BOOK XIV
CONTAINING TWO DAYS
1. CHAPTER I.
An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having
some knowledge of the subject on which he writes
As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of
genius only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps without
being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the
republic of letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately
begun to assert, that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a
writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural
sprightliness and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed
down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise
it would be able to reach.
This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far:
for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The
nimbleness of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being
taught to move; nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools
the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot
conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if,
instead of being masters of all the learning their times, they had
been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I
believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could
have produced those orations that have made the senate of England,
in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had
not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to
have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their
spirit, their knowledge too.
I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of
learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to
the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is,
I conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least
of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Bysshe's Art of
Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second,
a moderate heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection
of political journals.
To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some
little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the
old maxim of law, Quam quisque norit artem in ea se
exerceat. With
this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed,
without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in
little stead.
For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and
Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have
clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art
of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have
equalled the excellent treatise which Mr. Essex hath given us on
that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And,
indeed, should the excellent Mr. Broughton be prevailed on to set fist
to paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down
the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will
have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either
antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.
To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to
come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why
many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners
of upper life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of
it.
This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to
arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will
the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the
former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms
himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.
Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported.
Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as
unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a
rout, or a drum, in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short,
imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be after
Nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by
conversation, and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to
be known.
Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be
seen, like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the
streets, shops, and coffee-house; nor are they shown, like the upper
rank of animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to
which no persons are admitted without one or other of these
qualifications, viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is
equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a gamester. And, very
unluckily for the world, persons so qualified very seldom care
to take upon themselves the bad trade of writing; which is generally
entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many
think requires no kind of stock to set up with.
Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and
brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and
ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their
clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the
galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life, than the
centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to
let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very
necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a
writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels, which, like
this I am writing, is of the comic class.
What Mr. Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this
station, who are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation,
that they have no character at all, at least, none which appears. I
will venture to say the highest life is much the dullest, and
affords very little humour or entertainment. The various callings in
lower spheres produce the great variety of humorous characters;
whereas here, except among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of
ambition, and the fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is
vanity and servile imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking,
bowing and courtesying, make up the business of their lives.
Some there are, however, of this rank, upon whom passion exercises
its tryanny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum
prescribes; of these, the ladies are as much distinguished by their
noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from
the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is
by the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of
a yeoman or shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character;
but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the
general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them
as such. They might as well suppose that every clergyman was
represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.
There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally
prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some
ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these
times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love
intrigue carried on among persons of condition, than now. Our
present women have been taught by their mothers to fix their
thoughts only on ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures
of love as unworthy their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of
such mothers, married without having husbands, they seem pretty well
confirmed in the justness of those sentiments; whence they content
themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more
innocent, but I am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention
of which would ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble
opinion, the true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather
folly than vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of
frivolous.
2. CHAPTER II.
Containing letters and other matters which attend amours
Jones had not been long at home, before he received the following
letter:-
"I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When
you left the room, I little imagined you intended to have left the
house without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and
convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon
an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning
more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood
not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the
assurance, the-- what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she
knows you, or ever saw you before.-- Was this a scheme laid between
you, and have you been base enough to betray me?-- O how I despise
her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for-- I dare not
write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can
detest as violently as I have loved."
Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter,
before a second was brought him from the same hand; and this,
likewise, we shall set down in the precise words.
"When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ,
you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.- Yet,
perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would,
if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the
impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my appointment.-- How
easy is it to think well of those we love!-- Perhaps you desire I
should think so. I have resolved to see you to-night; so come to me
immediately.
"P.S.- I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.
"P.S.- Mr. Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence; for
I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to
impose on myself.
"P.S.- Come immediately."
To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the
angry or the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones.
Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits
that evening, unless to one single person. However, he thought his
honour engaged, and had not this been motive sufficient, he would
not have ventured to blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame
of which he had reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared
the consequence might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded.
After some discontented walks, therefore, about the room, he was
preparing to depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by
another letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very
disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and
threw herself into a chair, where, having recovered her breath, she
said- "You see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they
will stop at none. If any person would have sworn this to me a week
ago, I would not have believed it of myself." "I hope, madam," said
Jones, "my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe
anything against one who is so sensible of the many obligations she
hath conferred upon him." "Indeed!" says she, "sensible of
obligations! Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr.
Jones?" "Pardon me, my dear angel," said he, "if, after the letters
I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how I
have deserved it"-- "And have I then," says she, with a smile, "so
angry a countenance?- Have I really brought a chiding face with me?"-
"If there be honour in man," said he, "I have done nothing to merit
your anger.- You remember the appointment you sent me; I went in
pursuance"- "I beseech you," cried she, "do not run through the
odious recital.- Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy.
Have you not betrayed my honour to her?"- Jones fell upon his knees,
and began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came
dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk with joy, crying
out, "She's found! she's found!- Here, sir, here, she's here- Mrs.
Honour is upon the stairs." "Stop her a moment," cries Jones- "Here,
madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor closet, nor place
on earth to hide you in; sure never so damned an accident."- "D--n'd
indeed!" said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and
presently afterwards in came Mrs. Honour. "Hey-day!" says she, "Mr.
Jones, what's the matter?- That impudent rascal your servant would
scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath not the same reason to
keep me from you as he had at Upton.- I suppose you hardly expected
to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear young
lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own sister.
Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her a good husband! and to
be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you." Jones
begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the
next room. "A lady!" cries she; "ay, I suppose one of your ladies.- O
Mr. Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I believe we are
got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston, I darst to say, is
no better than she should be."- "Hush! hush!" cries Jones, every word
is overheard in the next room."- "I don't care a farthing," cries
Honour, "I speaks no scandal of any one; but to be sure the servants
make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets men at another
place- where the house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but
her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing besides, they
say, she hath of her."- Here Jones, after expressing the utmost
uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:- "Hey-day! why sure, Mr.
Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says
what I heard from others- and thinks I to myself, much good may it do
the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked
manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest." "The
servants are villains," cries Jones, "and abuse their lady
unjustly."- "Ay, to be sure, servants are always villains, and so my
lady says, and won't hear a word of it."- "No, I am convinced," says
Jones, "my Sophia is above listening to such base scandal."- "Nay, I
believe it is no scandal, neither," cries Honour, "for why should
she meet men at another house?- It can never be for any good: for if
she had a lawful design of being courted, as to be sure any lady may
lawfully give her company to men upon that account: why, where can
be the sense?"- "I protest," cries Jones, "I can't hear all this of a
lady of such honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will
distract the poor lady in the next room.- Let me entreat you to walk
with me down stairs."- "Nay, sir, if you won't let me speak, I have
done.- Here, sir, is a letter from my young lady- what would some men
give to have this? But, Mr. Jones, I think you are not over and
above generous, and yet I have heard some servants say-- but I am sure
you will do me the justice to own I never saw the colour of your
money." Here Jones hastily took the letter, and presently after
slipped five pieces into her hand. He then returned a thousand
thanks to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her to leave him to
read her letter: she presently departed, not without expressing much
grateful sense of his generosity.
Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I
describe her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but
streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might,
for her heart was all in a flame. And now, as soon as her voice
found way, instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her
own servants, she began to attack poor Jones. "You see," said she,
"what I have sacrificed to you; my reputation, my honour- gone for
ever! And what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a
country girl, for an idiot."- "What neglect, madam, or what slight,"
cries Jones, "have I been guilty of?"- "Mr. Jones," said she, "it is
in vain to dissemble; if you will make me easy, you must entirely give
her up; and as a proof of your intention, show me the letter."- "What
letter, madam?" said Jones. "Nay, surely," said she, "you cannot
have the confidence to deny your having received a letter by the hands
of that trollop."-"And can your ladyship," cries he, "ask of me what I
must part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner
by your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent
girl to you, what security could you have that I should not act the
same part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince
you, that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be
the most contemptible of wretches."-"Very well," said she- "I need
not insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own
opinion; for the inside of the letter could inform me of nothing
more than I know already. I see the footing you are upon."- Here
ensued a long conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious,
will thank me for not inserting at length. It shall suffice,
therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more
pacified, and at length believed, or affected to believe, his
protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that evening was merely
accidental, and every other matter which the reader already knows, and
which as Jones set before her in the strongest light, it is plain that
she had in reality no reason to be angry with him.
She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his
refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason,
when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed,
well convinced that Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's
affections; and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she
submitted at last to bear the second place; or, to express it more
properly in a legal phrase, was contented with the possession of
that of which another woman had the reversion.
It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at
the house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would
place these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself
would be considered as the person imposed upon.
This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones,
who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any
rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the
imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could not possibly
discover to her for his own sake.
The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after
proper ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.
3. CHAPTER III.
Containing various matters
Jones was no sooner alone, than he eagerly broke open his letter,
and read as follows:-
"Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you left
this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming here
again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she tells me
she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by all the
regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for it will
certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some things which
have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already without some
suspicion. Something favourable, perhaps, may happen; we must wait
with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have any concern
for my ease, do not think of returning hither."
This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones,
which Job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing
all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he
was reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston;
for there are some certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do
very difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after
the strict prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any
human power. At length, after much deliberation, which during that
night supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself
sick: for this suggested itself as the only means of failing the
appointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more
than one reason of desiring to avoid.
The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write
an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then
despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned
excuse; and to this he soon received the following answer:-
"I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more
concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have
the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.- I am so
tormented all this morning with that I have scarce a moment's time to
write to you. Adieu.
"P.S.- I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.- Be
sure to be alone."
Mr. Jones now received a visit from Mrs. Miller, who, after some
formal introduction, began the following speech:- "I am very sorry,
sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will
consider the ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of
my poor girls, if my house should once be talked of as a house of
ill-fame. I hope you won't think me, therefore, guilty of
impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any more ladies in at that
time of night. The clock had struck two before one of them went
away."- "I do assure you, madam," said Jones, "the lady who was here
last night, and who staid the latest (for the other only brought me a
letter), is a woman of very great fashion, and my near relation."- "I
don't know what fashion she is of," answered Mrs. Miller; "but I am
sure no woman of virtue, unless a very near relation indeed, would
visit a young gentleman at ten at night, and stay four hours in his
room with him alone; besides, sir, the behaviour of her chairmen shows
what she was; for they did nothing but make jests all the evening in
the entry, and asked Mr. Partridge, in the hearing of my own maid, if
madam intended to stay with his master all night; with a great deal of
stuff not proper to be repeated. I have really a great respect for
you, Mr. Jones, upon your own account; nay, I have a very high
obligation to you for your generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I did not
know how very good you had been till lately. Little did I imagine to
what dreadful courses the poor man's distress had driven him. Little
did I think, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you had given them
to a highwayman! O heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you
preserved this family!- The character which Mr. Allworthy hath
formerly given me of you was, I find, strictly true.- And indeed, if I
had no obligation to you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his
account, I should show you the utmost respect in my power.- Nay,
believe me, dear Mr. Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation
were out of the case, I should, for your own sake, be sorry that so
pretty a young gentleman should converse with these women; but if
you are resolved to do it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for
I do not myself like to have such things carried on under my roof; but
more especially upon the account of my girls, who have little,
heaven knows, besides their characters, to recommend them." Jones
started and changed colour at the name of Allworthy. "Indeed, Mrs.
Miller," answered he, a little warmly, "I do not take this at all
kind. I will never bring any slander on your house; but I must
insist on seeing what company I please in my own room; and if that
gives you any offence, I shall, as soon as I am able, look for another
lodging."- "I am sorry we must part then, sir," said she; "but I am
convinced Mr. Allworthy himself would never come within my doors, if
he had the least suspicion of my keeping an ill house."- "Very well,
madam," said Jones.- "I hope, sir," said she, "you are not angry; for
I would not for the world offend any of Mr. Allworthy's family. I have
not slept a wink all night about this matter."- "I am sorry I have
disturbed your rest, madam," said Jones, "but I beg you will send
Partridge up to me immediately"; which she promised to do, and then
with a very low courtesy retired.
As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most
outrageous manner. "How often," said he, "am I to suffer for your
folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours
resolved upon my destruction?" "What have I done, sir?" answered
affrighted Partridge. "Who was it gave you authority to mention the
story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?"
"I, sir?" cries Partridge. "Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in
denying it," said Jones. "If I did mention such a matter," answers
Partridge, "I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have
opened my lips, if it had not been to his own friends and relations,
who, I imagined, would have let it go no farther." "But I have a
much heavier charge against you," cries Jones, "than this. How durst
you, after all the precautions I gave you, mention the name of Mr.
Allworthy in this house?" Partridge denied that he ever had, with many
oaths. "How else," said Jones, "should Mrs. Miller be acquainted
that there was any connexion between him and me? And it is but this
moment she told me she respected me on his account." "O Lord, sir,"
said Partridge, "I desire only to be heard out; and to be sure,
never was anything so unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own
how wrongfully you have accused me. When Mrs. Honour came downstairs
last night, she met me in the entry, and asked me when my master had
heard from Mr. Allworthy; and to be sure Mrs. Miller heard the very
words; and the moment Madam Honour was gone, she called me into the
parlour to her. 'Mr. Partridge,' says she, 'what Mr. Allworthy is it
that the gentlewoman mentioned? is it the great Mr. Allworthy of
Somersetshire?' 'Upon my word, madam,' says I, 'I know nothing of
the matter.' 'Sure,' says she, 'your master is not the Mr. Jones I
have heard Mr. Allworthy talk of?' 'Upon my word, madam,' says I, 'I
know nothing of the matter.' 'Then,' says she, turning to her daughter
Nancy, says she, 'as sure as tenpence this is the very young
gentleman, and he agrees exactly with the squire's description.' The
Lord above knows who it was told her: for I am the arrantest villain
that ever walked upon two legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I
promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when I am desired. Nay, sir,
so far was I from telling her anything about Mr. Allworthy, that I
told her the very direct contrary; for, though I did not contradict it
at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they say, are best, so when I
came to consider that somebody must have informed her, thinks I to
myself, I will put an end to the story; and so I went back again
into the parlour some time afterwards, and says I, upon my word,
says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman was Mr. Jones;
that is, says I, that this Mr. Jones was that Mr. Jones, told you a
confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention any such
matter, says I; for my master, says I, will think I must have told you
so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned any such
word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have been
thinking with myself ever since, how it was she came to know it; not
but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who
looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that
mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old woman
without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for
all the world shall never persuade me but that they have a great power
to do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old woman again,
but I shall think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare
dolorem."
The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final
end to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his
mind; and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he
intended presently to leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go
and endeavour to get him others.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of
both sexes
Partridge had no sooner left Mr. Jones, than Mr. Nightingale, with
whom he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a
short salutation, said, "So, Tom, I hear you had company very late
last night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been
in town above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door
till two in the morning." He then ran on with much commonplace
raillery of the same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying,
"I suppose you have received all this information from Mrs. Miller,
who hath been up here a little while ago to give me warning. The
good woman is afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters."
"Oh! she is wonderfully nice," says Nightingale, "upon that account;
if you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the
masquerade." "Nay, upon my honour, I think she's in the right of
it," says Jones: "however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent
Partridge to look for another lodging." "If you will," says
Nightingale, "we may, I believe, be again together; for, to tell you a
secret, which I desire you won't mention in the family, I intend to
quit the house to-day." "What, hath Mrs. Miller given you warning too,
my friend?" cries Jones. "No," answered the other; "but the rooms
are not convenient enough. Besides, I am grown weary of this part of
the town. I want to be nearer the places of diversion; so I am going
to Pall-mall." "And do you intend to make a secret of your going
away?" said Jones. "I promise you," answered Nightingale, "I don't
intend to bilk my lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking
a formal leave." "Not so private," answered Jones; "I promise you, I
have seen it ever since the second day of my coming to the house. Here
will be some wet eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her,
faith! Indeed, Jack, you have played the fool with that girl. You have
given her a longing, which I am afraid nothing will ever cure her of."
Nightingale answered, "What the devil would you have me do? would
you have me marry her to cure her?" "No," answered Jones, "I would not
have had you make love to her, as you have often done in my
presence. I have been astonished at the blindness of her mother in
never seeing it." "Pugh, see it!" cries Nightingale. "What the devil
should she see?" "Why, see," said Jones, "that you have made her
daughter distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal
it a moment; her eyes are never off from you, and she always colours
every time you come into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for
she seems to be one of the best-natured and honestest of human
creatures." "And so," answered Nightingale, "according to your
doctrine, one must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with
women, for fear they should fall in love with us." "Indeed, Jack,"
said Jones, "you wilfully misunderstand me; I do not fancy women are
so apt to fall in love; but you have gone far beyond common
gallantries." "What, do you suppose," says Nightingale, "that we
have been a-bed together?" "No, upon my honour," answered Jones, very
seriously, "I do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will go farther,
I do not imagine you have laid a regular premeditated scheme for the
destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even
foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou are a very good-natured
fellow, and such a one can never be guilty of a cruelty of that
kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own vanity, without
considering that this poor girl was made a sacrifice to it; and
while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour, you have
actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the most
serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly; to
what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of
happiness arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm
professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did you
imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you
intend she should?" "Upon my soul, Tom," cries Nightingale, "I did not
think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I
suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?"
"No," cries Jones, "may I be d--n'd if I would." "Tom, Tom," answered
Nightingale, "last night; remember last night--
When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,
And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft."
"Lookee, Mr. Nightingale," said Jones, "I am no canting hypocrite,
nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my neighbours. I
have been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I
have ever injured any.- Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself,
be knowingly the cause of misery to any human being."
"Well, well," said Nightingale, "I believe you, and I am convinced
you acquit me of any such thing."
"I do, from my heart," answered Jones, "of having debauched the
girl, but not from having gained her affections."
"If I have," said Nightingale, "I am sorry for it; but time and
absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I must
take myself; for, to confess the truth to you- I never liked any girl
half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole
secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I
never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my
addresses to her."
At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when
Nightingale cried- "Nay, prithee, don't turn me into ridicule. The
devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy!
Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession."
"I heartily wish you had," cries Jones; "for, if this be the case, I
sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't intend to go away
without taking your leave of her?"
"I would not," answered Nightingale, "undergo the pain of taking
leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead of
answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor
Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it
to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart."
Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he
thought, as he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took
the most prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very
glad to lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly
agreed between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the
ground floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman
himself was to occupy that which was between them.
This Nightingale, of whom, we shall be presently obliged to say a
little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of
strict honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the
town, one of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was
somewhat loose in his morals; not that he was even here as void of
principle as gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it
is certain he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women,
and had, in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many
deceits, which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted
the greatest villain upon earth.
But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this
treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his
iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often
boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their
hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from
Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to
the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they
ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be
cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and
tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a
man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.
5. CHAPTER V.
A short account of the history of Mrs. Miller
Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to
say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon, he
received an invitation from Mrs. Miller to drink tea; for that good
woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other
means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr.
Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an
angry manner.
Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the teakettle
removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without
much preface, began as follows: "Well, there are very surprizing
things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful
business that I should have a relation of Mr. Allworthy in my house
and never know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine
what a friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes,
sir, I am not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I
did not long since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches,
two destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to
the cruelty, of the world.
"You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by
letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was
an officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he
lived up to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his
death, became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good
luck to die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take
the second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother
of this lady had been a servant to my grandmother; and, having
inherited a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by
pawnbroking, was married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion.
She used my sister so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth
and poverty, calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she
at length broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise
died within a twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to
provide better for me, and within a month from his decease I was
married to a clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before,
and who had been very ill used by my father on that account: for
though my poor father could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred
us up as delicately, considered us, and would have had us consider
ourselves, as highly as if we had been the richest heiresses. But my
dear husband forgot all this usage, and the moment we were become
fatherless, he immediately renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that
I, who always liked, and now more than ever esteemed him, soon
complied. Five years did I live in a state of perfect happiness with
that best of men, till at last- Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever
separated us, that deprived me of the kindest of husbands and my
poor girls of the tenderest parent.- O my poor girls! you never know
the blessing which ye lost.-I am ashamed, Mr. Jones, of this
womanish weakness; but I shall never mention him without tears." "I
ought rather, madam," said Jones, "to be ashamed that I do not
accompany you." "Well, sir," continued she, "I was now left a second
time in a much worse condition than before; besides the terrible
affliction I was to encounter, I had now two children to provide
for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than ever; when that
great, that good, that glorious man, Mr. Allworthy, who had some
little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my
distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it
is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I
must and will read it to you.
"MADAM,
"'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which
your own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt
from the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any
advice which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you,
whom I have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any
immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your
duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your
tenderness.
"'However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of much
worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a person to
wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg you will
accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe me to be,
madam, etc.'"
"This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the
irreparable loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight
afterwards, Mr. Allworthy- the blessed Mr. Allworthy- came to pay me a
visit, when he placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me
a large sum of money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50
a-year upon me, which I have constantly received ever since. Judge,
then, Mr. Jones, in what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I
owe the preservation of my life, and of those dear children, for whose
sake alone my life is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me
impertinent, Mr. Jones (since I must esteem one for whom I know Mr.
Allworthy hath so much value), if I beg you not to converse with these
wicked women. You are a young gentleman, and do not know half their
artful wiles. Do not be angry with me, sir, for what I said upon
account of my house; you must be sensible it would be the ruin of my
poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you cannot but be acquainted, that
Mr. Allworthy himself would never forgive my conniving at such
matters, and particularly with you."
"Upon my word, madam," said Jones, "you need make no farther
apology; nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but
give me leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr.
Allworthy, to deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would
not be altogether for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of
his."
"Alas! sir," answered she, "I know you are not, I know very well who
you are; for Mr. Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you,
had you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more
regard for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need
not be ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person
will esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr. Jones, the words
'dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to
say, unless the word 'dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for
the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they
are intirely innocent."
Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, "Since I perceive,
madam, you really do know me, and Mr. Allworthy hath thought proper to
mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as
to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more
circumstances concerning myself." And these Mrs. Miller having
expressed great desire and curiosity to hear, he began and related
to her his whole history, without once mentioning the name of Sophia.
There a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they
give an easy credit to each other. Mrs. Miller believed all which
Jones told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for
him. She was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones
interrupted her; for, as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he
began to stipulate for a second interview with the lady that
evening, which he promised should be the last at her house;
swearing, at the same time, that she was one of great distinction, and
that nothing but what was intirely innocent was to pass between
them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep his word.
Mrs. Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his
chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston
appeared.
As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones,
and as it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may
perhaps wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she
apprehended him to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship
seems most to require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the
lady, may, by some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our
fault; for our business is only to record truth.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers
Mr. Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the
night; not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being
disappointed by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of
his waking hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present
cause of dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is
called compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character
from that noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were,
within himself, and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through
the world without being once stopped by the calamities which happen to
others. He could not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of
poor Nancy, whose love for Mr. Nightingale seemed to him so
apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her mother, who
had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the great
change in the temper of her daughter, "who from being," she said, "one
of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden,
become all gloom and melancholy."
Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and
now as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and
an offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.- To
speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr. Jones slept till eleven
the next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, "That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that Miss
Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were
both crying and lamenting over her." Jones expressed much concern at
this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by saying, with a
smile, "He fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for
that Susan" (which was the name of the maid) "had given him to
understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In short,"
said he, "Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother;
that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat down to
dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the
Foundling Hospital."-- "Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting," cries
Jones. "Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of mirth? Go
immediately to Mrs. Miller, and tell her I beg leave- Stay, you will
make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to breakfast
with her." He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he could; and
while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe rebukes,
could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of brutality, commonly
called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than he
walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by
the maid, into the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as
it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs. Miller was in the inner
room with her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to
Mr. Jones, "That her mistress hoped he would excuse the
disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it impossible
for her to have the pleasure of his company at breakfast that day; and
begged his pardon for not sending him up notice sooner." Jones
desired, "She would give herself no trouble about anything so trifling
as his disappointment; that he was heartily sorry for the occasion;
and that if he could be of any service to her, she might command him."
He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs. Miller, who heard them
all, suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood
of tears, said, "O Mr. Jones! you are certainly one of the best
young men alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of
your service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my
poor girl.-O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined
forever!" "I hope, madam," said Jones, "no villain"-- "O Mr. Jones!"
said she, "that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath
betrayed my poor girl; hath destroyed her.- I know you are a man of
honour. You have a good-a noble heart, Mr. Jones. The actions to which
I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell
you all: nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to
keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath
undone my daughter. She is- she is is- oh! Mr. Jones, my girl is with
child by him; and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here!
here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if
such another monster lives."
The letter was as follows:
"DEAR NANCY,
"As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this method
to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately paying my
addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath provided for my-I
need not write the detested word. Your own good understanding will
make you sensible, how intirely I am obliged to an obedience, by which
I shall be forever excluded from your dear arms. The fondness of
your mother may encourage you to trust her with the unhappy
consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a secret from the
world, and for which I will take care to provide, as I will for you. I
wish you may feel less on this account than I have suffered; but
summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and forgive and forget
the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain ruin could have
forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I mean only as a
lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in your faithful,
though unhappy,
J. N."
When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: "I cannot
express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let
me beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider
the reputation of your daughter."-- "It is gone, it is lost, Mr.
Jones," cryed she, "as well as her innocence. She received the letter
in a room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening
it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
myself outlive any accident of that nature.- What then will become of
my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little
wretch will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she
sees her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the
cause. O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
barbarous, cruel-- hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
lose one or both in such a manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Jones,
with tears in his eyes, "I pity you from my soul."- "O! Mr. Jones,"
answered she, "even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can
have no idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful
of children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of
my eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to
those foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her
ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had
for her. I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my
foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so
much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often
in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by
the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he hath
always directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed
to be real. Could I have believed that these were only snares laid
to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?"- At
these words little Betsy came running into the room, crying, "Dear
mamma, for heaven's sake come to my sister; for she is in another fit,
and my cousin can't hold her." Mrs. Miller immediately obeyed the
summons; but first ordered Betsy to stay with Mr. Jones, and begged
him to entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic
voice, "Good heaven! let me preserve one of my children at least."
Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to
comfort the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very
highly affected with Mrs. Miller's story. He told her "Her sister
would be soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she
would not only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too."
"Indeed, sir," says she, "I would not do anything to hurt them for the
world. I would burst my heart rather than they should see me
cry.- But my poor sister can't see me cry.- I am afraid she will never
be able to see me cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her;
indeed I can't.- And then poor mamma too, what will become of
her?- She says she will die too, and leave me: but I am resolved I
won't be left behind." "And are you not afraid to die, my little
Betsy?" said Jones. "Yes," answered she, "I was always afraid to
die; because I must have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not
afraid of going anywhere with those I love."
Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the
child; and soon after Mrs. Miller returned, saying, "She thanked
heaven, Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy," says she, "you
may go in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you." She
then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having
disappointed him of his breakfast.
"I hope, madam," said Jones, "I shall have a more exquisite repast
than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be
the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But
whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt
it. I am very much deceived in Mr. Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the
bottom, as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this
be the case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will
affect him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy,
as well as you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr. Nightingale;
and I hope to bring you good news."
Mrs. Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of
heaven upon Mr. Jones; to which she afterwards added the most
passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr.
Nightingale, and the good woman returned to comfort her daughter,
who was somewhat cheared at what her mother told her; and both
joined in resounding the praises of Mr. Jones.
7. CHAPTER VII.
The interview between Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale
The good or evil we confer on others, very often, I believe, recoils
on ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own
acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there
are scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of
doing injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin
which they bring on their fellow creatures.
Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,
Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,
and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed
poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear, than he arose
hastily to meet him; and after much congratulation said, "Nothing
could be more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more
in the spleen in my life."
"I am sorry," answered Jones, "that I bring news very unlikely to
relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you
the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further
preface, then, I come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy family,
which you have involved in misery and ruin." Mr. Nightingale changed
colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded,
in the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the
reader was acquainted in the last chapter.
Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he
discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was
concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, "What you tell me,
my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so
cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her
reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have
remained a profound secret; and then the girl might have gone off
never the worse; for many such things happen in this town: and if
the husband should suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be
his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his wife and
the world."
"Indeed, my friend," answered Jones, "this could not have been the
case with your poor Nancy. You have so intirely gained her affections,
that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which
afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her
family." "Nay, for that matter, I promise you," cries Nightingale,
"she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to
be, will have very little share in them." "And is it possible,
then," said Jones, "you can think of deserting her?" "Why, what can
I do?" answered the other. "Ask Miss Nancy," replied Jones warmly. "In
the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she
ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest
alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if
you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less," cries Jones,
"than fulfil the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I
sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you
together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have
favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for those poor
creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether you
have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as
well as the daughter, into an opinion, that you designed honourably:
and if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in
the case, I will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are
bound to proceed."
"Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted," said
Nightingale; "but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I
have given." "And can you, after owning that," said Jones, "hesitate a
moment?" "Consider, my friend," answered the other; "I know you are
a man of honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules;
if there were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her
disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?" "Undoubtedly,"
replied Jones, "and the very best and truest honour, which is
goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,
you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of
having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,
and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her
innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful
occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being?
Can you, with honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both
the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the
thought, that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless,
young woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies
for you; who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and
to that confidence hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her?
Can honour support such contemplations as these a moment?"
"Common sense, indeed," said Nightingale, "warrants all you say; but
yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that,
was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever
showing my face again."
"Fie upon it, Mr. Nightingale!" said Jones, "do not call her by so
ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her, she became your
wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And
what is this world, which you would be ashamed to face, but the
vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a
shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false
honour as its shadow.- But I am well assured there is not a man of
real sense and goodness in the world, who would not honour and applaud
the action. But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my
friend, applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which
we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous,
benevolent action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved
praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On
the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the
arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking
heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than
accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to
your imagination the circumstance of her fond despairing parent,
driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely
daughter. View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind
hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause
of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On
the other side, consider yourself, as relieving them from their
temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that
lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to
her pale cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her
tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness
of all. Think of this little family made by one act of yours
completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in
my friend, if it requires any long deliberation, whether he will
sink these wretches down for ever, or, by one generous, noble
resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the
highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration
more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do- That the
misery from which you will relieve these poor people, is the misery
which you yourself have wilfully brought upon them."
"O, my dear friend!" cries Nightingale, "I wanted not your eloquence
to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly
give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed
between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion
before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which
hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no
inclinations to consult but my own, I would marry her to-morrow
morning: I would, by heaven! but you will easily imagine how
impossible it would be to prevail on my father to consent to such a
match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and to-morrow, by his
express command, I am to wait on the lady."
"I have not the honour to know your father," said Jones; "but,
suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the
only means of preserving these poor people?" "As eagerly as I would
pursue my happiness," answered Nightingale: "for I never shall find it
in any other woman.- O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have
felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she
would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if
I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them:
could my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be
wanting to compleat my own happiness, or that of my Nancy."
"Then I am resolved to undertake it," said Jones. "You must not be
angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this
affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid
from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once
they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any
fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless
immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a
manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If
you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I
will not lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you
cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor
girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given
of the wretchedness of the family."
Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having
acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where
he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,
"My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew
my father, you would never think of obtaining his consent.-- Stay,
there is one way- suppose you told him I was already married, it might
be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my
honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my
Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be
the consequence."
Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They
then separated, Nightingale, to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of
the old gentleman.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
What passed between Jones and old Mr. Nightingale; with the
arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history
Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies
the divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same
purpose; Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of
them, expressly holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are
some incidents in life so very strange and unaccountable, that it
seems to require more than human skill and foresight in producing
them.
Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr.
Nightingale the elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she
was really worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have
contrived such another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of
the young lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for
many hours; and the latter was just now gone, and had left the
former delighted with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long
contention, which had been between the two fathers of the future bride
and bridegroom; in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and,
as it not rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully
satisfied of having obtained the victory.
This gentleman, whom Mr. Jones now visited, was what they call a man
of the world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this
world as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved
to make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to
trade; but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had lately
declined his business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from
dealing in goods, to dealing only in money, of which he had always a
plentiful fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to
make a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of
private men, and sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed
conversed so intirely with money, that it may be almost doubted
whether he imagined there was any other thing really existing in the
world; this at least may be certainly averred, that he firmly believed
nothing else to have any real value.
The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled
out a more improper person for Mr. Jones to attack with any
probability of success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed
this attack at a more unseasonable time.
As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts,
so the moment he saw a stranger within his doors, it immediately
occurred to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to
bring him money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or
other of these thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or
unfavourable idea of the person who approached him.
Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at
present; for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with
a bill from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first
sight of Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones
therefore had no sooner told him that he was come on his son's
account, than the old gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion,
burst forth into an exclamation, "That he would lose his labour."
"Is it then possible, sir," answered Jones, "that you can guess my
business?" "If I do guess it," replied the other, "I repeat again to
you, you will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one of those
sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery,
which will be his destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I
promise you. I expect he will quit all such company for the future. If
I had imagined otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him;
for I would be instrumental in the ruin of nobody." "How, sir," said
Jones, "and was this lady of your providing?" "Pray, sir," answered
the old gentleman, "how comes it to be any concern of yours?"- "Nay,
dear sir," replied Jones, "be not offended that I interest myself in
what regards your son's happiness, for whom I have so great an
honour and value. It was upon that very account I came to wait upon
you. I can't express the satisfaction you have given me by what you
say; for I do assure you, your son is a person for whom I have the
highest honour.- Nay, sir, it is not easy to express the esteem I
have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent
to provide such a match for your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will
make him one of the happiest men upon earth."
There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good
liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when
once those apprehensions begin to vanish, we soon forget the fears
which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our
present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.
Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones
had no demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased
with his presence. "Pray, good sir," said he, "be pleased to sit down.
I do not remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you
before; but if you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say
concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her
making him happy, it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have
discharged my duty, in taking care of the main article. She will bring
him a fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man,
happy." "Undoubtedly" cries Jones, "for she is in herself a fortune;
so beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she
is indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and
hath a most delicate hand at the harpsichord." "I did not know any
of these matters," answered the old gentleman, "for I never saw the
lady: but I do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am
the better pleased with her father for not laying any stress on
these qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof
of his understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these
articles as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he
never mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no
disparagements to a woman." "I do assure you, sir," cries Jones,
"she hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I
was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less
inclined to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the
lady; therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to
conjure you, as you value the happiness of your son, not to be
averse to his match with a woman who hath not only all the good
qualities I have mentioned, but many more."- "If that was your
business, sir," said the old gentleman, "we are both obliged to you;
and you may be perfectly easy; for I give you my word I was very
well satisfied with her fortune." "Sir," answered Jones, "I honour you
every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very
moderate on that account, is a proof of the soundness of your
understanding, as well as the nobleness of your mind."--"Not so very
moderate, young gentleman, not so very moderate," answered the
father.-- "Still more and more noble," replied Jones; "and give me
leave to add, sensible: for sure it is little less than madness to
consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. Such a woman as
this with her little, her nothing of a fortune"- "I find," cries the
old gentleman, "you have a pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or
else you are better acquainted with the person of the lady than with
her circumstances. Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to
have?" "What fortune?" cries Jones, "why, too contemptible a one to be
named for your son."- "Well, well, well," said the other, "perhaps he
might have done better."- "That I deny," said Jones, "for she is one
of the best of women."- "Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean,"
answered the other. "And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine
your friend is to have?"- "How much?" cries Jones, "how much? Why, at
the utmost, perhaps £200." "Do you mean to banter me, young
gentleman?" said the father, a little angry. "No, upon my soul,"
answered Jones, "I am in earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the
utmost farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I ask her pardon."
"Indeed you do," cries the father; "I am certain she hath fifty times
that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before I consent that
she shall marry my son." "Nay," said Jones, "it is too late to talk of
consent now; if she had not fifty farthings, your son is married."-
"My son married!" answered the old gentleman, with surprize. "Nay,"
said Jones, "I thought you was unacquainted with it." "My son married
to Miss Harris!" answered he again. "To Miss Harris!" said Jones; "no,
sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house
he lodged; a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let
lodgings-"- "Are you bantering, or are you in earnest?" cries the
father, with a most solemn voice. "Indeed, sir," answered Jones, "I
scorn the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious
earnest, imagining, as I find true, that your son had never dared to
acquaint you with a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune,
though the reputation of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a
secret."
While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a
gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.
But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they
were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The
brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he
no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate
with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he
married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who,
though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself
to his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a
very large share.
With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life
more resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden
age, than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present
times. By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at
maturity, except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and
his wife had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness
and fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had
actually refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a
little turned of forty, because she could not bring herself to part
with her parents.
The young lady whom Mr. Nightingale had intended for his son was a
near neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and
in reality it was upon the account of his projected match, that he was
now come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother
from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew;
for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris,
notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person
nor mind seemed to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity: for she
was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and
very ill-natured.
His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his
nephew with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction;
and when the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and
pronounced sentence of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the
following manner:
"If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you
love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I
suppose, and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is
his happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.
"Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always
appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very
tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless,
an error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in
the affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends intirely on the
affection which subsists between the parties.
"I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to
desire to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force
affection is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor
force, that I know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable
perverseness in our natures, it may not be even impatient of
persuasion.
"It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think,
wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in
strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,
therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been
guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a
little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on
this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where
there was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your
present anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed
in his duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority, when
you absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his
knowledge, whom you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen
and known as well as I, it must have been madness in you to have
ever thought of bringing her into your family?
"Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an
unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a
matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in
which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and
will acknowledge, that you consulted his interest only, and if he
unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his
notion of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry
him still wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences
of his simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain
misery to him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother,
because he hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances
as affluent as you would, will you distress them as much as you can?"
By the force of the true Catholic faith, St. Anthony won upon the
fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms
of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but
neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance
of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed
over habitual avarice.
Mr. Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his
brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always
differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their
children. "I wish," said he, "brother, you would have confined your
care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my
son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by
your example." For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had
lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had
often declared, he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.
Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after
much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more
irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his
nephew at the house of Mrs. Miller.
9. CHAPTER IX.
Containing strange matters
At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of
affairs greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure.
The mother, the two daughters, and young Mr. Nightingale, were now sat
down to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire,
introduced without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he
was well known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that
house.
The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and
wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other
sister; and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with
the same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his
equal or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first
performed.
Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked
rather foolish than otherwise upon this occasion; but Mrs. Miller took
the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones
into the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most
passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of
her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing
appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest
benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.
After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she
declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded
to inform Mr. Jones that all matters were settled between Mr.
Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the
next morning; at which Mr. Jones having expressed much pleasure, the
poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he
at length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return
with him back to the company, whom they found in the same good
humour in which they had left them.
This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours
together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his
bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not
drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr. Nightingale, taking
the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately
occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:-
"As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and
as you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this
match, which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I
should never forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in
anything." He then confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.
"How, Jack?" said the old gentleman, "and are you really then not
married to this young woman?" "No, upon my honour," answered
Nightingale, "I have told you the simple truth." "My dear boy,"
cries the uncle, kissing him, "I am heartily glad to hear it. I
never was better pleased in my life. If you had been married, I should
have assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best
of a bad matter; but there is a great difference between considering a
thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet
to do. Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this
match in so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no
need of any dissuasive arguments." "How, sir?" replies young
Nightingale, "is there this difference between having already done
an act, and being in honour engaged to do it?" "Pugh!" said the uncle,
"honour is a creature of the world's making, and the world hath the
power of a creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they
please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are
thought; even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a
day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you
his sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who
would be more backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in
these engagements." "Pardon me, dear sir," cries Nightingale, "I can
never think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity,
are concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint
the young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should
look upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the
cruellest of all methods, by breaking her heart." "Break her heart,
indeed! no, no, Jack," cries the uncle, "the hearts of women are not
so soon broke; they are tough, boy, they are tough." "But, sir,"
answered Nightingale, "my own affections are engaged, and I never
could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say,
that children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and
that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?" "Why, ay," replied the
old gentleman, "so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
wisely.- Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl."-- "Indeed,
uncle," cries the other, "I must and will have her." "You will,
young gentleman!" said the uncle; "I did not expect such a word from
you. I should not wonder if you had used such language to your father,
who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance
which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with
you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I
know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous
education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,
now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything
without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her."
"You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,"
said Nightingale; "for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she
would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in
abandoning her inclinations." "Don't abuse my girl," answered the
old gentleman with some emotion; "don't abuse my Harriet. I have
brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By
suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit
of being pleased to do whatever I like." Pardon me, sir," said
Nightingale, "I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin, for
whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will
never put her to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her
as you would do on me.- But, dear sir, let us return to the company;
for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one
favour of my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to
shock the poor girl or her mother." "Oh! you need not fear me,"
answered he, "I understand myself too well to affront women; so I will
readily grant you that favour; and in return I must expect another
of you." "There are but few of your commands, sir," said
Nightingale, "which I shall not very chearfully obey." "Nay, sir, I
ask nothing," said the uncle, "but the honour of your company home
to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with
you; for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving
my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in
his opinion, is the wisest man in the world."
Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself
with the same decorum which he had before maintained.
10. CHAPTER X.
A short chapter, which concludes the book
The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some
disquiet in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the
more, as, during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than
once elevated his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though
they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some evil
foreboding in Nancy and her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones
himself.
When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a
visible alteration in all their faces; and the good humour which, at
their last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance,
was now changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change,
indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to
clouds, from June to December.
This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present;
for as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts,
and to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene
to be spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any
symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or
daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the
counterfeit satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young
one.
Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the
whole attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is
to act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.
Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried
off his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.
Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He
did indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a
proceeding, that it could be accounted for only by imagining that
young Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent
openness of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too
probable.
While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint
these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed
him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.-- He went
immediately out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his
visitant upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs. Honour, acquainted him
with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately
lost all consideration for every other person; and his whole stock
of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own
misery, and on that of his unfortunate angel.
What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.