BOOK XI
CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS
1. CHAPTER I.
A crust for the critics
In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated
that formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom
than becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great
condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the
reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall,
perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been
seen.
This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment.
Hence I presume some persons who have not understood the original, and
have seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded
that it meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently
used as equivalent to condemnation.
I am rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number
of critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many
of these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench
in Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the
playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have
given judgment, i.e., condemned without mercy.
The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were
to leave them thus compared to one of the most important and
honourable offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply
to their favour, we would do so; but, as we design to deal very
sincerely and plainly too with them, we must remind them of another
officer of justice of much lower rank; to whom as they not only
pronounce, but execute, their own judgment, they bear likewise some
remote resemblance.
But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics
may, with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of
a common slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of
others, with no other design but to discover their faults, and to
publish them to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the
reputations of men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same
malevolent view, be as properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation
of books?
Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces
not a more odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more
worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The
world, I am afraid, regards not this monster with half the
abhorrence which he deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the
reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain
that the thief looks innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer
himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt: for slander is
a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the former gives
are always incurable. One method, indeed, there is of killing, and
that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an exact
analogy to the vice here disclaimed against, and that is poison: a
means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that is was once wisely
distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar
severity of the punishment.
Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness
of the means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances
that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds
from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless
some black infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of
having procured the ruin and misery of another.
Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says-
"Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED."
With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it
will probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books.
But let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked
disposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation.
Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when
we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the
child of his brain.
The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a
virgin state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of
paternal fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of
Macduff, "Alas! Thou hast written no book." But the author whose
muse hath brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will
accompany me with tears (especially if his darling be already no
more), while I mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears
about her burden, the painful labour with which she produces it, and
lastly, the care, the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes
his favourite, till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the
world.
Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of
absolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly
wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of
their father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed their
parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the
interest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers,
whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.
Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the
author: for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the
mother a whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff,
horrid nonsense, etc., to a book, without calling the author a
blockhead; which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable
appellation to that of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to
his worldly interest.
Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I
doubt not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may,
perhaps, think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity;
but surely a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In
reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at
least a very ill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I
believe, be suspected to be a bad man.
I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter,
to explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I
here intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the
very persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper
judges of writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of
literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned
world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and
Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and
some perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorized to
execute at least a judicial authority in foro literario.
But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a
critic, which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly
object to the censures of any one past upon works which he hath not
himself read. Such censurers as these, whether they speak from their
own guess or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others,
may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book they
condemn.
Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who,
without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in
general defamatory terms; such as vile, dull, d--d stuff, etc., and
particularly by the use of the monosyllable low; a word which
becomes the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.
Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the
work, yet, if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they
are compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the
malice of a slanderer than of the judgment of a true critic to pass
a severe sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious
part. This is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace:
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parum cavit natura--
But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
I am not angry, when a casual line
(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
A careless hand or human frailty shows.
-MR FRANCIS.
For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, avite, liber. No book
can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of
countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this
manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which
hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be
liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps
chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And
yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon
books supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly
taken (and that they are not always), do by no means go to the merit
of the whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which
doth not coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any
individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one
scene which should be disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To
write within such severe rules as these is as impossible as to live up
to some splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the
sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will
be saved in this world, and no man in the next.
2. CHAPTER II.
The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton
Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel
backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the
inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely
creature, and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his
ill-luck, or rather his ill-conduct.
Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across
the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile
from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several
horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and
she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible.
He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the
faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses
behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were
at length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose
fears, joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits;
but she was now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her
in the softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting
Sophia, as soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility,
and with the highest satisfaction to herself, returned.
The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror,
consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two
parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered
again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got
the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the
other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and
had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange
lady in a most obliging tone, and said, "She was very happy to find
they were both travelling the same way." The other, who, like a ghost,
only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, "That the happiness
was entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country,
and was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she
had perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great
apology, in keeping pace with her." More civilities passed between
these two ladies; for Mrs. Honour had now given place to the fine
habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though
Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to
travel on through the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this
gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other
consideration, restrained her from asking the question.
The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears
almost below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been
blown from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor
could she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin.
When Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with
a handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from
her pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her
horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his
fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.
Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received
not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps
contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane
which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown
with trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light,
and was moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was
almost perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty,
which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her
limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received
no other harm than a little fright by her fall.
Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two
ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly
at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both
their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy
pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.
This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I
believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that
the strange lady could be no other than Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the cousin
of Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn
a few minutes after her.
So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins
conceived at this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate
acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their
aunt Western), that it is impossible to recount half the
congratulations which passed between them, before either asked a
very natural question of the other, namely, whither she was going?
This at last, however, came first from Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but, easy
and natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to
give it a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin
therefore to suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn,
"which I suppose," says she, "can hardly be far distant; and,
believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for,
indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty equal."
The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road
was, I apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that
between the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their
compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred
from the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and
the other obliged to bring up the rear.
In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a
wide and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon
brought them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted:
but so fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the
last five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable
of dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had
hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his
arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his
service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the
blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than
the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in
his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely
handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no
less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his
charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall;
for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock
given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising
from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the
bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what
we shall not here relate, for the indulgence of those readers who
are capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's
delicacy. Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical
light; nor will we scruple to say, that he must have a very inadequate
idea of the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to
sacrifice it to so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.
This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both
her mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent
constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to
totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no
sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs. Honour,
very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs. Honour that Sophia had not
been in bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very
pale and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh
herself with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her
apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the
same advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long
journey through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit,
that she was herself perfectly easy on that account.
Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her
friend, which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs. Fitzpatrick
likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much
complacence, accepted.
The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow
her example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail
for leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other
stopt her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and
desired the honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to
give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour.
So, after many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the
waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.
It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole
fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen,
post-boys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their
estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that
the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and
especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual
an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,
therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who
the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they
faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction.
On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished
it.
This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of
being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and
deeper into things than any man in the parish, the parson himself
not excepted. Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure
him this reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully
wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth;
which, indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly
assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment
he was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom,
he always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though sentences
were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay
ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words
with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the
head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his
hearers to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave
them a hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose.
This last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his
character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship
what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several
imposers on mankind have totally relied for the success of their
frauds.
This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her "what she
thought of the ladies lately arrived?" "Think of them?" said the wife,
"why, what should I think of them?" "I know," answered he, "what I
think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from
Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what
I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever
travel across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And
one of the maidservants, before she alighted from her horse, asked
if this was not the London road? Now I have put all these
circumstances together, and whom do you think I have found them out to
be?" "Nay," answered she, "you know I never pretend to guess at your
discoveries."-- "It is a good girl," replied he, chucking her under
the chin; "I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of
these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say- depend
upon it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say,
travel with the young Chevalier; and have taken a round-about way to
escape the duke's army."
"Husband," quoth the wife, "you have certainly hit it; for one of
them is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks
for all the world like one.-- But yet, when I consider one thing"--
"When you consider," cries the landlord contemptuously-- "Come, pray
let's hear what you consider."-- "Why, it is," answered the wife,
"that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our
Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my
dear, and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes
and stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give
her the trouble."
"Pugh!" answered the husband, "that is nothing. Dost think,
because you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons
below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when
they come before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion
when I see them- I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water
when she came in? Another sort of women would have called for a
dram; you know they would. If she be not a woman of very great
quality, sell me for a fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will
have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of her quality travel without a
footman, unless upon some such extraordinary occasion?" "Nay, to be
sure, husband," cries she, "you know these matters better than I, or
most folk." "I think I do know something," said he. "To be sure,"
answered the wife, "the poor little heart looked so piteous, when
she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a
compassion for her almost as much as if she had been a poor body.
But what's to be done, husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you
intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she's a sweet-tempered,
good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and I shall hardly refrain
from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded." "Pooh!" answered
the husband.-- "But, as to what's to be done, it is not so easy a
matter to determine. I hope, before she goes away, we shall have the
news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should get the better, she may
gain us interest at court, and make our fortunes without betraying
her." "Why, that's true," replied the wife; "and I heartily hope she
will have it in her power. Certainly she's a sweet good lady; it would
go horribly against me to have her come to any harm." "Pooh!" cries
the landlord, "women are always so tenderhearted. Why, you would not
harbour rebels, would you?" "No, certainly," answered the wife; "and
as for betraying her, come what will on't, nobody can blame us. It
is what anybody would do in our case."
While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the
reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in
debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the
opinion of his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the
duke the slip, and had got a day's march towards London; and soon
after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his
countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, "All's our own,
boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old
England for ever! ten thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap
away directly."
This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to
make his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he
said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron
herself.
3. CHAPTER III.
A very short chapter, in which however is a Sun, a Moon, a Star, and
an Angel
The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year)
had been some time retired to rest, when Sophia arose greatly
refreshed by her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her
extreme fatigue could have occasioned; for, though she had told her
maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was perfectly easy when she
left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that
malady which is attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever,
and is perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean (if they
mean anything) by the fever on the spirits.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having
summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a
very pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that
Sophia, might have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs. Honour of her
own accord attended (for her mistress would not suffer her to be
waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, who had performed the office of the morning-star, and had
preceded greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were
totally eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth.
Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this
instant. We ought not, therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for
her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire,
declared, and ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an
angel upon earth, she was now above-stairs.
Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London;
and Mrs. Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of
her husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or
to her aunt Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their
tea, than Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then shining
extremely bright, and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she
any of those apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt
at travelling by night; for she had, as we have before observed,
some little degree of natural courage; and this, her present
sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair, greatly encreased.
Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by the light
of the moon, she was the better emboldened to trust to it a third
time.
The disposition of Mrs. Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though
the greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her
husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton,
yet, being now arrived at a place where she thought herself safe
from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what operated
so strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till
the next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of
travelling by night.
Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither
laugh nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave
way to them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at
Upton, it might have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as
to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of
being overtaken by him; nay, to confess the truth, I believe wished
than feared it; though I might honestly enough have concealed this
wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous
emotions of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger.
When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in
their inn, they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know
what their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there
in the voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of
Sophia, that she ravished the landlady to the highest degree; and that
good woman, concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became
in a moment a stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young
Pretender's cause, from the great sweetness and affability with
which she had been treated by his supposed mistress.
The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal
curiosity; to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides
occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating
likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he is
desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter.
4. CHAPTER IV.
The history of Mrs. Fitzpatrick
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a
deep sigh, thus began:
"It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in
recollecting those periods of their lives which have been most
delightful to them. The remembrance of past pleasures affects us
with a kind of tender grief, like what we suffer for departed friends;
and the ideas of both may be said to haunt our imaginations.
"For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days
(the happiest far of my life) which we spent together, when both
were under the care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs
and Miss Giddy no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each
other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter appellation
with too much cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved
it. You, my Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I
heartily hope you will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the
wise and matronly advice you once gave me, when I lamented being
disappointed of a ball, though you could not be then fourteen years
old.- O my Sophy, how blest must have been my situation, when I could
think such a disappointment a misfortune; and when indeed it was the
greatest I had ever known!"
"And yet, my dear Harriet," answered Sophia, "it was then a
serious matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking,
that whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and
contemptible as a ball would at this time."
"Alas, my Sophia," replied the other lady, "you yourself will
think otherwise of my present situation; for greatly must that
tender heart be altered, if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh,
nay, many a tear, from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter
me from relating what I am convinced will so much affect you." Here
Mrs. Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia,
she thus proceeded:
"Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may
probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very
commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband;
which was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to
your father.
"Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr.
Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, dégagé, extremely
gallant, and in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was
unluckily to see him now, I could describe him no better than by
telling you he was the very reverse of everything which he is: for
he hath rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild
Irishman. But to proceed in my story: the qualifications which he then
possessed so well recommended him, that, though the people of
quality at that time lived separate from the rest of the company,
and excluded them from all their parties, Mr. Fitzpatrick found
means to gain admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid
him; for he required very little or no invitation; and as, being
handsome and genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to
ingratiate himself with the ladies, so, he having frequently drawn his
sword, the men did not care publickly to affront him. Had it not
been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon
expelled by his own sex; for surely he had no strict title to be
preferred to the English gentry; nor did they seem inclined to show
him any extraordinary favour. They all abused him behind his back,
which might probably proceed from envy; for the women he was well
received, and very particularly distinguished by them.
"My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always
lived about the court, was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever
means you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is
sufficient merit for you that you are there. This observation, young
as you was, you could scarce avoid making from my aunt, who was
free, or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or less of
this merit.
"And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended
Mr. Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he so well succeeded, that
he was always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in
returning such distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his
behaviour to her, that the scandal club first began to take notice
of it, and the better-disposed persons made a match between them.
For my own part, I confess, I made no doubt that his designs were
strictly honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her
fortune by way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young
enough nor handsome enough to attract much wicked inclination; but she
had matrimonial charms in great abundance.
"I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary
respect which he showed to myself from the first moment of our
acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if
possible, that disinclination which my interest might be supposed to
give me towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it had
that effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and
of all people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be
violently the enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was
greatly pleased; and the more so, as I was the only object of such
respect; for he behaved at the same time to many women of quality
without any respect at all.
"Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind
of behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness
and tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times,
indeed, whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his
usual loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in general
company, and with other women; for even in a country dance, when he
was not my partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look
imaginable the moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all things so
very particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have
discovered it. And, and, and--" "And you was more pleased still, my
dear Harriet," cries Sophia; "you need not be ashamed," she,
sighing; "for sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness,
which too many men are able to affect." "True," answered her cousin;
"men, who in all other instances want common sense, are very
Machiavels in the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.
Well, scandal now began to be as busy with me as it had before been
with my aunt; and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that
Mr. Fitzpatrick had an intrigue with us both.
"But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least
seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both
our behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the
eyes of an old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the
addresses which are made to them, that, like an outrageous glutton,
they are not at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the
same table. This I have observed in more cases than my own; and this
was so strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she often found us
together at her return from the pump, the least chanting word of
his, pretending impatience at her absence, effectually smothered all
suspicion. One artifice succeeded with her to admiration. This was his
treating me like a little child, and never calling me by any other
name in her presence but that of pretty miss. This indeed did him some
disservice with your humble servant; but I soon saw through it,
especially as in her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a
different manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a
conduct of which I had discovered the design, I smarted very
severely for it; for my aunt really conceived me to be what her
lover (as she thought him) called me, and treated me in all respects
as a perfect infant. To say the truth, I wonder she had not insisted
on my again wearing leading-strings.
"At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most
solemn manner, to disclose a secret which I had known long before.
He now placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my
account. He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she
had given him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in which
he had undergone her conversation.- What shall I tell you, my dear
Sophia?- Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I
was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to
rival so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did
not behave as I should do, even upon the very first declaration- I
wish I did not almost give him positive encouragement before we
parted.
"The Bath now talked loudly- I might almost say, roared against me.
Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much,
perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me
from a company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man.
And here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude to the kindness
intended me by Mr. Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me
advice, which if I had followed, I had been a happy woman. 'Child,'
says he, 'I am sorry to see the familiarity which subsists between you
and a fellow who is altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will
prove your ruin. As for your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no
injury to you and my pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his
words), I should be heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of
all that belongs to her. I never advise old women: for, if they take
it into their head to go to the devil, it is no more possible than
worth while to keep them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty
are worthy a better fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let
me advise you therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be
particular with you again.' Many more things he said to me, which I
have now forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at
that time; for inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I
could not be persuaded that women of quality would condescend to
familiarity with such a person as he described.
"But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many
minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married;
imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine
the maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination
will suggest to you no more than what really happened.
"The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing
Mr. Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one
else; for, though I am told she hath since denied everything
stoutly, I believe she was then a little confounded at her
disappointment. Since that time, I have written to her many letters,
but never could obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the
heavier, as she herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of
all my sufferings: for, had it not been under the colour of paying his
addresses to her, Mr. Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient
opportunities to have engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances,
I still flatter myself would not have been an easy conquest to such
a person. Indeed, I believe I should not have erred so grossly in my
choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I trusted totally to
the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man
for granted, whom I saw so universally well received by the women.
What is the reason, My dear, that we, who have understandings equal to
the wisest and greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of
the silliest fellows for companions and favourites? It raises my
indignation to the highest pitch, to reflect on the numbers of women
of sense who have been undone by fools." Here she paused a moment;
but, Sophia making no answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter.
5. CHAPTER V.
In which the history of Mrs. Fitzpatrick is continued
"We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding;
for as to any reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of
my fortune, not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of
which I now wanted more than two years. My husband, therefore, was
resolved to set out for Ireland; against which I remonstrated very
earnestly, and insisted on a promise which he had made me before our
marriage, that I should never take this journey against my consent;
and indeed I never intended to consent to it; nor will anybody, I
believe, blame me for that resolution; but this, however, I never
mentioned to my husband, and petitioned only for the reprieve of a
month; but he had fixed the day, and to that day he obstinately
adhered.
"The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point
with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his
chair, and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He
was hardly out of the house, when I saw a paper lying on the floor,
which, I suppose, he had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together
with his handkerchief. This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a
letter, I made no scruple to open and read it; and indeed I read it so
often, that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then was
the letter:
"To Mr. Brian Fitzpatrick.
"SIR,
"Yours received, and am surprized you should use me in this
manner, as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one
linsey-woolsey coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider,
sir, how often you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be
married to this lady and t' other lady; but I can neither live on
hopes or promises, nor will my woollen-draper take any such in
payment. You tell me you are secure of having either the aunt or the
niece, and that you might have married the aunt before this, whose
jointure you say is immense, but that you prefer the niece on
account of her ready money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for
once, and marry the first you can get. You will pardon my offering
my advice, as you know I sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you
per next post, in favour of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at
fourteen days, which doubt not your honouring, and am,
"Sir, your humble servant,
"SAM COSGRAVE."
"This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl- guess how
this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her
ready money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could
with pleasure have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount
my frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears
before his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in
my swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a
long time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he
said, 'I hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things;
for the coach will be ready by six in the morning.' My patience was
totally subdued by this provocation, and I answered, 'No, sir, there
is a letter still remains unpacked;' and then throwing it on the
table, I fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I
could invent.
"Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him, I cannot say;
but, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on
this occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the
most gentle means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I
principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He
owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that
preference which he had given to myself, but denied with many oaths
the having assigned any such reason. And he excused the having
mentioned any such matter at all, on account of the straits he was
in for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his
estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to
discover to me, was the only reason of his having so strenuously
insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing
expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many violent
protestations of love.
"There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it,
had much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word
jointure in the taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been
married, and this Mr. Fitzpatrick well knew.-- As I imagined,
therefore, that the fellow must have inserted this of his own head,
or from hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on
that odious line on no better authority. What reasoning was this, my
dear? was I not an advocate rather than a judge?- But why do I mention
such a circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of
my forgiveness?- In short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much,
half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on
me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our
setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little more
than a week arrived at the seat of Mr. Fitzpatrick.
"Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which
past during our journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to
travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.
"This seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of
those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could
describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been
formerly inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the
less room on account of the furniture; for indeed there was very
little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and
greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us
at the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me unintelligible,
welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy
and melancholy, that it threw my spirits into the lowest dejection;
which my husband discerning, instead of relieving, encreased by two or
three malicious observations. 'There are good houses, madam,' says he,
'as you find, in other places besides England; but perhaps you had
rather be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.'
"Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a
cheerful good-natured companion to support and comfort her! But why do
I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my
companion, far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon
convinced me that I must have been wretched with him in any place, and
in any condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character
perhaps you have never seen; for, indeed, no woman ever sees it
exemplified but in a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though
you have a father, he is not of that character. This surly fellow
had formerly appeared to me the very reverse, and so he did still to
every other person. Good heaven! how is it possible for a man to
maintain a constant lie in his appearance abroad and in company, and
to content himself with shewing disagreeable truth only at home? Here,
my dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which
they put on their tempers in the world; for I have observed, the
more merry and gay and good-humoured my husband hath at any time
been in company, the more sullen and morose he was sure to become at
our next private meeting. How shall I describe his barbarity? To my
fondness he was cold and insensible. My little comical ways, which
you, my Sophy, and which others, have called so agreeable, he
treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he sung and
whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable, he was
angry, and abused me; for, though he was never pleased with my
good-humour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in him, yet my low
spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to my repentance
of having (as he said) married an Irishman.
"You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I
really forgot myself), that, when a woman makes an imprudent match
in the sense of the world, that is, when she not an arrant
prostitute to pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some
inclination and affection for her man. You will as easily believe that
this affection may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you,
contempt will wholly eradicate it. This contempt I now began to
entertain for my husband, whom I now discovered to be- I must use the
expression- an arrant blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not
make this discovery long before; but women will suggest a thousand
excuses to themselves for the folly of those they like: besides,
give me leave to tell you, it requires a most penetrating eye to
discern a fool through the disguises of gaiety and good breeding.
"It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband,
as I confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his
company; and indeed I had the happiness of being very little
troubled with it; for our house was now most elegantly furnished,
our cellars well stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great
abundance. As my gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with
great hospitality, so his neighbours resorted to him with great
alacrity; and sports and drinking consumed so much of his time, that a
small part of his conversation, that is to say, of his ill-humours,
fell to my share.
"Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided
all other disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some
which constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of
being relieved from them. These companions were my own racking
thoughts, which plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In
this situation I past through a scene, the horrors of which can
neither be painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you can,
to yourself, what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the
man I scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and
miseries of a lying-in (ten times more painful in such a
circumstance than the worst labour can be when one endures it for a
man one loves) in a desert, or rather, indeed, a scene of riot and
revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without any of
those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps
sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings of our sex at that
season."
6. CHAPTER VI.
In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful
consternation
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative, when she was
interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of
Sophia; for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety,
and left her no appetite but what Mrs. Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by
her relation.
The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the
same respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on
had the ladies arrived in a coach and six.
The married lady seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than
was her cousin; for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter
could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and
sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having
observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted,
saying, "Perhaps all may yet end better than either you or I expect."
Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth,
and was resolved not to omit it. "I am sorry, madam," cries he,
"that your ladyship can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after
so long fasting. I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything,
for, as madam there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A
gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps
some folks who have given other folks the slip may get to London
before they are overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they
will find people who will be very ready to receive them."
All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they
see and hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore
immediately concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was
known, and pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost
consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of the power of
speech; which she no sooner recovered, than she desired the landlord
to send his servants out of the room, and then, addressing herself
to him, said, "I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech
you- nay, I am convinced, if you have any compassion or goodness, you
will not betray us."
"I betray your ladyship!" quoth the landlord; "no (and then he swore
several very hearty oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten thousand
pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my life
yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your
ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it
will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife
can witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into
the house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your
horse, and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's
service to the grave; but what signified that, as long as I saved your
ladyship? To be sure some people this morning would have thought of
getting a reward; but no such thought ever entered into my head. I
would sooner starve than take any reward for betraying your ladyship."
"I promise you, sir," says Sophia, "if it be ever in my power to
reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity."
"Alack-a-day, madam!" answered the landlord; "in your ladyship's
power! Heaven put it as much into your will! I am only afraid your
honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your
ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I
refused- refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it
may be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be
sure you might have been in some houses;- but, for my part, I would
not, methinks, for the world have your ladyship wrong me so much as to
imagine I ever thought of betraying you, even before I heard the
good news."
"What news, pray?" says Sophia, something eagerly.
"Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?" cries the landlord; "nay,
like enough, for I heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I had never
heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would
have betrayed your honour! no, if I would, may I-" Here he subjoined
several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted, and
begged to know what he meant by the news.- He was going to answer,
when Mrs. Honour came running into the room, all pale and breathless,
and cried out, "Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they are come,
they are come!" These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but
Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked Honour who were come? "Who?" answered she,
"why, the French; several hundred thousands of them are landed, and we
shall be all murdered and ravished."
As a miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value
twenty shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of
a fire, turns pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the
beautiful palaces only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he
comes instantly to himself, and smiles at his good fortunes: or as
(for we dislike something in the former simile) the tender mother,
when terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is
drowned, is struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but
when she is told that little master is safe, and the Victory only,
with twelve hundred brave men, gone to the bottom, life and sense
again return, maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all
its fears, and the general benevolence which at another time would
have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in her
mind; so Sophia, than whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling
the general calamity of her country, found such immediate satisfaction
from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken by her
father, that the arrival of the French scarce made any impression on
her. She gently chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown
her, and said "she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared
somebody else was come."
"Ay, ay," quoth the landlord, smiling, "her ladyship knows better
things; she knows the French are our very best friends, and come
over hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make Old
England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was
coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to
tell your ladyship the news.- His honour's majesty, Heaven bless him,
hath given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to
London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road."
Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the
gentleman who related it; but, as she still imagined he knew her
(for she could not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she
durst not show any dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the
cloth from the table, withdrew; but at his departure frequently
repeated his hopes of being remembered hereafter.
The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of
being known at this house; for she still applied to herself many
things which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she
therefore ordered her maid to pump out of him by what means he had
become acquainted with her person, and who had offered him the
reward for betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in
readiness by four in the morning, at which hour Mrs. Fitzpatrick
promised to bear her company; and then, composing herself as well as
she could, she desired that lady to continue her story.
7. CHAPTER VII.
In which Mrs. Fitzpatrick concludes her history
While Mrs. Honour, in pursuance of commands of her mistress, ordered
a bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to partake of
it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.
"Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our
neighbourhood were of my husband's acquaintance. Among these there was
a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a
woman, so agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our
first knowing each other, which was soon after my lying-in, we were
almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to make
myself equally agreeable to her.
"The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was
frequently of our parties; indeed he was very little with my
husband, and no more than good breeding constrained him to be, as he
lived almost constantly at our house. My husband often expressed
much dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to his;
he was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty
curse for drawing away his companions; saying, 'I ought to be d--n'd
for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by
making a milksop of him.'
"You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger
of my husband arose from my depriving him of a companion; for the
lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be
pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little
right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that
I am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever
to come to the house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most
rancorous kind of envy, the envy of superiority of understanding.
The wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his,
by a man of whom he could not entertain the least jealousy. O my
dear Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a man, as is most
probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent
trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to
submit to such a superiority.- Promise me, Sophy, you will take this
advice; for you will hereafter find its importance." "It is very
likely I shall never marry at all," answered Sophia; "I think, at
least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any
defects before marriage; and I promise you I would rather give up my
own than see any such afterwards." "Give up your understanding!"
replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "oh, fie, child! I will not believe so
meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up;
but never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the
wife in so many instances, if she had intended we should all of us
have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of sense never
expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one
notable example; for though he had a very good understanding, he
always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better.
And this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.
"Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially
such an ugly b-- (for, indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very
agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon
earth at the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said,
he wondered what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company:
since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your
beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could
not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country;
and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way;
for the ladies there are at least no better than the mere country
ladies here; and I think I need make no other excuse to you for
declining any intimacy with them.
"This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all
the while the lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was
contented to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner
above mentioned by my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he
was frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin, and once made a
journey of two months to London: in all which journeys I thought it
a very singular happiness that he never once desired my company;
nay, by his frequent censures on men who could not travel, as he
phrased it, without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently
intimated that, had I been never so desirous of accompanying him, my
wishes would have been in vain; but, Heaven knows, such wishes were
very far from my thoughts.
"At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my
solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections,
and to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day
long.- How many books you think I read in three months?" "I can't
guess, indeed, cousin," answered Sophia. "Perhaps half a score." "Half
a score! half a thousand, child!" answered the other. "I read a good
deal in Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's
Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the
Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.
"During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I
thought, moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to
any of them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my
application." Here she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia,
said, "Methinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which
reproaches me of a neglect in another place, where I should have met
with a kinder return." "Indeed, dear Harriet," answered Sophia,
"your story is an apology for any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that
I have been guilty of a remissness, without so good an excuse.- Yet
pray proceed; for I long, though I tremble, to hear the end."
Thus, then, Mrs. Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:- "My husband
now took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of
three months; during the greater part of this time I led a life
which nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable;
for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind, like
mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate.
What added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not
that I pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which
I believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I
resolved, in every instance, to discharge the duty of the tenderest
mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that
heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie heavy on our
hands.
"I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen
nobody all that time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when
a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of
Ireland to visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and
then I gave her a pressing invitation to return; for she was a very
agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper
education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest.
"A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits,
without enquiring the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the
young lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, 'Though
politeness had prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations
of his behaviour, yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt
great concern upon that account; but none more than herself.' And
after some more general discourse on this head, which I own I could
not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution and
enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound
secret- that my husband kept a mistress.
"You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost
insensibility- Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead
you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that
hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this?
Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at others
having possession even of what we despise? or are we not rather
abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our
vanity? What think you, Sophia?"
"I don't know, indeed," answered Sophia; "I have never troubled
myself with any of these deep contemplations; but I think the lady did
very ill in communicating to you such a secret."
"And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural," replied Mrs.
Fitzpatrick; "and, when you have seen and read as much as myself,
you will acknowledge it to be so."
"I am sorry to hear it is natural," returned Sophia; "for I want
neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very
dishonourable and very ill-natured: nay, it is surely as ill-bred to
tell a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them
of their own."
"Well," continued Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "my husband at last returned;
and, if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him
now more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly
nothing so much weakens our contempt, as an injury done to our pride
or our vanity.
"He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he
had lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behaviour the first week
of our marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he
might, possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though
hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of
it, love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is
too restless to remain contented, without the gratification which it
receives from its object; and one can no more be inclined to love
without loving, than we can have eyes without seeing. When a
husband, therefore, ceases to be the object of this passion, it is
most probable some other man- I say, my dear, if your husband grows
indifferent to you- if you once come to despise him- I say- that is-
if you have the passion of love in you- Lud! I have bewildered myself
so- but one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose the
concatenation of ideas, as Mr. Locke says:- in short, the truth is- in
short, I scarce know what it is; but, as I was saying, my husband
returned, and his behaviour, at first, greatly surprized me; but he
soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me to account for it.
In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of my
fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was
now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by
selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do without my
assistance; and to obtain this favour, was the whole and sole motive
of all the fondness which he now put on.
"With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I
told him truly, that, had I been possessed of the Indies at our
first marriage, he might have commanded it all; for it had been a
constant maxim with me, that where a woman disposes of her heart,
she should always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind,
long ago, to restore the former into my possession, I was resolved
likewise to retain what little remained of the latter.
"I will not describe to you the passion into which these words,
and the resolute air in which they were spoken, threw him: nor will
I trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out
came, you may be well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it
did come, with all the embellishments which anger and disdain could
bestow upon it.
"Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more
confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused
enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate
himself; but took a method which almost equally confounded me. What
was this but recrimination? He affected to be jealous:-- he may, for
aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper:
nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have put it
into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my
character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure
my reputation. My fame, I thank heaven, hath been always as spotless
as my life; and let falsehood itself accuse that, if it dare. No, my
dear Graveairs, however provoked, however ill-treated, however injured
in my love, I have firmly resolved never to give the least room for
censure on this account.- And yet, my dear, there are some people so
malicious, some tongues so venomous, that no innocence can escape
them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look, the least
familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and
magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear
Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you,
ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all
that.- But where was I? O let me see, I told you my husband was
jealous- And of whom, I pray?- Why, of whom but the lieutenant I
mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a year and
more back, to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if,
indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit, in
order to abuse me.
"But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will
now bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short, then,
after many scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin
engaged so heartily on my side, that Mr. Fitzpatrick at last turned
her out of doors; when he found I was neither to be soothed nor
bullied into compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps
you will conclude he beat me; but this, though he hath approached very
near to it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room,
without suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a
servant every day made my bed, and brought me my food.
"When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a
visit, and, with the voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much
the same, of a tyrant, asked me, 'If I would yet comply?' I
answered, very stoutly, 'That I would die first.' 'Then so you
shall, and be d--n'd!' cries he; 'for you shall never go alive out of
this room.'
"Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my
constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission;
when, one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for
some short time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an
accident happened.- I- at a time when I began to give way to the
utmost despair-- everything would be excusable at such a time- at that
very time I received-- But it would take up an hour to tell you all
particulars.- In one word, then (for I will not tire you with
circumstances), gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my
door, and set me at liberty.
"I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procurred a passage
to England; and was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself
into the protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any
relation who would afford it me. My husband overtook me last night
at the inn where I lay, and which you left a few minutes before me;
but I had the good luck to escape him, and to follow you.
"And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it
is to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologise to you for its
dulness."
Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, "Indeed, Harriet, I pity
you from my soul!-- But what could you expect? Why, why, would you
marry an Irishman?"
"Upon my word," replied her cousin, "your censure is unjust. There
are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any among the
English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather
more common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good
husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask
me, rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell
you a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so."- "Can no man," said
Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, "do you think, make a bad
husband, who is not a fool?" "That," answered the other, "is too
general a negative; but none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to
prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the worst
husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of sense
rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well."
8. CHAPTER VIII.
A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an unexpected
friend of Mrs. Fitzpatrick
Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related- not what follows,
but what hath gone before in this history: for which reason the reader
will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.
One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative,
namely, that she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning
to the end, than if there had been no such person alive. This I will
neither endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be
called a kind of dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the
apparent openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady.- But so
it was.
Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived
in the room where the two ladies were sitting a noise, not unlike,
in loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their
kennel; nor, in shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to
screech owls; or, indeed, more like (for what animal can resemble a
human voice?) to those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of
that gate which seems to derive its name from a duplicity of
tongues, issue from the mouths, and sometimes from the nostrils, of
those fair river nymphs, ycleped of old the Naiades; in the vulgar
tongue translated oyster-wenches; for when, instead of the antient
libations of milk and honey and oil, the rich distillation from the
juniper-berry, or, perhaps, from malt, hath, by the early devotion
of their votaries, been poured forth in great abundance, should any
daring tongue with unhallowed license prophane, i.e., depreciate,
the delicate fat Milton oyster, the plaice sound and firm, the
flounder as much alive as when in the water, the shrimp as big as a
prawn, the fine cod alive but a few hours ago, or any other of the
various treasures which those water-deities who fish the sea and
rivers have committed to the care of the nymphs, the angry Naiades
lift up their immortal voices, and the prophane wretch is struck
deaf for his impiety.
Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below;
and soon the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to
approach nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs,
it at last entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to
drop all metaphor and figure, Mrs. Honour, having scolded violently
below-stairs, and continued the same all the way up, came in to her
mistress in a most outrageous passion, crying out, "What doth your
ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the
master of this house, hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand
it out to my face, that your ladyship is that nasty, stinking wh-re
(Jenny Cameron they call her), that runs about the country with the
Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy villain had the assurance to tell me,
that your ladyship had owned yourself to be so; but I have clawed
the rascal; I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My
lady! says I, you saucy scoundrel; my lady is meat for no
pretenders. She is a young lady of as good fashion, and family, and
fortune, as any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great
Squire Western, sirrah? She is his only daughter; she is--, and
heiress to all his great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch
wh-re by such a varlet!- To be sure I wish I had knocked his brains
out with the punchbowl."
The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this
occasion, Honour had herself caused, by having in her passion
discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord
sufficiently accounted for those passages which Sophia had before
mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account; nor could she,
upon the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour, and she cries,
"Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship would have made a
laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an impudent low
rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know, for
taking your part, since proffered service, they say, stinks; but to be
sure I could never bear to hear a lady mine called whore.- Nor will I
bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat
foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes out who
dares for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the
contrary. Nobody ever could say the least ill of the character of
any lady that ever I waited upon."
Hinc illæ lachrymæ: in plain truth, Honour had as much love for
her mistress as most servants have, that is to say- But besides this,
her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she
waited on; for she thought her own was in a very close manner
connected with it. In proportion as the character of her mistress
was raised, hers likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it;
and, on the contrary, she thought the one could not be lowered without
the other.
On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story.
The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day, from a house where she had
made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her
footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his
mistress the reason of his being in that condition, answered, "I
have been fighting, madam, with an impudent rascal who called your
ladyship a wh-re." "You blockhead," replied Mrs. Gwynn, "at this
rate you must fight every day of your life; why, you fool, all the
world knows it." "Do they?" cries the fellow, in a muttering voice,
after he had shut the coachdoor, "they shan't call me a whore's
footman for all that."
Thus the passion of Mrs. Honour appears natural enough, even if it
were to be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was
another cause of her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind
our reader of a circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There
are indeed certain liquors, which, being applied to our passions, or
to fire, produce effects the very reverse of those produced by
water, as they serve to kindle and inflame, rather than to extinguish.
Among these, the generous liquor called punch is one. It was not,
therefore, without reason, that the learned Dr. Cheney used to call
drinking punch pouring liquid fire down your throat.
Now, Mrs. Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire
down her throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her
pericranium, and blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed
to keep her residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily
reached the heart, and there inflamed the noble passion of pride. So
that, upon the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage
of the waiting-woman; though at first sight we must confess the
cause seems inadequate to the effect.
Sophia, and her cousin both, did all in their power to extinguish
these flames, which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at
length prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the
fire, having consumed all the fuel which the language affords, to wit,
every reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.
But, though tranquillity was restored abovestairs, it was not so
below; where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the
beauty of her husband by the flesh-spades of Mrs. Honour, called aloud
for revenge and justice. As to the poor man, who had principally
suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the
blood which he lost might have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not
only applied her nails to his cheeks, but likewise her fist to his
nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood in great
abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake; but indeed
nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as the manner in
which he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour of Mrs.
Honour, it had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was now
assured by a person of great figure, and who was attended by a great
equipage, that one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his
intimate acquaintance.
By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and
acquainted our fair travellers that a great gentleman below desired to
do them the honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled
at this message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil,
notwithstanding the landlord's blunder, to have come from her
father; but fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace, and is
apt to conclude hastily from every slight circumstance, without
examining the evidence on both sides.
To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his
apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer had arrived
very late that evening at the inn, in his way to London. This
nobleman, having sallied from his supper at the hurricane before
commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and upon a
short enquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very
particularly acquainted, was above. This information he had no
sooner received, than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified
him, and sent him upstairs with compliments rather civiller than those
which were delivered.
It may perhaps be wondered at, that the waiting-woman herself was
not the messenger employed on this occasion; but we are sorry to say
she was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other
office. The rum (for so the landlord chose to call the distillation
from malt) had basely taken the advantage of the fatigue which the
poor woman had undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her
noble faculties, at a time when they were very unable to resist the
attack.
We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we
thought ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity which we
profess, shortly to hint a matter which we would otherwise have been
glad to have spared. Many historians, indeed, for want of this
integrity, or of diligence, to say no worse, often leave the reader to
find out these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to
his great confusion and perplexity.
Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of
the noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady.
To say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been enabled to
escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same gallant
disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic
story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was
indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often
exercised by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the
other sex, as ever knighterrant was to the barbarous power of
enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those
very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds, were in reality
no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was,
perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be
confined.
This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and
had been for sometime acquainted with the lady. No sooner,
therefore, did he hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied
himself to procure her liberty; which he presently effected, not by
storming the castle, according to the example of antient heroes, but
by corrupting the governor, in conformity with the modern art of
war, in which craft is held to be preferable to valour, and gold is
found to be more irresistible than either lead or steel.
This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material
enough to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to
the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition
that she had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary,
perhaps supernatural means, had possessed herself of the money with
which she had bribed her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by
giving a hint of what seemed to her of too little importance to be
mentioned.
The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing
some surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor could he
refrain from telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs.
Fitzpatrick very freely answered, "That she had been prevented in
her purpose by the arrival of a person she need not mention. In
short," says she, "I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not
affect to conceal what the world knows too well already). I had the
good fortune to escape in a most surprizing manner, and am now going
to London with this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and
who hath escaped from as great a tyrant as my own."
His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband,
made a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of
invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique
glances at the matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust
powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more
meritorious part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of
his protection, and of his coach and six, which was instantly accepted
by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her persuasions, by Sophia.
Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the
ladies retired to rest, where Mrs. Fitzpatrick entertained her
cousin with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peer,
and enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for his wife;
saying, she believed he was almost the only person of high rank who
was entirely constant to the marriage bed. "Indeed," added she, "my
dear Sophy, that is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never
expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will
certainly be deceived."
A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps
contributed to form a dream of no very pleasant kind; but, as she
never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to
see it related here.
9. CHAPTER IX.
The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stage-coach. The
civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of Sophia. Her
generosity.
The return to it. The departure of the company, and their arrival at
London; with some remarks for the use of travellers
Those members of society, who are born to furnish the blessings of
life, now began to light their candles, in order to pursue their daily
labours, for the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings.
The sturdy hind now attends the levee of his fellow-labourer the ox;
the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from their hard
mattress; and now the bonny housemaid begins to repair the
disordered drum-room, while the riotous authors of that disorder, in
broken interrupted slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the hardness of
down disquieted their repose.
In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven, than the
ladies were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his
lordship and his equipage were prepared to attend them.
And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his
lordship himself should be conveyed; for though in stage-coaches,
where passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the
ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place
of four; for well he contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed
alderman, may take up no more room than the slim miss, or taper
master; it being the nature of guts, when well squeezed, to give
way, and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in these vehicles, which
are called, for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they
are often larger than the others, this method of packing is never
attempted.
His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very
gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by
no means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails
should, by turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship's
horses, which was presently equipped with a side-saddle for that
purpose.
Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their
former guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to
repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on
account of what he had suffered under the hands of her enraged
waiting-woman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her
some uneasiness; and this was of the hundred-pound bank-bill which her
father had given her at their last meeting; and which, within a very
inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present
worth. She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things
to no purpose, the bill was not to be found: and she was at last fully
persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the
misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before
recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she now recollected
some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time,
and the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her
handkerchief the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the
distress of Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be
attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is
any strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore,
though nothing could be worse timed than this accident at such a
season, immediately got the better of her concern, and, with her
wonted serenity and cheerfulness of countenance, returned to her
company. His lordship conducted the ladies into the vehicle, as he did
likewise Mrs. Honour, who, after many civilities, and more dear
madams, at last yielded to the well-bred importunities of her sister
Abigail, and submitted to be complimented with the first ride in the
coach; in which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to
have pursued her whole journey, had not her mistress, after several
fruitless intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on
horseback.
The coach, now having received its company, began to move
forwards, attended by many servants, and led by two captains, who
had before rode with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed
from the vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of
accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as gentlemen; but
they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman,
or indeed would have condescended lower, for the honour of his
lordship's company, and for the convenience of his table.
My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from
Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his
scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the
quantum of this present; but we cannot satisfy his curiosity.
Whatever it was, it
satisfied the landlord for his bodily hurt; but he lamented he had not
known before how little the lady valued her money; "For to be sure,"
says he, "one might have charged every article double, and she would
have made no cavil at the reckoning."
His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she
really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I
will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the
generosity of Sophia. "Indeed," cries she, "my dear, the lady knows
better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might very
well think we should not put up such a business without some
satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite deal more
than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take." "You are
always so bloodily wise," quoth the husband: "it would have cost her
more, would it? dost fancy I don't know that as well as thee? but
would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets?
Indeed, if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad
to have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a
good picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer,
and why should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?" "Nay, to
be sure," answered she, "you must know best." "I believe do,"
replied he. "I fancy, when money is to be got, I can smell it out as
well as another. Everybody, let me tell you, would not have talked
people out of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not have cajoled
this out of her, mind that." The wife then joined in the applause of
her husband's sagacity; and thus ended the short dialogue between them
on this occasion.
We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend
his lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition
that they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on
the second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any
one adventure on the road worthy the dignity of this history to
relate. Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it
describes, and our history shall keep pace with the travellers who are
its subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the
ingenious traveller in this instance, who always proportions his
stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which
it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's
Park, days are too short for the ravished imagination; while we admire
the wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of these, art
chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend
for our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph.
Here Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the
modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature
indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on
this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which
can be exceeded only in the other.
The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in
these elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note.
The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the
eye of the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he
afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of
Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from
Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in
sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in
compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions
to our prospect.
Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious
justice, the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the
numerous offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal
pace, through the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their
horses measuring four miles and a half per hour with the utmost
exactness; the eyes of the beast and of his master being alike
directed forwards, and employed in contemplating the same objects in
the same manner. With equal rapture the good rider surveys the
proudest boasts of the architect, and those fair buildings with
which some unknown name hath adorned the rich cloathing town; where
heaps of bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to show that
heaps of money have been piled there before.
And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will
leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and
to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly
able to perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this
occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper assistance in
difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use
the arts of divination to discover our meaning, yet we shall not
indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is
required; for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we
intended, when we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing
to do; or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be
able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to
thyself.
10. CHAPTER X.
Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more
concerning suspicion
Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his
lordship's house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the
fatigue of their journey, servants were despatched to provide a
lodging for the two ladies; for, as her ladyship was not then in town,
Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to accept a bed in the
mansion of the peer.
Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy,
as I may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must
make allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been
very ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues,
we must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right
side, and which every woman who is in the self-same situation will
do well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is
only an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations,
seem to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this
formality; but it will, however, be always more commended; and this, I
believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in
some very particular cases, for every woman to support either the
one or the other.
A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that
evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady
into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had
determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And
this she was the more eager in doing, from some observations she had
made during her journey in the coach.
Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion
on Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits
which filled her mind concerning Mrs. Fitzpatrick; of whom she
certainly entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are
very apt to enter into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think
proper not to mention more plainly, till we have first suggested a
word or two to our reader touching suspicion in general.
Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The
first of these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme
velocity of its discernment seems to denote some previous inward
impulse, and the rather as this superlative degree often forms its own
objects; sees what is not, and always more than really exists. This is
that quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil
can escape; which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the
words and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart of the
observer, so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies
evil, as it were, in the first embryo; nay, sometimes before it can be
said to be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible;
but, as this degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one
mortal being; so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have
arisen many sad mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches to innocence
and virtue. I cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast
quick-sightedness into evil as a vicious excess, and as a very
pernicious evil in itself. And I am the more inclined to this opinion,
as I am afraid it always proceeds from a bad heart, for the reasons
I have above mentioned, and for one more, namely, because I never knew
it the property of a good one. Now, from this degree of suspicion I
entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.
A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This
is, indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your
eyes, and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of
these is unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is
perhaps no less certain and necessary a consequence of our having
any brains. This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the
former is to innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even
though, through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken.
For instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in
the lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who
profess the art of cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame
him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the
familiarities which he really had seen, and which we are at least
favourable enough to, when we call them innocent freedoms. The
reader will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I
shall add but one more, which, however unchristian it may be thought
by some, I cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and
this is a suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done
already, and that it is possible for one who hath been a villain
once to act the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this
degree of suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of
suspicion she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was
really not better than she should be.
The case, it seems, was this: Mrs. Fitzpatrick wisely considered
that the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same
situation with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures
abroad, to meet its enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No
sooner therefore was she determined to take the first opportunity of
quitting the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast
herself under the protection of some other man; and whom could she
so properly chuse to be her guardian as a person of quality, of
fortune, of honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which
inclines men to knighterrantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies
in distress, had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and
had already given her all the instances of it in his power?
But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of
vice-husband, or guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to
denominate him by a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded
that his lordship should perform all such kind offices to the lady
in secret, and without publickly assuming the character of her
protector. Nay, to prevent any other person from seeing him in this
light, it was agreed that the lady should proceed directly to Bath,
and that his lordship should first go to London, and thence should
go down to that place by the advice of his physicians.
Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or
behaviour of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely
less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and
perhaps the exact secrecy which Mrs. Fitzpatrick had observed on
this head in her narrative, served not a little to heighten those
suspicions which were now risen in the mind of her cousin.
Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there
was not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well
known; and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most
pressing invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
indeed, did not desire her cousin to stay with her with more
earnestness than civility required. Whether she had discerned and
resented the suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other motive it
arose, I cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of
parting with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of going.
The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not
avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for
heaven's sake, to care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous
a situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of
reconciling her to her husband. "You must remember, my dear," says
she, "the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us
both; that whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war
declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a
disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my
aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in
the world." Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile,
"Never fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than
I. I will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me
give you one piece of advice; leave the character of Graveairs in
the country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in
this town."
Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady
Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite,
welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her
formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see
her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her
to leave the squire and to fly to London, than she highly applauded
her sense and resolution; and after expressing the highest
satisfaction in the opinion which Sophia had declared she
entertained of her ladyship, by chusing her house for an asylum, she
promised her all the protection which it was in her power to give.
As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I
apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a
little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we
have left long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as
is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him
themselves.