,

in every sense, and to every purpose,

your devoted,

THOMAS JONES.”

What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she

read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader's

imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at

present: for this reason, among others, that she did not now write

any, and that for several good causes, one of which was this, she had

no paper, pen, nor ink.

In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had

received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed

her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at

altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice,

she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not so

soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt

Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one

of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her

brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.

We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our

usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.

Chapter iv.

In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.

The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged)

were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was

first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he

immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great

observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he

stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never

would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.

Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself

into a chair, began thus to harangue: “Well, surely, no one ever had

such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike

acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into

this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot

here before.” “I don't know,” cries the squire, “I think they do well

enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most

of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among um.” “Well,

and where's my niece?” says the lady; “have you been to wait upon Lady

Bellaston yet?” “Ay, ay,” cries the squire, “your niece is safe

enough; she is upstairs in chamber.” “How!” answered the lady, “is my

niece in this house, and does she not know of my being here?” “No,

nobody can well get to her,” says the squire, “for she is under lock

and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first

night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her ever since; she is

as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you.” “Good heaven!” returned

Mrs Western, “what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work

would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to town

yourself; nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I

charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise

me, brother, that you would take none of these headstrong measures?

Was it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece to

run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to oblige her to

take such another step?” “Z--ds and the devil!” cries the squire,

dashing his pipe on the ground; “did ever mortal hear the like? when I

expected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen

upon in this manner!” “How, brother!” said the lady, “have I ever

given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking

up your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free

country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? We are as

free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that

freedom better. If you expect I should stay a moment longer in this

wretched house, or that I should ever own you again as my relation, or

that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your

family, I insist upon it that my niece be set at liberty this

instant.” This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her

back to the fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in

the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the head of her

Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It is no wonder,

therefore, that the poor squire was not proof against the awe which

she inspired. “There,” he cried, throwing down the key, “there it is,

do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till

Blifil came to town, which can't be long; and now if any harm happens

in the mean time, remember who is to be blamed for it.”

“I will answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but I shall not

intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that you

will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one

measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you

ratify these preliminaries, brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve

the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral

state.”

“I pray you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit yourself this once to

be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with young

Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to

perpetrate by more rigorous measures.”

“What, dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if thee dost begin

to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.”

“Fie, brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to a clergyman?

Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the

whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell

you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either

cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own

surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the

garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever.”

“I pray you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let me

supplicate you.”

“Why, there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire. “She may

take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?”

“No, brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the formality of its

being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the concessions

stipulated.”

“Why then I will deliver it to you.--There 'tis,” cries the squire. “I

am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my

daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to a

time, without my ever zeeing her.”

“And it would have been happy for her,” answered the lady, “if she had

always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened under

my eye.”

“Ay, certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.”

“Why, you are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have been often

obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so.

However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from

past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.

Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All

your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore,

insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past.”----

“Z--ds and bl--d, sister,” cries the squire, “what would you have me

say? You are enough to provoke the devil.”

“There, now,” said she, “just according to the old custom. I see,

brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr Supple, who

is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human

creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way.”

“Let me beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to irritate his

worship.”

“Irritate him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a fool as

himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I

will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy

upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of

one woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now having summoned a

servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.

She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)

ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not

sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, “Now

one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last,

for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live for

ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will.”

The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire

having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when

anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of

this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper

was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs Western returned with

Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and

the aunt acquainted Mr Western, “that she intended to take her niece

with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother,” says she, “these

rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.”

“Very well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please. The girl can

never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me the

justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back, that

you was one of the most sensible women in the world.”

“To this,” cries the parson, “I am ready to bear testimony.”

“Nay, brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I'm sure, given you

as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much

hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to

reflect I never knew a man more reasonable.”

“Why then, sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here's your

good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but

I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do

everything your aunt orders you.”

“I have not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western. “She hath

had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that wretch

her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O

brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when you

set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent fellow

with the odious Irish name--that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly

upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a

long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to

give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered

him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I

suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will

not see her, for I am determined I will not.”

“I zee her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me. I'll ge no

encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow,

her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a

dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what

undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own

family.”

“Brother,” cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece by such odious

repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?” “Well,

well, I wull, I wull,” said the squire.

And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the

conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had

it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most

probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom

education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally

violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for

Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.

Chapter v.

In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with

Mrs Miller and Partridge.

The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that

grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly

comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which

he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of

the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which

Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her

liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her

confinement:

“Sir,

“As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be

pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the

arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom

I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath

insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse

with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I

have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though

she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an

omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the

word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach

of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I

shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,

without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and

to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what

is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on

reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a

comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which

I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly

resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of

consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must

teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)

made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may

reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my

injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on

me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be

some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I

shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,

Sir,

your obliged humble servant,

Sophia Western.

“I charge you write to me no more--at present at least; and accept

this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,

and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found

it.”[*]

[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter

out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it

occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide

the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of his deceased

friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses make the more

welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was more

pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder

that he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much in

love as was poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in

some instances, resemble a consumption (which it sometimes causes), in

others proceeds in direct opposition to it, and particularly in this,

that it never flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable

light.

One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress

had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at

least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable

circumstance was the reference which she made to her promise of never

marrying any other man; for however disinterested he might imagine his

passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his

letter, I very much question whether he could have heard a more

afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to another,

though the match had been never so great, and never so likely to end

in making her completely happy. That refined degree of Platonic

affection which is absolutely detached from the flesh, and is, indeed,

entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined to the female part

of the creation; many of whom I have heard declare (and, doubtless,

with great truth), that they would, with the utmost readiness, resign

a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to be necessary

for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude

that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I

have ever seen an instance of it.

Mr Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid

letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the

last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment,

which he had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs

Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house,

and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had

really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy

much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he

expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but

likewise unadulterated, by art.

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller,

her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge

immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When

the first music was played, he said, “It was a wonder how so many

fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out.”

While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs

Miller, “Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of

the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service.” Nor

could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were

lighted, “That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an

honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth.”

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,

Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the

entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, “What man that was

in the strange dress; something,” said he, “like what I have seen in a

picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” Jones answered, “That is the

ghost.” To which Partridge replied with a smile, “Persuade me to that,

sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my

life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than

that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as

that, neither.” In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the

neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the

scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to

Mr Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a

trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him

what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the

stage? “O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what you told me. I

am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was

really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so

much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person.”

“Why, who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward here

besides thyself?” “Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if

that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw

any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be

sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such

fool-hardiness!--Whatever happens, it is good enough for

you.----Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is

the devil----for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.--Oh!

here he is again.----No farther! No, you have gone far enough already;

farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions.” Jones

offered to speak, but Partridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you

hear him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his

eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his

mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,

succeeding likewise in him.

When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you exceed my

expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible.”

“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid of the devil, I

can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such

things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the

ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have

been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so

frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.” “And dost thou

imagine, then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that he was really

frightened?” “Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did not you yourself observe

afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he

was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and

he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have

been, had it been my own case?--But hush! O la! what noise is that?

There he is again.----Well, to be certain, though I know there is

nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men

are.” Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you may draw your

sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?”

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly

admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon

the king's countenance. “Well,” said he, “how people may be deceived

by faces! _Nulla fides fronti_ is, I find, a true saying. Who would

think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a

murder?” He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he

should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, “that he

might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.”

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the

ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, sir, now;

what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as

you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not

be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there,

for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As I am a

living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.” “Indeed, you

saw right,” answered Jones. “Well, well,” cries Partridge, “I know it

is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam

Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be

afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.--There, there--Ay,

no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to

pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all

duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.----Ay, go about

your business, I hate the sight of you.”

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet

introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till

Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of

it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder.

Then turning to Mrs Miller, he asked her, “If she did not imagine the

king looked as if he was touched; though he is,” said he, “a good

actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much

to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much

higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake

I'll never trust an innocent face again.”

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who

expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage.

To which Jones answered, “That it was one of the most famous

burial-places about town.” “No wonder then,” cries Partridge, “that

the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger.

I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves

while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the

first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You

had rather sing than work, I believe.”--Upon Hamlet's taking up the

skull, he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men

are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead

man, on any account.--He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I

thought. _Nemo omnibus horis sapit._”

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of

which Jones asked him, “Which of the players he had liked best?” To

this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,

“The king, without doubt.” “Indeed, Mr Partridge,” says Mrs Miller,

“you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all

agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the

stage.” “He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a contemptuous

sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had

seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done

just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it,

between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why,

Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother,

would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me;

but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have

seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he

speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the

other.--Anybody may see he is an actor.”

While Mrs Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a

lady came up to Mr Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs

Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the

gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had

something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then

acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next

day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to

the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had

afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs Miller, but to all who

sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to

anything that passed on the stage.

He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for

many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep,

with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors,

crying out, “Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.”

Chapter vi.

In which the history is obliged to look back.

It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact

impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should

bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when that

superiority determines his preference.

As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my

children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to

Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same excuse,

from the superiority of her character.

This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine never

suffers me to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance. I

could now, therefore, return impatiently to enquire what hath happened

to this lovely creature since her departure from her father's, but

that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr Blifil.

Mr Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast upon

the sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first hurry to

go after her, had not once thought of sending any account of the

discovery to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he

recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first inn he

came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his

having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to him

immediately, if he would come up after him to town.

As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind,

which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident,

could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by

her having run away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own

account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he

now proposed the gratification of a very strong passion besides

avarice, by marrying this young lady, and this was hatred; for he

concluded that matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying

either hatred or love; and this opinion is very probably verified by

much experience. To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary

behaviour of married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to

conclude that the generality seek the indulgence of the former passion

only, in their union of everything but of hearts.

There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr

Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia

(for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from him),

the great aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be seriously

concerned that he had been deceived into carrying matters so far. He

by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who think it

as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children in the

affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their servants

when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or decency at

least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the contrary, as

he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he thought

every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and inviolate;

and very wisely concluded, that the surest way to effect this was by

laying the foundation in previous affection.

Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of

deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been deceived

himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well

tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing his

addresses was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that the very

appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius;

but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing

within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be achieved.

Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and the

hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He begged

that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose, he might

at least be at liberty to try all fair means for success. Heaven

forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any other

than the most gentle methods! “Besides, sir,” said he, “if they fail,

you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your consent.” He

urged the great and eager desire which Mr Western had for the match;

and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed

all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to preserve so valuable

a young lady was even an act of charity.

All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little

stronger on the authority of parents than Mr Blifil himself had done.

He ascribed the measures which Mr Blifil was desirous to take to

Christian motives; “and though,” says he, “the good young gentleman

hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his first and

principal consideration.”

Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same

tune, though in a different key, and would have discovered much moral

fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the

recovery of his health.

Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the

desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where

he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady:

“But I declare,” said he, “I will never give my consent to any

absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever have

her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance.”

Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior

understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and thus is the

prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the tenderness of the

best of hearts.

Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his uncle,

rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as no

immediate business required Mr Allworthy's presence in the country,

and little preparation is necessary to men for a journey, they set out

the very next day, and arrived in town that evening, when Mr Jones, as

we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at the play.

The morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr Western, by whom

he was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every

possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should

very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the

squire suffer the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he had,

almost against his will, carried him to his sister.

Chapter vii.

In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr

Blifil.

Mrs Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial

politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less

ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw

Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her

faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all

her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.

“Brother,” said she, “I am astonished at your behaviour; will you

never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every

apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants?

Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of

condition, without the least decency or notice?”----“Why, what a pox

is the matter now?” quoth the squire; “one would think I had caught

you at--“--“None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you,” answered

she.----“You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I

see, support herself.----Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit

your spirits; for I see you have occasion.” At which words Sophia, who

never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.

“To be sure, sister,” cries the squire, “you are mad, when I have

brought Mr Blifil here to court her, to force her away.”

“Sure, brother,” says she, “you are worse than mad, when you know in

what situation affairs are, to----I am sure I ask Mr Blifil's pardon,

but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a reception.

For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see Mr

Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him to proceed

so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it.”

Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western,

without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered,

“Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but

come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr Blifil go to

her.----He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost.”

“Brother,” cries Mrs Western, “Mr Blifil, I am confident, understands

himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more this morning,

after what hath happened. Women are of a nice contexture; and our

spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed in a moment. Had

you suffered Mr Blifil to have sent his compliments to my niece, and

to have desired the favour of waiting on her in the afternoon, I

should possibly have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I

despair of bringing about any such matter.”

“I am very sorry, madam,” cried Blifil, “that Mr Western's

extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough acknowledge,

should have occasioned--” “Indeed, sir,” said she, interrupting him,

“you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well.”

“I don't care what anybody knows of me,” answered the squire;----“but

when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come

up on purpose, and so is Allworthy.”--“Brother,” said she, “whatever

message Mr Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece shall be

delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to make

a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr Blifil

at a proper time.”--“The devil she won't!” answered the

squire.--“Odsbud!--Don't we know--I say nothing, but some volk are

wiser than all the world.----If I might have had my will, she had not

run away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is guone

again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well

she hates----” “No matter, brother,” replied Mrs Western, “I will not

hear my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an

honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will

pawn my whole reputation in the world on her conduct.----I shall be

glad to see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have somewhat of

importance to mention to you.--At present, Mr Blifil, as well as you,

must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress.” “Well, but,” said the

squire, “do appoint a time.” “Indeed,” said she, “I can appoint no

time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon.”--“What the devil

would you have me do?” cries the squire, turning to Blifil; “I can no

more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will

be in a better humour in the afternoon.”--“I am condemned, I see,

sir, to misfortune,” answered Blifil; “but I shall always own my

obligations to you.” He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs Western,

who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they

departed, the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil

should see his daughter in the afternoon.

If Mr Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was less.

As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister to her

humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in

the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected

somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words which dropt from

the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear

when I have unfolded the several matters which will be contained in

the following chapter.

Chapter viii.

Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.

Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be

plucked up by the rude hands of Mr Western. In the heat of resentment

he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the

captain had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at

all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had seen

Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he had

received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the

discharge of his duty, that, having after long enquiry found out the

squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a

tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by that

means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his lodgings.

In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his

lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid

open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly

saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his

words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his daughter.

He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who

readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance

of a most favourable reception from all the elders of the family, and

from the father himself when he should be sober, and should be made

acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only

danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had formerly mentioned, who,

though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew

not what, procured himself tolerable cloaths, and past for a

gentleman. “Now,” says she, “as I have, for the sake of my cousin,

made it my business to enquire after this fellow, I have luckily found

out his lodgings;” with which she then acquainted his lordship. “I am

thinking, my lord,” added she “(for this fellow is too mean for your

personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your

lordship to contrive some method of having him pressed and sent on

board a ship. Neither law nor conscience forbid this project: for the

fellow, I promise you, however well drest, is but a vagabond, and as

proper as any fellow in the streets to be pressed into the service;

and as for the conscientious part, surely the preservation of a young

lady from such ruin is a most meritorious act; nay, with regard to the

fellow himself, unless he could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my

cousin, it may probably be the means of preserving him from the

gallows, and perhaps may make his fortune in an honest way.”

Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which

she was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which his

whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present

no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it

in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do

him the honour of immediately mentioning his proposals to the family;

to whom he said he offered a _carte blanche_, and would settle his

fortune in almost any manner they should require. And after uttering

many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and

departed, but not before he had received the strongest charge to

beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing his person, where he

should no longer be in a capacity of making any attempts to the ruin

of the young lady.

The moment Mrs Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was

despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner

received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her

cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes

offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the prospect of

making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than

to a gentleman whom she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot;

though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a refusal.

The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials, fell

to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as begun; for

Mrs Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks

glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness

of his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and the generosity

of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit

terms.

In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to Jones,

and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate attachment

which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs Western

entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's management. She

concluded, however, at last, with declaring her confidence in the good

understanding of her niece, who, though she would not give up her

affection in favour of Blifil, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be

prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple inclination to the addresses of a

fine gentleman, who brings her both a title and a large estate: “For,

indeed,” added she, “I must do Sophy the justice to confess this

Blifil is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all

country gentlemen are, and hath nothing but his fortune to recommend

him.”

“Nay,” said Lady Bellaston, “I don't then so much wonder at my cousin;

for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and hath one

virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us. What do you

think, Mrs Western--I shall certainly make you laugh; nay, I can

hardly tell you myself for laughing--will you believe that the fellow

hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you should be

inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own

handwriting, I assure you.” She then delivered her cousin the letter

with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to

see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this history.

“Upon my word I am astonished,” said Mrs Western; “this is, indeed, a

masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may possibly make some use

of this letter.” “You have my full liberty,” cries Lady Bellaston, “to

apply it to what purpose you please. However, I would not have it

shewn to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you find occasion.”

“Well, and how did you use the fellow?” returned Mrs Western. “Not as

a husband,” said the lady; “I am not married, I promise you, my dear.

You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once already; and once, I

think, is enough for any reasonable woman.”

This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance

against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to give it

up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out of the

way, and partly by having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon

sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was prepared to

testify whatever she pleased.

But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart

hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which was so

much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire such

readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and

there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that women,

notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, &c., in

matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a misfortune to

have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they imagine they ought

never to carry enmity higher than upon these disappointments; again,

he will find it written much about the same place, that a woman who

hath once been pleased with the possession of a man, will go above

halfway to the devil, to prevent any other woman from enjoying the

same.

If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see

no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will conceive

she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I see no cause

to suspect.

Now this was the affair which Mrs Western was preparing to introduce

to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love, and on

the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil

broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her

behaviour to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual with him,

imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much

more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.

Chapter ix.

In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.

The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr Jones,

who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs Fitzpatrick; but before we

relate the conversation which now past it may be proper, according to

our method, to return a little back, and to account for so great an

alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing her lodging

principally to avoid Mr Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been

seen, sought this interview.

And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding

day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr Western was arrived in

town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly,

where she was received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be

repeated, and was even threatened to be kicked out of doors. From

hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she was well

acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated

her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the truth, with

rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both, plainly

convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had proved

abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of

bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of

revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at the

play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.

The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, in

the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs Western

had formerly shewn for Mr Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the disappointment

of which Mrs Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had

expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no doubt but that the good

lady would as easily listen to the addresses of Mr Jones as she had

before done to the other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on

the side of Mr Jones; and the advance which her aunt had since made in

age, she concluded (how justly I will not say), was an argument rather

in favour of her project than against it.

Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her

desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance how

much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for

her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr Jones in whose

custody his mistress was, of which she thought him ignorant; she very

explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham

addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the

younger, informing him at the same time of the success which Mr

Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same stratagem.

Mr Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions

towards him which she had expressed, and indeed testified, by this

proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the

lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case

in regard to Mr Fitzpatrick, he said, he was afraid Miss Western would

never agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter

detestation of all fallacy as from her avowed duty to her aunt.

Mrs Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may

not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from

politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had

not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all

reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a tacit

rebuke on the other.

“Indeed, sir,” answered the lady, with some warmth, “I cannot think

there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a profession

of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my aunt, I

must say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship. Can't

you pretend that the despair of possessing her niece, from her being

promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to

my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to be such a simpleton as to

have the least scruple on such an account, or to conceive any harm in

punishing one of these haggs for the many mischiefs they bring upon

families by their tragi-comic passions; for which I think it is a pity

they are not punishable by law. I had no such scruple myself; and yet

I hope my cousin Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she

cannot detest every real species of falsehood more than her cousin

Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she

deserve any. However, sir, I have given you my advice; and if you

decline pursuing it, I shall have the less opinion of your

understanding--that's all.”

Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his

utmost power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into

nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to

abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to

rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper instead

of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have

the good-nature which Mrs Fitzpatrick displayed to Jones, by saying,

with a smile, “You need attempt no more excuses; for I can easily

forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of fondness for his

mistress.”

She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it,

omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject;

for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce

anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing

her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the

execution of a favourite scheme.

Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not,

indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the

motives which induced Mrs Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her

advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he

had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their

situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that

so divine a young lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man;

nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to wish she should.

He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have

not at present leisure to insert.

There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too general

terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never detach it

from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling principle, they

are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with; and, though the

property of others, convey it to their own use. In the company of

these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of another

woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often improve

the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her wit, her

gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what do I

deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a degree?

To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending

another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous

sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming

lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness

for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I

have seen many instances besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this

really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr Jones,

the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor Sophia had

formerly done.

To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible

object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding some of us

are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to

repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more

solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of

consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that

kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.

When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have

become the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs Fitzpatrick heaved a

deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been

some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed,

Mr Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be

thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better

than you, Mr Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to

such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both.”

“Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can't mean----” “Mean!” cries Mrs

Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean; there is something, I think, in

true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet with it in men, and

fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such

truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force one

to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who

can overlook such merit.”

The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion

into Jones which we don't care to convey in direct words to the

reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, “I am afraid, madam, I

have made too tiresome a visit;” and offered to take his leave.

“Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick.--“Indeed I pity you, Mr

Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I

have mentioned--I am convinced you will approve it--and let me see you

again as soon as you can.--To-morrow morning if you will, or at least

some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day.”

Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully

retired; nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a

look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have

had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it

confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as

he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now

so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could

have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.

Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to

give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and

accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in

sorrowful notes to record.

Chapter x.

The consequence of the preceding visit.

Mr Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs

Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which

his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day

after set forward to London.

The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of

this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion

which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the

room with Mrs Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards

appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so

handsome a character of Mr Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect

that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled

together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was

naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that

green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.

And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, and had

just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr Jones was

issuing from it.

Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a

young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to

him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? “for I am

sure,” said he, “you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of

it.”

Jones answered very modestly, “That he had been visiting a lady

there.” To which Fitzpatrick replied, “What business have you with the

lady?” Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,

features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out----“Ha, my good

friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining

between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago.”

“Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don't know your name nor

your face.” “Indeed, sir,” said Jones, “neither have I the pleasure of

knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen

before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,

if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle.”

“At Upton!” cried the other;----“Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name

is Jones?” “Indeed,” answered he, “it is.”--“O! upon my soul,” cries

Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man I wanted to meet.--Upon my soul I

will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a

great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul,

if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you

another.” And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of

defence, which was the only science he understood.

Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat

unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and

though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon

Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his

sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it

than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning

upon it, cried, “I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.”

“I hope not,” cries Jones, “but whatever be the consequence, you must

be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.” At this instant a number

of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no

resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the

wounded gentleman.

“Ay,” cries one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman will be taken

care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for

you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” “D--n me, Jack,” said

another, “he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port

now;” and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of

by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar,

and had dogged him into the house of Mrs Fitzpatrick, waiting for him

at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened.

The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded that his

business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil

magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a

public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to

his custody.

The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing that the

accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great

civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to enquire after

the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's

hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly

mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable

informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered,

“Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for

though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,

yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind.”

Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who

dressed Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the

wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the

Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for

Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till

seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly

frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a message

which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.

He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and

was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the

misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the

while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now

arrived that Mr Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended

every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered

him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from

Sophia by the hands of Black George.

Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having

eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:--

“You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own

surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to

Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am

convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that

it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was

under such concern on my account.--I leave you to comment on this

fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned

to

“S. W.”

Of the present situation of Mr Jones's mind, and of the pangs with

which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea

than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost

have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in

it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And

here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.