BOOK X
IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE
HOURS
1. CHAPTER I.
Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by modern
critics
Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou
wilt be; for, perhaps, thou may'st be as learned in human nature as
Shakespear himself was, and, perhaps, thou may'st be no wiser than
some of his editors. Now, lest this latter should be the case, we
think proper, before we go any farther together, to give thee a few
wholesome admonitions; that thou may'st not as grossly misunderstand
and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors have misunderstood
and misrepresented their author.
First, then, we warn thee not too hastily to condemn any of the
incidents in this our history as impertinent and foreign to our main
design, because thou dost not immediately conceive in what manner such
incident may conduce to that design. This work may, indeed, be
considered as a great creation of our own; and for a little reptile of
a critic to presume to find fault with any of its parts, without
knowing the manner in which the whole is connected, and before he
comes to the final catastrophe, is a most presumptuous absurdity.
The allusion and metaphor we have here made use of, we must
acknowledge to be infinitely too great for our occasion; but there is,
indeed, no other, which is at all adequate to express the difference
between an author of the first rate and a critic of the lowest.
Another caution we would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou
dost not find out too near a resemblance between certain characters
here introduced; as, for instance, between the landlady who appears in
the seventh book and her in the ninth. Thou art to know, friend,
that there are certain characteristics in which most individuals of
every profession and occupation agree. To be able to preserve these
characteristics, and at the same time to diversify their operations,
is one talent of a good writer. Again, to mark the nice distinction
between two persons actuated by the same vice or folly is another;
and, as this last talent is found in very few writers, so is the
true discernment of it found in as few readers; though, I believe, the
observation of this forms a very principal pleasure in those who are
capable of the discovery; every person, for instance, can
distinguish between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling Flutter; but to
note the difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir Courtly Nice
requires a more exquisite judgment: for want of which, vulgar
spectators of plays very often do great injustice in the theatre;
where I have sometimes known a poet in danger of being convicted as
a thief, upon much worse evidence than the resemblance of hands hath
been held to be in the law. In reality, I apprehend every amorous
widow on the stage would run the hazard of being condemned as a
servile imitation of Dido, but that happily very few of our play-house
critics understand enough of Latin to read Virgil.
In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for,
perhaps, thy heart may be better than thy head), not to condemn a
character as a bad one, because it is not perfectly a good one. If
thou dost delight in these models of perfection, there are books
enow written to gratify thy taste; but, as we have not, in the
course of our conversation, ever happened to meet with any such
person, we have not chosen to introduce any such here. To say the
truth, I a little question whether mere man ever arrived at this
consummate degree of excellence, as well as whether there hath ever
existed a monster bad enough to verify that
--nulla virtute redemptum
A vitiis--[14]
in Juvenal; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served by
inserting characters of such angelic perfection, or such diabolical
depravity, in any work of invention; since, from contemplating either,
the mind of man is more likely to be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame
than to draw any good uses from such patterns; for in the former
instance he may be both concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of
excellence in his nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever
arriving at; and in contemplating the latter he may be no less
affected with those uneasy sensations, at seeing the nature of which
he is a partaker degraded into so odious and detestable a creature.
In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the
admiration and affection of a well-disposed mind, though there
should appear some of those little blemishes quas humana parum cavit
natura, they will raise our compassion rather than our abhorrence.
Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use than the imperfections
which are seen in examples of this kind; since such form a kind of
surprize, more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds than the
faults of very vicious and wicked persons. The foibles and vices of
men, in whom there is great mixture of good, become more glaring
objects from the virtues which contrast them and shew their deformity;
and when we find such vices attended with their evil consequence to
our favourite characters, we are not only taught to shun them for
our own sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they have already
brought on those we love.
And now, my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will,
if you please, once more set forward with our history.
[[14]]
Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue.
2. CHAPTER II.
Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very
extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn
Now the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous
enemies, and chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal,
man, had confined all the day to her lurking place, sports wantonly
o'er the lawns; now on some hollow tree the owl, shrill chorister of
the night, hoots forth notes which might charm the ears of some modern
connoisseurs in music; now, in the imagination of the half-drunk
clown, as he staggers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard to
his home, fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and ruffians
are awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it was
now midnight; and the company at the inn, as well those who have
been already mentioned in this history, as some others who arrived
in the evening, were all in bed. Only Susan Chambermaid was now
stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen before she retired
to the arms of the fond expecting hostler.
In this posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman arrived
there post. He immediately alighted from his horse, and, coming up
to Susan, enquired of her, in a very abrupt and confused manner, being
almost out of breath with eagerness, Whether there was any lady in the
house? The hour of night, and the behaviour of the man, who stared
very wildly all the time, a little surprized Susan, so that she
hesitated before she made any answer; upon which the gentleman, with
redoubled eagerness, begged her to give him a true information,
saying, he had lost his wife, and was come in pursuit of her. "Upon my
shoul," cries he, "I have been near catching her already in two or
three places, if I had not found her gone just as I came up with
her. If she be in the house, do carry me up in the dark and show her
to me; and if she be gone away before me, do tell me which way I shall
go after her to meet her, and, upon my shoul, I will make you the
richest poor woman in the nation." He then pulled out a handful of
guineas, a sight which would have bribed persons of much greater
consequence than this poor wench to much worse purposes.
Susan, from the account she had received of Mrs. Waters, made not
the least doubt but that she was the very identical stray whom the
right owner pursued. As she concluded, therefore, with great
appearance of reason, that she never could get money in an honester
way than by restoring a wife to her husband, she made no scruple of
assuring the gentleman that the lady he wanted was then in the
house; and was presently afterwards prevailed upon (by very liberal
promises, and some earnest paid into her hands) to conduct him to
the bedchamber of Mrs. Waters.
It hath been a custom long established in the polite world, and that
upon very solid and substantial reasons, that a husband shall never
enter his wife's apartment without first knocking at the door. The
many excellent uses of this custom need scarce be hinted to a reader
who hath any knowledge of the world; for by this means the lady hath
time to adjust herself, or to remove any disagreeable object out of
the way; for there are some situations in which nice and delicate
women would not be discovered by their husbands.
To say the truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among
the polished part mankind, which, though they may, to coarser
judgments, appear as matters of mere form, are found to have much of
substance in them, by the more discerning; and lucky would it have
been had the custom above mentioned been observed by our gentleman
in the present instance. Knock, indeed, he did at the door, but not
with one of those gentle raps which is usual on such occasions. On the
contrary, when he found the door locked, he flew at it with such
violence, that the lock immediately gave way, the door burst open, and
he fell headlong into the room.
He had no sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, upon
his legs likewise, appeared- with shame and sorrow are we obliged to
proceed- our heroe himself, who, with a menacing voice, demanded of
the gentleman who he was, and what he meant by daring to burst open
his chamber in that outrageous manner.
The gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, and was
going to ask pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, as the moon
shone very bright, he cast his eyes on stays, gowns, petticoats, caps,
ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, etc., all which lay in a
disordered manner on the floor. All these, operating on the natural
jealousy of his temper, so enraged him, that he lost all power of
speech; and, without returning any answer to Jones, he endeavoured
to approach the bed.
Jones immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, which soon
proceeded to blows on both sides. And now Mrs. Waters (for we must
confess she was in the same bed), being, I suppose, awakened from
her sleep, and seeing two men fighting in her bedchamber, began to
scream in the most violent manner, crying out murder! robbery! and
more frequently rape! which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she should
mention, who do not consider that these words of exclamation are
used by ladies in a fright, as fa, la, la, ra, da, etc., are in
music, only as the vehicles of sound, and without any fixed ideas.
Next to the lady's chamber was deposited the body of an Irish
gentleman who arrived too late at the inn to have been mentioned
before. This gentleman was one of those whom the Irish call a
calabalaro, or cavalier. He was a younger brother of a good family,
and, having no fortune at home, was obliged to look abroad in order to
get one; for which purpose he was proceeding to the Bath, to try his
luck with cards and the women.
This young fellow lay in bed reading one of Mrs. Behn's novels;
for he had been instructed by a friend that he would find no more
effectual method of recommending himself to the ladies than the
improving his understanding, and filling his mind with good
literature. He no sooner, therefore, heard the violent uproar in the
next room, than he leapt from his bolster, and, taking his sword in
one hand, and the candle which burnt by him in the other, he went
directly to Mrs. Waters's chamber.
If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock
to the decency of the lady, it made her presently amends by
considerably abating her fears; for no sooner had the calabalaro
entered the room than he cried out, "Mr. Fitzpatrick, what the devil
is the maning of this?" Upon which the other immediately answered, "O,
Mr. Maclachlan! I am rejoiced you are here.- This villain hath
debauched my wife, and is got into bed with her."- "What wife?" cries
Maclachlan; "do not I know Mrs. Fitzpatrick very well, and don't I see
that the lady, whom the gentleman who stands here in his shirt is
lying in bed with, is none of her?"
Fitzpatrick, now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had of the
lady, as by her voice, which might have been distinguished at a
greater distance than he now stood from her, that he had made a very
unfortunate mistake, began to ask many pardons of the lady; and
then, turning to Jones, he said, "I would have you take notice I do
not ask your pardon, for you have bate me; for which I am resolved
to have your blood in the morning."
Jones treated this menace with much contempt; and Mr. Maclachlan
answered, "Indeed, Mr. Fitzpatrick, you may be ashamed of your own
self, to disturb people at this time of night; if all the people in
the inn were not asleep, you would have awakened them as you have
me. The gentleman has served you very rightly. Upon my conscience,
though I have no wife, if you had treated her so, I would have cut
your throat."
Jones was so confounded with his fears for his lady's reputation,
that he knew neither what to say or do; but the invention of women is,
as hath been observed, much readier than that of men. She
recollected that there was a communication between her chamber and
that of Mr. Jones; relying, therefore, on his honour and her own
assurance, she answered, "I know not what you mean, villains! I am
wife to none of you. Help! Rape! Murder! Rape!"- And now, the
landlady coming into the room, Mrs. Waters fell upon her with the
utmost virulence, saying, "She thought herself in a sober inn, and not
in a bawdy-house; but that a set of villains had broke into her
room, with an intent upon her honour, if not upon her life; and
both, she said, were equally dear to her."
The landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman in bed
had done before. She cried, "She was undone, and that the reputation
of her house, which was never blown upon before, was utterly
destroyed." Then, turning to the men, she cried, "What, in the devil's
name, is the reason of all this disturbance in the lady's room?"
Fitzpatrick, hanging down his head, repeated, "That he had committed a
mistake, for which he heartily asked pardon," and then retired with
his countryman. Jones, who was too ingenious to have missed the hint
given him by his fair one, boldly asserted, "That he had run to her
assistance upon hearing the door broke open, with what design he could
not conceive, unless of robbing the lady; which, if they intended,
he said, he had the good fortune to prevent." "I never had a robbery
committed in my house since I have kept it," cries the landlady; "I
would have you to know, sir, I harbour no highwaymen here; I scorn the
word, thof I say it. None but honest, good gentlefolks are welcome
to my house; and I thank good luck, I have always had enow of such
customers; indeed as many as I could entertain. Here hath been my
lord-," and then she repeated over a catalogue of names and titles,
many of which we might, perhaps, be guilty of a breach of privilege by
inserting.
Jones after much patience, at length interrupted her, by making an
apology to Mrs. Waters, for having appeared before her in his shirt,
assuring her "That nothing but a concern for her safety could have
prevailed on him to do it." The reader may inform himself of her
answer, and, indeed, of her whole behaviour to the end of the scene,
by considering the situation which she affected, it being that of a
modest lady, who was awakened out of her sleep by three strange men in
her chamber. This was the part which she undertook to perform; and,
indeed, she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses
could exceed her, in any of their performances, either on or off the
stage.
And hence, I think, we may very fairly draw an argument, to prove
how extremely natural virtue is to the fair sex; for, though there
is not, perhaps, one in ten thousand who is capable of making a good
actress, and even among these we rarely see two who are equally able
to personate the same character, yet this of virtue they can all
admirably well put on; and as well those individuals who have it
not, as those who possess it, can all act it to the utmost degree of
perfection.
When the men were all departed, Mrs. Waters, recovering from her
fear, recovered likewise from her anger, and spoke in much gentler
accents to the landlady, who did not so readily quit her concern for
the reputation of the house, in favour of which she began again to
number the many great persons who had slept under her roof; but the
lady stopt her short, and having absolutely acquitted her of having
had any share in the past disturbance, begged to be left to her
repose, which, she said, she hoped to enjoy unmolested during the
remainder of the night. Upon which the landlady, after much civility
and many courtsies, took her leave.
3. CHAPTER III.
A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chambermaid, proper to
be read by all inn-keepers and their servants; with the arrival, and
affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which may teach persons
of condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world
The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of
bed when the door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to
enquire into the first occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the
strange gentleman was, and when and how he arrived.
Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already,
varying the truth only in some circumstances, as she saw convenient,
and totally concealing the money which she had received. But whereas
her mistress had, in the preface to her enquiry, spoken much in
compassion for the fright which the lady had been in concerning any
intended depredations on her virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring
to quiet the concern which her mistress seemed to be under on that
account, by swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed.
The landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. "A likely
story, truly," cried she, "that a woman should cry out, and
endeavour to expose herself, if that was the case! I desire to know
what better proof any lady can give of her virtue than her crying out,
which I believe, twenty people can witness for her she did? I beg,
madam, you would spread no such scandal of any of my guests; for it
will not only reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no
vagabonds, nor wicked beggarly people, come here."
"Well," says Susan, "then I must not believe my own eyes." "No,
indeed, must you not always," answered her mistress; "I would not have
believed my own eyes against such good gentlefolks. I have not had a
better supper ordered this half-year than they ordered last night; and
so easy and good-humoured were they, that they found no fault with
my Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for champagne; and to be
sure it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best champagne in
the kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it 'em; and they drank me
two bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such sober
good sort of people."
Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other
matters. "And so you tell me," continued she, "that the strange
gentleman came post, and there is a footman without with the horses; why,
then, he is certainly some of your great gentlefolks too. Why did
not you ask him whether he'd have any supper? I think he is in the
other gentleman's room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps he'll
order something when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress
it. Now don't commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the
fire's out, and the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton,
don't blab out that we have none. The butcher, I know, killed a
sheep just before I went to bed, and he never refuses to cut it up
warm when I desire it. Go, remember there's all sorts of mutton and
fowls; go, open the door with, Gentlemen, d'ye call? and if they say
nothing, ask what his honour will be pleased to have for supper? Don't
forget his honour. Go; if you don't mind all these matters better,
you'll never come to anything."
Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the two
gentlemen were got both into the same bed. "Two gentlemen," says the
landlady, "in the same bed! that's impossible; they are two arrant
scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe young Squire Allworthy guessed
right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had
broke open the lady's door with any of the wicked designs of a
gentleman, he would never have sneaked away to another room to save
the expense of a supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly
thieves, and their searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence."
In these censures my landlady did Mr. Fitzpatrick great injustice;
for he was really born a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and
though, perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his heart as well as
in his head, yet being a sneaking or a niggardly fellow was not one of
them. In reality, he was so generous a man, that, whereas he had
received a very handsome fortune with his wife, he had now spent every
penny of it, except some little pittance which was settled upon her;
and, in order to possess himself of this, he had used her with such
cruelty, that, together with his jealousy, which was of the
bitterest kind, it had forced the poor woman to run away from him.
This gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from
Chester in one day, with which, and some good dry blows he had
received in the scuffle, his bones were so sore, that, added to the
soreness of his mind, it had quite deprived him of any appetite for
eating. And being now so violently disappointed in the woman whom,
at the maid's instance, he had mistaken for his wife, it never once
entered into his head that she might nevertheless be in the house,
though he had erred in the first person he had attacked. He
therefore yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from searching
any farther after her that night, and accepted the kind offer of
part of his bed.
The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They
were more ready to order than the landlady was to provide; however,
after being pretty well satisfied by them of the real truth of the
case, and that Mr. Fitzpatrick was no thief, she was at length
prevailed on to set some cold meat before them, which they were
devouring with great greediness, when Partridge came into the kitchen.
He had been first awaked by the hurry which we have before seen; and
while he was endeavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a
screech-owl had given him such a serenade at his window, that he leapt
in a most horrible affright from his bed, and, huddling on his clothes
with great expedition, ran down to the protection of the company, whom
he heard talking below in the kitchen.
His arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she
was just about to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but
the friend of young Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected,
especially as he called for a pint of wine to be mulled. She
immediately obeyed, by putting the same quantity of perry to the fire;
for this readily answered to the name of every kind of wine.
The Irish footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going
to follow; but Partridge invited him to stay and partake of his
wine, which the lad very thankfully accepted. The schoolmaster was
indeed afraid to return to bed by himself; and as he did not know
how soon he might lose the company of my landlady, he was resolved
to secure that of the boy, in whose presence he apprehended no
danger from the devil or any of his adherents.
And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan,
being ordered out, returned, introducing two young women in riding
habits, one of which was so very richly laced, that Partridge and
the post-boy instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell
to her courtsies, and her ladyships, with great eagerness.
The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great
condescension, "If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm myself a
few minutes at your kitchen fire, for it is really very cold; but I
must insist on disturbing no one from his seat." This was spoken on
account of Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of the
room, struck with the utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of
the lady's dress. Indeed, she had a much better title to respect
than this; for she was one of the most beautiful creatures in the
world.
The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but
could not prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to
the fire two hands, which had every property of snow in them, except
that of melting. Her companion, who was indeed her maid, likewise
pulled off her gloves, and discovered what bore an exact
resemblance, in cold and colour, to a piece of frozen beef.
"I wish, madam," quoth the latter, "your ladyship would not think of
going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid your ladyship will
not be able to bear the fatigue."
"Why sure," cries the landlady, "her ladyship's honour can never
intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech
your ladyship not to think on't-- But, to be sure, your ladyship
can't. What will your honour be pleased to have for supper? I have
mutton of all kinds, and some nice chicken."
"I think, madam," said the lady, "it would be rather breakfast
than supper; but I can't eat anything; and, if I stay, shall only
lie down for an hour or two. However, if you please, madam, you may
get me a little sack whey, made very small and thin."
"Yes, madam," cries the mistress of the house, "I have some
excellent white wine."- "You have no sack, then?" says the lady.
"Yes, an't please your honour, I have; I may challenge the country for
that- but let me beg your ladyship to eat something."
"Upon my word, I can't eat a morsel," answered the lady; "and I
shall be much obliged to you if you will please to get my apartment
ready as soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on horseback
again in three hours."
"Why, Susan," cries the landlady, "is there a fire lit yet in the
Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full. Several
people of the first quality are now in bed. Here's a great young
squire, and many other great gentlefolks of quality." Susan
answered, "That the Irish gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose."
"Was ever anything like it?" says the mistress; "why the devil would
you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, when you know
scarce a day passes without some calling here?-- If they be gentlemen,
I am certain, when they know it is for her ladyship, they will get up
again."
"Not upon my account," says the lady; "I will have no person
disturbed for me. If you have a room that is commonly decent, it
will serve me very well, though it be never so plain. I beg, madam,
you will not give yourself so much trouble on my account." "O, madam!"
cries the other, "I have several very good rooms for that matter,
but none good enough for your honour's ladyship. However, as you are
so condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a
fire in the Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up
now, or stay till the fire is lighted?" "I think I have sufficiently
warmed myself," answered the lady; "so, if you please, I will go
now; I am afraid I have kept people, and particularly that gentleman
(meaning Partridge), too long in the cold already. Indeed, I cannot
bear to think of keeping any person from the fire this dreadful
weather."- She then departed with her maid, the landlady marching
with two lighted candles before her.
When that good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was
all upon the charms of the young lady. There is indeed in perfect
beauty a power which none almost can withstand; for my landlady,
though she was not pleased at the negative given to the supper,
declared she had never seen so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out
into the most extravagant encomiums on her face, though he could not
refrain from paying some compliments to the gold lace on her habit;
the post-boy sung forth the praises of her goodness, which were
likewise echoed by the other post-boy, who was now come in. "She's a
true good lady, I warrant her," says he; "for she hath mercy upon dumb
creatures; for she asked me every now and tan upon the journey, if I
did not think she should hurt the horses by riding too fast? and
when she came in she charged me to give them as much corn as ever they
would eat."
Such charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract
the praises of all kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the
celebrated Mrs. Hussey.[15]It is equally sure to set off every female
perfection to the highest advantage, and to palliate and conceal every
defect. A short reflection, which we could not forbear making in
this place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of an affable
deportment; and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing
the reverse.
[[15]]
A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off the
shapes of women.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal disesteem and
hatred
The lady had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the
waiting-woman returned to the kitchen to regale with some of those
dainties which her mistress had refused.
The company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect which they
had before paid to her mistress, by rising; but she forgot to
imitate her, by desiring them to sit down again. Indeed; it was scarce
possible they should have done so, for she placed her chair in such
a posture as to occupy almost the whole fire. She then ordered a
chicken to be broiled that instant, declaring, if it was not ready
in a quarter of an hour, she would not stay for it. Now, though the
said chicken was then at roost in the stable, and required the several
ceremonies of catching, killing, and picking, before it was brought to
the gridiron, my landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all
within the time; but the guests, being unfortunately admitted behind
the scenes, must have been witness to the fourberie; the poor woman
was therefore obliged to confess that she had none in the house; "but,
madam," said she, "I can get any kind of mutton in an instant from the
butcher's."
"Do you think, then," answered the waiting gentlewoman, "that I have
the stomach of a horse, to eat mutton at this time of night? Sure
you people that keep inns imagine your betters are like yourselves.
Indeed, I expected to get nothing at this wretched place. I wonder
my lady would stop at it. I suppose none but tradesmen and grasiers
ever call here." The landlady fired at this indignity offered to her
house; however, she suppressed her temper, and contented herself
with saying, "Very good quality frequented it, she thanked heaven!"
"Don't tell me," cries the other, "of quality! I believe I know more
of people of quality than such as you.- But, prithee, without
troubling me with any of your impertinence, do tell me what I can have
for supper; for, though I cannot eat horse-flesh, I am really hungry."
"Why, truly, madam," answered the landlady, "you could not take me
again at such a disadvantage; for I must confess I have nothing in the
house, unless a cold piece of beef, which indeed a gentleman's footman
and the post-boy have almost cleared to the bone." "Woman," said
Mrs. Abigail (so for shortness we will call her), "I entreat you not
to make me sick. If I had fasted a month, I could not eat what had
been touched by the fingers of such fellows. Is there nothing neat
or decent to be had in this horrid place?" "What think you of some
eggs and bacon, madam?" said the landlady. "Are your eggs new laid?
are you certain they were laid to-day? and let me have the bacon cut
very nice and thin; for I can't endure anything that's gross.- Prithee
try if you can do a little tolerably for once, and don't think you
have a farmer's wife, or some of those creatures, in the house."- The
landlady began then to handle her knife; but the other stopt her,
saying, "Good woman, I must insist upon your first washing your hands;
for I am extremely nice, and have been always used from my cradle to
have everything in the most elegant manner."
The landlady, who governed herself with much difficulty, began now
the necessary preparations; for as to Susan, she was utterly rejected,
and with such disdain, that the poor wench was as hard put to it to
restrain her hands from violence as her mistress had been to hold
her tongue. This indeed Susan did not entirely; for, though she
literally kept it within her teeth, yet there it muttered many
"marry-come-ups, as good flesh and blood as yourself;" with other
such indignant phrases.
While the supper was preparing, Mrs. Abigail began to lament she had
not ordered a fire in the parlour; but, she said, that was now too
late. "However," said she, "I have novelty to recommend a kitchen; for
I do not believe I ever eat in one before." Then, turning to the
post-boys, she asked them, "Why they were not in the stable with their
horses? If I must eat my hard fare here, madam," cries she to the
landlady, "I beg the kitchen may be kept clear, that I may not be
surrounded with all the blackguards in town: as for you, sir," says she
to Partridge, "you look somewhat like a gentleman, and may sit still
if you please; I don't desire to disturb anybody but mob."
"Yes, yes, madam," cries Partridge, "I am a gentleman, I do assure
you, and I am not so easily to be disturbed. Non semper vox casualis
est verbo nominativus." This Latin she took to be some affront, and
answered, "You may be a gentleman, sir; but you don't show yourself as
one to talk Latin to a woman." Partridge made a gentle reply, and
concluded with more Latin; upon which she tossed up her nose, and
contented herself by abusing him with the name of a great scholar.
The supper being now on the table, Mrs. Abigail eat very heartily
for so delicate a person; and, while a second course of the same was
by her order preparing, she said, "And so, madam, you tell me your
house is frequented by people of great quality?"
The landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, "There were a
great many very good quality and gentlefolks in it now. There's
young Squire Allworthy, as that gentleman there knows."
"And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young
Squire Allworthy?" said Abigail.
"Who should he be," answered Partridge, "but the son and heir of the
great Squire Allworthy, of Somersetshire!" "Upon my word," said she,
"you tell me strange news; for I know Mr. Allworthy of Somersetshire
very well, and I know he hath no son alive."
The landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked a
little confounded. However, after a short hesitation, he answered,
"Indeed, madam, it is true, everybody doth not know him to be Squire
Allworthy's son; he was never married to his mother; but his son he
certainly is, and will be his heir too, as certainly as his name is
Jones." At that word, Abigail let drop the bacon which she was
conveying to her mouth, and cried out, "You surprize me, sir! Is it
possible Mr. Jones should be now in the house?" "Quare non?"
answered Partridge, "it is possible, and it is certain."
Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal and
then repaired back to her mistress, when the conversation passed which
may be read in the next chapter.
5. CHAPTER V.
Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid were
As in the month of June, the damask rose, which chance hath
planted among the lilies, with their candid hue mixes his vermilion;
or as some playsome heifer in the pleasant month of May diffuses her
odoriferous breath over the flowery meadows; or as, in the blooming
month of April, the gentle, constant dove, perched on some fair bough,
sits meditating on her mate, so, looking a hundred charms and
breathing as many sweets, her thoughts being fixed on her Tommy,
with a heart as good and innocent as her face was beautiful, Sophia
(for it was she herself) lay reclining her lovely head on her hand,
when her maid entered the room, and, running directly to the bed,
cried, "Madam- madam- who doth your ladyship think is in the house?"
Sophia starting up, cried, "I hope my father hath not overtaken us."
"No, madam, it is one worth a hundred fathers; Mr. Jones himself is
here at this very instant." "Mr. Jones!" says Sophia, "it is
impossible! I cannot be so fortunate." Her maid averred the fact,
and was presently detached by her mistress to order him to be
called; for she said she was resolved to see him immediately.
Mrs. Honour had no sooner left the kitchen in the manner we have
before seen than the landlady fell severely upon her. The poor woman
had indeed been loading her heart with foul language for some time,
and now it scoured out of her mouth, as filth doth from a mud-cart,
when the board which confines it is removed. Partridge likewise
shovelled in his share of calumny, and (what may surprize the
reader) not only bespattered the maid, but attempted to sully the
lily-white character of Sophia herself. "Never a barrel the better
herring," cries he, "Noscitur à socio, is a true saying. It must be
confessed, indeed, that the lady in the fine garments is the
civiller of the two; but I warrant neither of them are a bit better
than they should be. A couple of Bath trulls, I'll answer for them;
your quality don't ride about at this time o' night without servants."
"Sbodlikins, and that's true," cries the landlady, "you have certainly
hit upon the very matter; for quality don't come into a house
without bespeaking a supper, whether they eat it or no."
While they were thus discoursing, Mrs. Honour returned and
discharged her commission, by bidding the landlady immediately wake
Mr. Jones, and tell him a lady wanted to speak with him. The
landlady referred her to Partridge, saying, "he was the squire's
friend: but, for her part, she never called menfolks, especially
gentlemen," and then walked sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour
applied herself to Partridge; but he refused, "for my friend," cries
he, "went to bed very late, and he would be very angry to be disturbed
so soon." Mrs. Honour insisted still to have him called, saying,
"she was sure, instead of being angry, that he would be to the highest
degree delighted when he knew the occasion." "Another time, perhaps,
he might," cries Partridge; "but non omnia possumus omnes. One woman
is enough at once for a reasonable man." "What do you mean by one
woman, fellow?" cries Honour. "None of your fellow," answered
Partridge. He then proceeded to inform her plainly that Jones was in
bed with a wench, and made use of an expression too indelicate to be
here inserted; which so enraged Mrs. Honour, that she called him
jackanapes, and returned in a violent hurry to her mistress, whom
she acquainted with the success of her errand, and with the account
she had received; which, if possible, she exaggerated, being as
angry with Jones as if he had pronounced all the words that came
from the mouth of Partridge. She discharged a torrent of abuse on
the master, and advised her mistress to quit all thoughts of a man who
had never shown himself deserving of her. She then ripped up the story
of Molly Seagrim, and gave the most malicious turn to his formerly
quitting Sophia herself; which, I must confess, the present incident
not a little countenanced.
The spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by concern to
enable her to stop the torrent of her maid. At last, however, she
interrupted her, saying, "I never can believe this; some villain
hath belied him. You say you had it from his friend; but surely it
is not the office of a friend to betray such secrets." "I suppose,"
cries Honour, "the fellow is his pimp; for I never saw so ill-looked a
villain. Besides, such profligate rakes as Mr. Jones are never ashamed
of these matters."
To say the truth, this behaviour of Partridge was a little
inexcusable; but he had not slept off the effect of the dose which
he swallowed the evening before; which had, in the morning, received
the addition of above a pint of wine, or indeed rather of malt
spirits; for the perry was by no means pure. Now, that part of his
head which Nature designed for the reservoir of drink being very
shallow, a small quantity of liquor overflowed it, and opened the
sluices of his heart; so that all the secrets there deposited run out.
These sluices were indeed, naturally, very ill-secured. To give the
best-natured turn we can to his disposition, he was a very honest man;
for, as he was the most inquisitive of mortals, and eternally prying
into the secrets of others, so he very faithfully paid them by
communicating, in return, everything within his knowledge.
While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor
what resolution to take; Susan arrived with the sack-whey. Mrs. Honour
immediately advised her mistress, in a whisper, to pump this wench,
who probably could inform her of the truth. Sophia approved it, and
began as follows: "Come hither, child; now answer me truly what I am
going to ask you, and I promise you I will very well reward you. Is
there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young gentleman,
that--" Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. "A young gentleman,"
cries Honour, "that came hither in company with that saucy rascal
who is now in the kitchen?" Susan answered, "There was." "Do you
know anything of any lady?" continues Sophia, "any lady? I don't ask
you whether she is handsome or no; perhaps she is not; that's
nothing to the purpose; but do you know of any lady?" "La, madam,"
cries Honour, "you will make a very bad examiner. Hark'ee, child,"
says she, "is not that very young gentleman now in bed with some nasty
trull or other?" Here Susan smiled, and was silent. "Answer the
question, child," says Sophia, "and here's a guinea for you."- "A
guinea! madam," cries Susan; "la, what's a guinea? If my mistress
should know it I shall certainly lose my place that very instant."
"Here's another for you," says Sophia, "and I promise you faithfully
your mistress shall never know it." Susan, after a very short
hesitation, took the money, and told the whole story, concluding
with saying, "If you have any great curiosity, madam, I can steal
softly into his room, and see whether he be in his own bed or no." She
accordingly did this by Sophia's desire, and returned with an answer
in the negative.
Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs. Honour begged her to be
comforted, and not to think any more of so worthless a fellow. "Why
there," says Susan, "I hope, madam, your ladyship won't be offended;
but pray, madam, is not your ladyship's name Madam Sophia Western?"
"How is it possible you should know me?" answered Sophia. "Why that
man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who is in the kitchen, told
about you last night. But I hope your ladyship is not angry with
me." "Indeed, child," said she, "I am not; pray tell me all, and I
promise you I'll reward you." "Why, madam," continued Susan, "that man
told us all in the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western- indeed I don't
know how to bring it out."- Here she stopt, till, having received
encouragement from Sophia, and being vehemently pressed by Mrs.
Honour, she proceeded thus:- "He told us, madam, though to be sure it
is all a lie, that your ladyship was dying for love of the young
squire, and that he was going to the wars to get rid of you. I thought
to myself then he was a false-hearted wretch; but, now, to see such
a fine, rich, beautiful lady as you be, forsaken for such an
ordinary woman; for to be sure so she is, and another man's wife
into the bargain. It is such a strange unnatural thing, in a manner."
Sophia gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would certainly
be her friend if she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor
informed any one who she was, dismissed the girl, with orders to the
post-boy to get the horses ready immediately.
Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty
waiting-woman, "That she never was more easy than at present. I am now
convinced," said she, "he is not only a villain, but a low despicable
wretch. I can forgive all rather than his exposing my name in so
barbarous a manner. That renders him the object of my contempt. Yes,
Honour, I am now easy; I am indeed; I am very easy;" and then she
burst into a violent flood of tears.
After a short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and
assuring her maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an
account that the horses were ready, when a very extraordinary
thought suggested itself to our young heroine, by which Mr. Jones
would be acquainted with her having been at the inn, in a way which,
if any sparks of affection for her remained in him, would be at
least some punishment for his faults.
The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had
the honour of being more than once remembered already in this history.
This muff, ever since the departure of Mr. Jones, had been the
constant companion of Sophia by day, and her bedfellow by night; and
this muff she had at this very instant upon her arm; whence she took
it off with great indignation, and, having writ her name with her
pencil upon a piece of paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the
maid to convey it into the empty bed of Mr. Jones, in which, if he did
not find it, she charged her to take some method of conveying it
before his eyes in the morning.
Then, having paid for what Mrs. Honour had eaten, in which bill
was included an account for what she herself might have eaten, she
mounted her horse, and, once more assuring her companion that she
was perfectly easy, continued her journey.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of Partridge, the
madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick
It was now past five in the morning, and other company began to rise
and come to the kitchen, among whom were the serjeant and the
coachman, who, being thoroughly reconciled, made a libation, or, in
the English phrase, drank a hearty cup together.
In this drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour
of Partridge, who, when the serjeant drank a health to King George,
repeated only the word King; nor could he be brought to utter more;
for though he was going to fight against his own cause, yet he could
not be prevailed upon to drink against it.
Mr. Jones, being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he
returned we must beg to be excused from relating), summoned
Partridge from this agreeable company, who, after a ceremonious
preface, having obtained leave to offer his advice, delivered
himself as follows:-
"It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may
sometimes learn counsel from a fool; I wish, therefore, I might be
so bold as to offer you my advice, which is to return home again,
and leave these horrida bella, these bloody wars, to fellows who are
contented to swallow gunpowder, because they have nothing else to eat.
Now, everybody knows your honour wants for nothing at home; when that's
the case, why should any man travel abroad?"
"Partridge," cries Jones, "thou art certainly a coward; I wish,
therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and trouble me no more."
"I ask your honour's pardon," cries Partridge; "I spoke on your
account more than my own; for as to me, Heaven knows my
circumstances are bad enough, and I am so far from being afraid,
that I value a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such thing, no more
than a pop-gun. Every man must die once, and what signifies the manner
how? besides, perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a
leg. I assure you, sir, I was never less afraid in my life; and so, if
your honour is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in
that case, I wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a
scandalous way of travelling, for a great gentleman like you to walk
afoot. Now here are two or three good horses in the stable, which
the landlord will certainly make no scruple of trusting you with; but,
if he should, I can easily contrive to take them; and, let the worst
come to the worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you are
going to fight in his cause."
Now, as the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and
both dealt only in small matters, he would never have attempted a
roguery of this kind, had he not imagined it altogether safe; for he
was one of those who have more consideration of the gallows than of
the fitness of things; but, in reality, he thought he might have
committed this felony without any danger; for, besides that he doubted
not but the name of Mr. Allworthy would sufficiently quiet the
landlord, he conceived they should be altogether safe, whatever turn
affairs might take; as Jones, he imagined, would have friends enough
on one side, and as his friends would as well secure him on the other.
When Mr. Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal,
he very severely rebuked him, and that in such bitter terms, that
the other attempted to laugh it off, and presently turned the
discourse to other matters; saying, he believed they were then in a
bawdy-house, and that he had with much ado prevented two wenches
from disturbing his honour in the middle of the night. "Heyday!"
says he, "I believe they got into your chamber whether I would or
no; for here lies the muff of one of them on the ground." Indeed, as
Jones returned to his bed in the dark, he had never perceived the muff
on the quilt, and, in leaping into his bed, he had tumbled it on the
floor. This Partridge now took up, and was going to put into his
pocket, when Jones desired to see it. The muff was so very remarkable,
that our heroe might possibly have recollected it without the
information annexed. But his memory was not put to that hard office;
for at the same instant he saw and read the words Sophia Western
upon the paper which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a
moment, and he eagerly cried out, "Oh Heavens! how came this muff
here?" "I know no more than your honour," cried Partridge; "but I
saw it upon the arm of one of the women who would have disturbed
you, if I would have suffered them." "Where are they?" cries Jones,
jumping out of bed, and laying hold of his cloaths. "Many miles off, I
believe, by this time," said Partridge. And now Jones, upon further
enquiry, was sufficiently assured that the bearer of this muff was
no other than the lovely Sophia herself.
The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks,
his words, his actions, were such as beggar all description. After
many bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he
ordered the poor fellow, who was frightened out of his wits, to run
down and hire him horses at any rate; and a very few minutes
afterwards, having shuffled on his clothes, he hastened down-stairs to
execute the orders himself, which he had just before given.
But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the
kitchen, it will be necessary to recur to what had there happened
since Partridge had first left it on his master's summons.
The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish
gentlemen arose, and came downstairs; both complaining that they had
been so often waked by the noises in the inn, that they had never once
been able to close their eyes all night.
The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, and
which, perhaps, the reader may have hitherto concluded was her own,
was, indeed, a returned coach belonging to Mr. King, of Bath, one of
the worthiest and honestest men that ever dealt in horseflesh, and
whose coaches we heartily recommend to all our readers who travel that
road. By which means they may, perhaps, have the pleasure of riding in
the very coach, and being driven by the very coachman, that is
recorded in this history.
The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr.
Maclachlan was going to Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very
moderate price. He was induced to this by the report of the hostler,
who said that the horse which Mr. Maclachlan had hired from
Worcester would be much more pleased with returning to his friends
there than to prosecute a long journey; for that the said horse was
rather a two-legged than a four-legged animal.
Mr. Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman,
and, at the same time, persuaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of
the fourth place in the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his
bones made more agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured
of meeting with his wife at Bath, he thought a little delay would be
of no consequence.
Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard
that this lady came from Chester, with the other circumstances which
he learned from the hostler, than it came into his head that she might
possibly be his friend's wife; and presently acquainted him with
this suspicion, which had never once occurred to Fitzpatrick
himself. To say the truth, he was one of those compositions which
nature makes up in too great a hurry, and forgets to put any brains
into their heads.
Now it happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never
hit off a fault themselves; but no sooner doth a dog of sagacity
open his mouth than they immediately do the same, and, without the
guidance of any scent, run directly forwards as fast as they are able.
In the same manner, the very moment Mr. Maclachlan had mentioned his
apprehension, Mr. Fitzpatrick instantly concurred, and flew directly
up-stairs, to surprize his wife, before he knew where she was; and
unluckily (as Fortune loves to play tricks with those gentlemen who
put themselves entirely under her conduct) ran his head against
several doors and posts to no purpose. Much kinder was she to me, when
she suggested that simile of the hounds, just before inserted; since
the poor wife may, on these occasions, be so justly compared to a
hunted hare. Like that little wretched animal, she pricks up her
ears to listen after the voice of her pursuer; like her, flies away
trembling when she hears it; and, like her, is generally overtaken and
destroyed in the end.
This was not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless
search, Mr. Fitzpatrick returned to the kitchen, where, as if this had
been a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when
the hounds are at a fault. He was just alighted from his horse, and
had many attendants at his heels.
Here, reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some
matters, which, if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I
take thee to be. And this information thou shalt receive in the next
chapter.
7. CHAPTER VII.
In which are concluded the adventures that happened at the inn at
Upton
In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other
person than Squire Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit
of his daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours earlier, he
had not only found her, but his niece into the bargain; for such was
the wife of Mr. Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five years
before, out of the custody of that sage lady, Madam Western.
Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time
with Sophia; for, having been waked by the voice of her husband, she
had sent up for the landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter,
had bribed the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her
with horses for her escape. Such prevalence had money in this
family; and though the mistress would have turned away her maid for
a corrupt hussy, if she had known as much as the reader, yet she was
no more proof against corruption herself than poor Susan had been.
Mr. Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed
would the former have taken any notice of the latter if he had known
him; for, this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one
in the opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her
committing it, abandoned the poor young creature, who was then no more
than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her to be
named in his presence.
The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western
enquiring after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his
wife, when Jones entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia's
muff in his hand.
As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by
sportsmen when their game is in view. He then immediately run up and
laid hold of Jones, crying, "We have got the dog fox, I warrant the
bitch is not far off." The jargon which followed for some minutes,
where many spoke different things at the same time, as it would be
very difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to
read.
Jones having, at length, shaken Mr. Western off, and some of the
company having interfered between them, our heroe protested his
innocence as to knowing anything of the lady; when Parson Supple
stepped up, and said, "It is folly to deny it; for why, the marks of
guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by an
oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam
Sophia; for I have frequently observed her, of later days, to bear
it about her." "My daughter's muff!" cries the squire in a rage. "Hath
he got my daughter's muff? bear witness the goods are found upon
him. I'll have him before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my
daughter, villain?" "Sir," said Jones, "I beg you would be pacified.
The muff, I acknowledge, is the young lady's; but, upon my honour, I
have never seen her." At these words Western lost all patience, and
grew inarticulate with rage.
Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr. Western was.
The good Irishman, therefore, thinking he had now an opportunity to do
an act of service to his uncle, and by that means might possibly
obtain his favour, stept up to Jones, and cried out, "Upon my
conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying your having seen the
gentleman's daughter before my face, when you know I found you there
upon the bed together." Then, turning to Western, he offered to
conduct him immediately to the room where his daughter was; which
offer being accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others,
ascended directly to Mrs. Waters's chamber, which they entered with no
less violence than Mr. Fitzpatrick had done before.
The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as
terror, and beheld at her bedside a figure which might very well be
supposed to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion
were in the looks of Mr. Western; who no sooner saw the lady than he
started back, shewing sufficiently by his manner, before he spoke,
that this was not the person sought after.
So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than their
persons, that, though the latter seemed now in more danger than
before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not with such
violence as she had done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner
found herself alone than she abandoned all thoughts of further repose;
and, as she had sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with her present
lodging, she dressed herself with all possible expedition.
Mr. Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as
little purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs. Waters. He then
returned disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the
custody of his servants.
This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though
it was yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who
had the honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county
of Worcester. Of which Mr. Western was no sooner informed than he
offered to lay his complaint before him. The justice declined
executing his office, as he said he had no clerk present, nor no
book about justice business; and that he could not carry all the law
in his head about stealing away daughters, and such sort of things.
Here Mr. Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing
the company that he had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he
had served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of
Ireland, when, chusing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his
master, came over to England, and set up that business which
requires no apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he
had succeeded, as hath been already partly mentioned.)
Mr. Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out
of the present case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony,
and the goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of
the fact.
The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor,
and upon the violent intercession of the squire, was at length
prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, where being
placed, upon viewing the muff which Jones still held in his hand,
and upon the parson's swearing it to be the property of Mr. Western,
he desired Mr. Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment, which he said he
would sign.
Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty,
granted him. He then produced the evidence of Mr. Partridge, as to the
finding it; but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia
herself had delivered the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey
it into the chamber where Mr. Jones had found it.
Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness
of Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, I will not
determine; but such were the effects of her evidence, that the
magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair, declared that the
matter was now altogether as clear on the side of the prisoner as it
had before been against him; with which the parson concurred,
saying, the Lord forbid he should be instrumental in committing an
innocent person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the
prisoner, and broke up the court.
Mr. Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and,
immediately ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his
daughter, without taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick,
or returning any answer to his claim of kindred, notwithstanding all
the obligations he had just received from that gentleman. In the
violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his passion, he luckily
forgot to demand the muff of Jones: I say luckily; for he would have
died on the spot rather than have parted with it.
Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he
had paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now
resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring
himself even to take leave of Mrs. Waters; of whom he detested the
very thoughts, as she had been, though not designedly, the occasion of
his missing the happiest interview with Sophia, to whom he now vowed
eternal constancy.
As for Mrs. Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which
was going to Bath; for which place she set out in company with the two
Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her cloaths; in
return for which she was contented only to receive about double
their value, as a recompence for the loan. Upon the road she was
perfectly reconciled to Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome
fellow, and indeed did all she could to console him in the absence
of his wife.
Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr. Jones encountered at
his inn at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the beauty and
lovely behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name of the
Somersetshire angel.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
In which the history goes backward
Before we proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to
look a little back, in order to account for the extraordinary
appearance of Sophia and her father at the inn at Upton.
The reader may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter
of the seventh book of our history, we left Sophia, after a long
debate between love and duty, deciding the cause, as it usually, I
believe, happens, in favour of the former.
This debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which
her father had just before made her, in order to force her consent
to a marriage with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully
implied in her acknowledgment "that she neither must nor could
refuse any absolute command of his."
Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation,
overjoyed at the success he had gained with his daughter; and, as he
was of a social disposition, and willing to have partakers in his
happiness, the beer was ordered to flow very liberally into the
kitchen; so that before eleven in the evening there was not a single
person sober in the house except only Mrs. Western herself and the
charming Sophia.
Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr.
Blifil; for, though the squire imagined that young gentleman had
been much less acquainted than he really was with the former
aversion of his daughter, as he had not, however, yet received her
consent, he longed impatiently to communicate it to him, not
doubting but that the intended bride herself would confirm it with her
lips. As to the wedding, it had the evening before been fixed, by
the male parties, to be celebrated on the next morning save one.
Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr. Blifil
attended, and where the squire and his sister likewise were assembled;
and now Sophia was ordered to be called.
O, Shakespeare! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then
would I draw the picture of the poor serving-man, who, with pale
countenance, staring eyes, chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and
trembling limbs,
(E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd)
entered the room, and declared- That Madam Sophia was not to be found.
"Not to be found!" cries the squire, starting from his chair;
"Zounds and d--nation! Blood and fury! Where, when, how, what- Not to
be found! Where?"
"La! brother," said Mrs. Western, with true political coldness, "you
are always throwing yourself into such violent passions for nothing.
My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the garden. I protest you
are grown so unreasonable, that it is impossible to live in the
house with you."
"Nay, nay," answered the squire, returning as suddenly to himself,
as he had gone from himself; "if that be all the matter, it
signifies not much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me when the
fellow said she was not to be found." He then gave orders for the bell
to be rung in the garden, and sat himself contentedly down.
No two things could be more the reverse of each other than were
the brother and sister in most instances; particularly in this, That
as the brother never foresaw anything at a distance, but was most
sagacious in immediately seeing everything the moment it had happened;
so the sister eternally foresaw at a distance, but was not so
quick-sighted to objects before her eyes. Of both these the reader may
have observed examples: and, indeed, both their several talents were
excessive; for, as the sister often foresaw what never came to pass,
so the brother often saw much more than was actually the truth.
This was not however the case at present. The same report was
brought from the garden as before had been brought from the chamber,
that Madam Sophia was not to be found.
The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the
name of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whilome did
Hercules that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole shore
echoed back the name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the
garden, and all the neighbouring fields resound nothing but the name
of Sophia, in the hoarse voices of the men, and in the shrill pipes of
the women; while echo seemed so pleased to repeat the beloved sound,
that, if there is really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her
sex.
Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last the
squire, having sufficiently spent his breath, returned to the parlour,
where he found Mrs. Western and Mr. Blifil, and threw himself, with
the utmost dejection in his countenance, into a great chair.
Here Mrs. Western began to apply the following consolation:
"Brother, I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece
should have behaved herself in a manner so unbecoming her family;
but it is all your own doings, and you have nobody to thank but
yourself. You know she hath been educated always in a manner
directly contrary to my advice, and now you see the consequence.
Have I not a thousand times argued with you about giving my niece
her own will? But you know I never could prevail upon you; and when I
had taken so much pains to eradicate her headstrong opinions, and to
rectify your errors in policy, you know she was taken out of my hands;
so that I have nothing to answer for. Had I been trusted entirely with
the care of her education, no such accident as this had ever
befallen you; so that you must comfort yourself by thinking it was all
your own doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected from such
indulgence?"--
"Zounds! sister," answered he, "you are enough to make one mad. Have
I indulged her? Have I given her her will?-- It was no longer ago than
last night that I threatened, if she disobeyed me, to confine her to
her chamber upon bread and water as long as she lived.- You would
provoke the patience of Job."
"Did ever mortal hear the like?" replied she. "Brother, if I had not
the patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all decency and
decorum. Why would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not intreat
you, to leave the whole conduct to me? You have defeated all the
operations of the campaign by one false step. Would any man in his
senses have provoked a daughter by such threats as these? How often
have I told you that English women are not to be treated like
Ciracessian[16] slaves? We have the protection of the world; we are to be
won by gentle means only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and
beat into compliance. I thank Heaven no Salique law governs here.
Brother, you have a roughness in your manner which no woman but myself
would bear. I do not wonder my niece was frightened and terrified into
taking this measure; and, to speak honestly, I think my niece will
be justified to the world for what she hath done. I repeat it to you
again, brother, you must comfort yourself by rememb'ring that it is
all your own fault. How often have I advised-" Here Western rose
hastily from his chair, and venting two or three horrid
imprecations, ran out of the room.
When he was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if
possible) against him than she had done while he was present; for
the truth of which she appealed to Mr. Blifil, who, with great
complacence, acquiesced entirely in all she said; but excused all
the faults of Mr. Western, "as they must be considered," he said,
"to have proceeded from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which
must be allowed the name of an amiable weakness." "So much the more
inexcuseable," answered the lady; "for whom doth he ruin by his
fondness but his own child?" To which Blifil immediately agreed.
Mrs. Western then began to express great confusion on the account of
Mr. Blifil, and of the usage which he had received from a family to
which he intended so much honour. On this subject she treated the
folly of her niece with great severity; but concluded with throwing
the whole on her brother, who, she said, was inexcuseable to have
proceeded so far without better assurances of his daughter's
consent: "But he was (says she) always of a violent, headstrong
temper; and I can scarce forgive myself for all the advice I have
thrown away upon him."
After much of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not
greatly entertain the reader, was it here particularly related, Mr.
Blifil took his leave and returned home, not highly pleased with his
disappointment: which, however, the philosophy which he had acquired
from Square, and the religion infused into him by Thwackum, together
with somewhat else, taught him to bear rather better than more
passionate lovers bear these kinds of evils.
[[16]]
Possibly Circassian.
9. CHAPTER IX.
The escape of Sophia
It is now time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves
her half so well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the
clutches of her passionate father, and from those of her dispassionate
lover.
Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous
bell-metal, summoning the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly
round.-- In plainer language, it was twelve o'clock, and all the
family, as we have said, lay buried in drink and sleep, except only
Mrs. Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet,
and except our heroine, who now softly stole downstairs, and, having
unbarred and unlocked one of the house-doors, sallied forth, and
hastened to the place of appointment.
Notwithstanding the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes
practise, to display their fears on every little occasion (almost as
many as the other sex uses to conceal theirs), certainly there is a
degree of courage which not only becomes a woman, but is often
necessary to enable her to discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea
of fierceness, and not of bravery, which destroys the female
character; for who can read the story of the justly celebrated Arria
without conceiving as high an opinion of her gentleness and tenderness
as of her fortitude? At the same time, perhaps, many a woman who
shrieks at a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of poisoning a husband;
or, what is worse, of driving him to poison himself.
Sophia, with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all
the spirit which she ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the
place of appointment, and, instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed,
saw a man ride directly up to her, she neither screamed out nor
fainted away: not that her pulse then beat with its usual
regularity; for she was, at first, under some surprize and
apprehension: but these were relieved almost as soon as raised, when
the man, pulling off his hat, asked her, in a very submissive
manner, "If her ladyship did not expect to meet another lady?" and
then proceeded to inform her that he was sent to conduct her to that
lady.
Sophia could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this
account: she therefore mounted resolutely behind the fellow, who
conveyed her safe to a town about five miles distant, where she had
the satisfaction of finding the good Mrs. Honour: for, as the soul
of the waiting-woman was wrapt up in those very habiliments which used
to enwrap her body, she could by no means bring herself to trust
them out of her sight. Upon these, therefore, she kept guard in
person, while she detached the aforesaid fellow after her mistress,
having given him all proper instructions.
They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the
pursuit of Mr. Western, who they knew would send after them in a few
hours. The London road had such charms for Honour, that she was
desirous of going on directly; alleging that, as Sophia could not be
missed till eight or nine the next morning, her pursuers would not
be able to overtake her, even though they knew which way she had gone.
But Sophia had too much at stake to venture anything to chance; nor
did she dare trust too much to her tender limbs, in a contest which
was to be decided only by swiftness. She resolved, therefore, to
travel across the country, for at least twenty or thirty miles, and
then to take the direct road to London. So, having hired horses to
go twenty miles one way, when she intended to go twenty miles the
other, she set forward with the same guide behind whom she had
ridden from her father's house; the guide having now taken up behind
him, in the room of Sophia, a much heavier, as well as much less
lovely burden; being, indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with
those outside ornaments, by means of which the fair Honour hoped to
gain many conquests, and, finally, to make her fortune in London city.
When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the
London road, Sophia rode up to the guide, and, with a voice much
fuller of honey than was ever that of Plato, though his mouth is
supposed to have been a bee-hive, begged him to take the first turning
which led towards Bristol.
Reader, I am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern
miracles. I do not, therefore, deliver the following as a certain
truth; for, indeed, I can scarce credit it myself: but the fidelity of
an historian obliges me to relate what hath been confidently asserted.
The horse, then, on which the guide rode, is reported to have been
so charmed by Sophia's voice, that he made a full stop, and
expressed an unwillingness to proceed any farther.
Perhaps, however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than
it hath been represented; since the natural cause seems adequate to
the effect: for, as the guide at that moment desisted from a
constant application of his armed right heel (for, like Hudibras, he
wore but one spur), it is more than possible that this omission
alone might occasion the beast to stop, especially as this was very
frequent with him at other times.
But if the voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had
very little on the rider. He answered somewhat surlily, "That
measter had ordered him to go a different way, and that he should lose
his place if he went any other than that he was ordered."
Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to
add irresistible charms to her voice; charms which, according to the
proverb, makes the old mare trot, instead of standing still; charms to
which modern ages have attributed all that irresistible force which
the antients imputed to perfect oratory. In a word, she promised she
would reward him to his utmost expectation.
The lad was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked
their being indefinite; for, though perhaps he had never heard that
word, yet that, in fact, was his objection. He said, "Gentlevolks
did not consider the case of poor volks; that he had like to have been
turned away the other day, for riding about the country with a
gentleman from Squire Allworthy's, who did not reward him as he should
have done."
"With whom?" says Sophia eagerly. "With a gentleman from Squire
Allworthy's," repeated the lad; "the squire's son, I think they call
'un."- "Whither? which way did he go?" says Sophia.- "Why, a little o'
one side o' Bristol, about twenty miles off," answered the lad. "Guide
me," says Sophia, "to the same place, and I'll give thee a guinea,
or two, if one is not sufficient."- "To be certain," said the boy,
"it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship considers what a risk
I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two guineas,
I'll e'en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride about my
measter's horses; but one comfort is, I can only be turned away, and
two guineas will partly make me amends."
The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol
road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to
the remonstrances of Mrs. Honour, who had much more desire to see
London than to see Mr. Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with
her mistress, as he had been guilty of some neglect in certain
pecuniary civilities, which are by custom due to the
waiting-gentlewoman in all love affairs, and more especially in
those of a clandestine kind. This we impute rather to the carelessness
of his temper than to any want of generosity; but perhaps she
derived it from the latter motive. Certain it is that she hated him
very bitterly on that account, and resolved to take every
opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was therefore highly
unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same town and inn
whence Jones had started, and still more unlucky was she in having
stumbled on the same guide, and on this accidental discovery which
Sophia had made.
Our travellers arrived at Hambrook[17]
at the break of day, where
Honour was against her will charged to enquire the route which Mr.
Jones had taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have
informed them; but Sophia, I know not for what reason, never asked him
the question.
When Mrs. Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with
much difficulty, procured some indifferent horses, which brought her
to the inn where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of
meeting with a surgeon than by having met with a broken head.
Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had
no sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had described the
person of Mr. Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar
phrase, to smell a rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room,
instead of answering the maid, the landlady, addressing herself to the
mistress, began the following speech: "Good lack-a-day! why there now,
who would have thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever
eye beheld. I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so
about your ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in
the world, and to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I
bepitied him, so I did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it
his dear Madam Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade him from going to
the wars: I told him there were men enow that were good for nothing
else but to be killed, that had not the love of such fine ladies."
"Sure," says Sophia, "the good woman is distracted." "No, no," cries
the landlady, "I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I
don't know then? I assure you he told me all." "What saucy fellow,"
cries Honour, "told you anything of my lady?" "No saucy fellow,"
answered the landlady, "but the young gentleman you enquired after,
and a very pretty young gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia
Western to the bottom of his soul." "He love my lady! I'd have you
to know, woman, she is meat for his master."- "Nay, Honour," said
Sophia, interrupting her, "don't be angry with the good woman; she
intends no harm." "No, marry, don't I," answered the landlady,
emboldened by the soft accents of Sophia; and then launched into a
long narrative too tedious to be here set down, in which some passages
dropt that gave a little offence to Sophia, and much more to her
waiting-woman, who hence took occasion to abuse poor Jones to her
mistress the moment they were alone together, saying, "that he must be
a very pitiful fellow, and could have no love for a lady, whose name
he would thus prostitute in an ale house."
Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light,
and was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures of his love
(which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other
circumstance) than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she
imputed the whole to the extravagance, or rather ebullience, of his
passion, and to the openness of his heart.
This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and
placed in the most odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and
give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the
waiting-woman in her endeavours to make her mistress depart from
that inn without seeing Jones.
The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her
horses were ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon
withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed
she used great freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she
reminded her of her intention to go to London, and gave frequent hints
of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded
with this serious exhortation: "For heaven's sake, madam, consider
what you are about, and whither you are going."
This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and
in no very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be
supposed she had well considered and resolved this already; nay,
Mrs. Honour, by the hints she threw out, seemed to think so; and
this I doubt not is the opinion of many readers, who have, I make no
doubt, been long since well convinced of the purpose of our heroine,
and have heartily condemned her for it as a wanton baggage.
But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so
distracted between hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her
hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the
truth?) her love for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of
her aunt, of every one else, and more particularly of Jones himself,
had blown into a flame, that her mind was in that confused state which
may be truly said to make us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go,
or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of either.
The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool
reflection; and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and
thence to proceed directly to London.
But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met
the hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with
Mr. Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs. Honour, stopt and
spoke to her; of which Sophia at that time took little notice, more
than to enquire who he was.
But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man
afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he
usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed)
he was particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had
overheard Mrs. Honour inform him that they were going to Gloucester,
she began to fear lest her father might, by this fellow's means, be
able to trace her to that city; wherefore, if she should there
strike into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be
able to overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and,
having hired horses to go a week's journey a way which she did not
intend to travel, she again set forward after a light refreshment,
contrary to the desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to
the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs. Whitefield, who, from
good breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady
appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that
evening at Gloucester.
Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about
two hours the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely
left Mrs. Whitefield's about eleven at night, and, striking directly
into the Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that
very inn where we last saw her.
Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her
departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words
bring her father to the same place; who, having received the first
scent from the post-boy, who conducted his daughter to Hambrook,
very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; whence he pursued her
to Upton, as he had learned Mr. Jones had taken that route (for
Partridge, to use the squire's expression, left everywhere a strong
scent behind him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia
travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a
very coarse expression, which need not be here inserted; as
fox-hunters, who alone will understand it, will easily suggest it to
themselves.
[[17]]
This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.