BOOK XVI
CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS
1. CHAPTER I.
Of prologues
I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather
write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less
pains write one of the books of this history, than the prefatory
chapter to each of them.
To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on
the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing
to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and
which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years
hath had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it
stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any
other. Those indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the
same three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a
condemnation of all contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the
performance just about to be represented. The sentiments in all
these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and
indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of authors, who
have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the
same thing.
In like manner, I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall
do me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching
his pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first
established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern
prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this
history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other
history as to this.
But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the
reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath
long found in the other.
First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his catcall
to the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical
instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full
concert at the first rising of the curtain.
The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the
critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as
a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more
hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his
sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these
chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we
have always taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid
kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great
advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to
see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are
thus protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer
allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead
of the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons
who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a
more general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from
which not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and
Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.
Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but
they are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present
stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the
principal merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be
short.
2. CHAPTER II.
A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed
situation of Sophia
We must now convey the reader to Mr. Western's lodgings, which
were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the
landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the
inn, which was the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed
his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he heard of,
he deposited himself.
Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her
from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the
apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,
and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very
material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in
which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage
with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and
resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her
father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have
him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words
and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the
closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down
to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the
landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would
make an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of
the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a
great deal, since the horses of many of the quality stand at his
house.
In this agreeable society Mr. Western past that evening and great
part of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of
sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this
time Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never
come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry
Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to
convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.
The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were
at breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
gentleman was below to wait on him.
"A gentleman!" quoth the squire, "who the devil can he be? Do,
doctor, go down and see who 'tis. Mr. Blifil can hardly be come to
town yet.- Go down, do, and know what his business is."
The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest
man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the
army; that he said he had some particular business, which he could
deliver to none but Mr. Western himself.
"An officer!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to do
with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice
of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.- Let un come up then, if he
must speak to me."
A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his
compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone
with him, delivered himself as follows:-
"Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar;
but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect,
after what past the other night."
"My lord who?" cries the squire; "I never heard the name o' un."
"His lordship," said the gentleman, "is willing to impute everything
to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of
that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent
attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon
earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you
both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as
to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any
imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will
before me make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to
you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the
footing of a lover."
"I don't understand much of what you say, sir," said the squire;
"but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the
lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said
something about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be
the case-you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl
is disposed of already."
"Perhaps, sir," said the gentleman, "you are not sufficiently
apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person,
title, and fortune would be nowhere refused."
"Lookee, sir," answered the squire; "to be very plain, my daughter
is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a
lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of
courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them."
"Well, sir," said the gentleman, "if that is your resolution, the
message I am to deliver to you is, that my lord desires the favour
of your company this morning in Hyde Park."
"You may tell my lord, answered the squire, "that I am busy and
cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir
abroad on any account."
"I am sure, sir," quoth the other, "you are too much a gentleman
to send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said
of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great
regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way;
but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not
suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you
offered him."
"I offered him!" cries the squire; "it is a d--n'd lie! I never
offered him anything."
Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal
rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual
remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr. Western, than
that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,
bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to
summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was
not retired far; he immediately attended, therefore, on the squire's
vociferation, crying, "Bless me! sir, what's the matter?"- "Matter!"
quoth the squire, "here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
and murder me-for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in
his hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least
provocation."
"How, sir," said the captain, "did you not tell me I lyed?"
"No, as I hope to be saved," answered the squire, "-I believe I
might say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord- but
I never said the word, 'you lie.'- I understand myself better, and you
might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd
have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this
minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken
head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure."
The captain, with some indignation, replied, "I see, sir, you are
below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his.
I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you." At which words he
withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping
him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some
efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on
success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent
many curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out
from his lips till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and
grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not
reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure.
Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's
outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot,
and afterwards to scream as loudly as the gentleman himself had done
before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced
the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his daughter,
whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of any harm
happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for, except in
that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life
was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his inclinations.
Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would
take the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia,
whom, as soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all
pale and breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she
collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by the hand, she
cryed passionately, "O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I
hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you." "No, no," cries the
squire, "no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me
if I don't ha the la o' un." "Pray, dear sir," says she, "tell me
what's the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?" "I don't know
the name o' un," answered Western; "some officer fellow, I suppose,
that we are to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if
the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he
was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in
the world." "But, dear sir," cries she, "what was the occasion of your
quarrel?" "What should it be, Sophy," answered the squire, "but
about you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the
death of your poor father at last. Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord
knows who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I
would not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a
good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your father's troubles;
come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this day or
two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will
make me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the
happiest woman; you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the
finest jewels, and a coach and six at your command. I promised
Allworthy already to give up half my estate- od rabbet it! I should
hardly stick at giving up the whole." "Will my papa be so kind,"
says she, "as to hear me speak?"- "Why wout ask, Sophy?" cries he,
"when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of the
best pack of dogs in England.- Hear thee, my dear litle girl! I hope
I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that
pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live a moment longer.
Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don't, or
you never could have run away and left your poor father, who hath no
other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little Sophy." At
these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the tears
streaming from hers) answered, "Indeed, my dear papa, I know you
have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I
have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension
of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a
father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with pleasure,
sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to
reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution
to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your
inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force
my mind; nor can I ever." Here the squire began to look wild, and
the foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia observing, begged to be
heard out, and then proceeded: "If my father's life, his health, or
any real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved
daughter; may heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not
suffer to preserve you!- No, that most detested, most loathsome of
all lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your
sake."- "I tell thee, it will preserve me," answers the father; "it
will give me health, happiness, life, everything.- Upon my soul I
shall die if dost refuse me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my
soul."- "Is it possible," says she, "you can have such a desire to
make me miserable?"- "I tell thee noa," answered he loudly, "d--n me
if there is a thing upon earth I would not do to see thee happy."-
"And will not my dear papa allow me to have the least knowledge of
what will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists in
opinion, what must be my condition, when I shall think myself the most
miserable of all the wretches upon earth?" "Better think yourself so,"
said he, "than know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond."
"If it will content you, sir," said Sophia, "I will give you the most
solemn promise never to marry him, nor any other, while my papa lives,
without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service;
let me be again your poor Sophy, and my whole business and pleasure
be, as it hath been, to please and divert you." "Lookee, Sophy,"
answered the squire, "I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt
Western would then have reason to think me the fool she doth. No,
no, Sophy, I'd have you to know I have a got more wisdom, and know
more of the world, than to take the word of a woman in a matter
where a man is concerned." "How, sir, have I deserved this want of
confidence?" said she; "have I ever broke a single promise to you?
or have I ever been found guilty of a falsehood from my cradle?"
"Lookee, Sophy," cries he; "that's neither here nor there. I am
determined upon this match, and have him you shall, d--n me if shat
unt. D--n me if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next morning."
At repeating which words he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his
lips, and thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia
sunk trembling into her chair, and, had not a flood of tears come
immediately to her relief, perhaps worse had followed.
Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more
contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the
agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewell of her
condemned husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same
emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his
debtor dragged to prison for £10, which, though a just debt, the
wretch is wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more
nearly, he felt the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor
innocent, whom she hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at
the first proposal of what is called seeing company. Indeed this
resemblance would be exact, was it not that the bawd hath an
interest in what she doth, and the father, though perhaps he may
blindly think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his
daughter to almost an equal prostitution.
In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a
very vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room,
and returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf
of the young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as
his duty required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a
violent rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body
of the clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred
function to commit to paper.
3. CHAPTER III.
What happened to Sophia during her confinement
The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very
early to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she
was informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had
taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she
did not think proper to give any offence; for, though she was not
without some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose
great sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had
made so favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's
servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest, than
to provoke one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very
hastish kind of a gentleman.
Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with
her meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that
the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to
have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some
of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to give her any
kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.
The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet,
the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key)
attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments
passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she
left the country, and she treated every servant with more respect than
some persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their
inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back, saying,
she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly
recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.
All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a
great favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns
of the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to
take many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner,
being, as he said, very desirous to see his young lady; he made
therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes,
while civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he
received only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.
The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, etc., were, as George
well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore
no wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take
care to supply her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all
the servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she
had scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.
Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it
usually hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper
than it can be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury
Plain; yet the sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may
say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some
little consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be
as full of eggs as George had reported it.
But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which
would have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with
three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath
produced a thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which
so totally contradicts all the laws of animal oecconomy, as to contain
a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus
was metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil
recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age
nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.
But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the
Académies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless
inquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue
which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very
easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its
passage into the fowl.
Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her
favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she
immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:-
"MADAM,
"Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs. Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and with
that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful consideration
that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do myself too much
honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs me so extremely
dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a greater still, if
I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my presence, my
absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any relief? Can the
most perfect admiration, the most watchful observance, the most ardent
love, the most melting tenderness, the most resigned submission to
your will, make you amends for what you are to sacrifice to my
happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel, to those arms which
are ever open to receive and protect you; and to which, whether you
bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world with you, is, in my
opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If, on the contrary,
wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature reflection, inform
you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if there be no way left to
reconcile your father, and restore the peace of your dear mind, but by
abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for ever from your thoughts,
exert your resolution, and let no compassion for my sufferings bear
the least weight in that tender bosom. Believe me, madam, I so
sincerely love you better than myself, that my great and principal end
is your happiness. My first wish (why would not fortune indulge me
in it?) was, and pardon me if I say, still is, to see you every moment
the happiest of women; my second wish is, to hear you are so; but no
misery on earth can equal mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment
to him who is,
Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
"THOMAS JONES"
What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often
she read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our
reader's imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter,
but not at present: for this reason, among others, that she did not
now write any, and that for several good causes, one of which was
this, she had no paper, pen, nor ink.
In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had
received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed
her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at
altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his
voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not
so soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt
Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one
of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where
her brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.
We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with
our usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.
4. CHAPTER IV.
In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement
The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise
engaged) were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the
lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he
immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great
observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he
stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never
would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.
Mrs. Western, on her arrival in the dining room, having flung
herself into a chair, began thus to harangue: "Well, surely, no one
ever had such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many
turnpike acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you
get into this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever
set foot here before." "I don't know," cries the squire, "I think they
do well enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he
knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among
um." "Well, and where's my niece?" says the lady; "have you been to
wait upon Lady Bellaston yet?" "Ay, ay," cries the squire, "your niece
is safe enough; she is upstairs in chamber." "How!" answered the
lady, "is my niece in this house, and does she not know of my being
here?" "No, nobody can well get to her," says the squire, "for she
is under lock and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady
cousin the first night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her
ever since; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you."
"Good heaven!" returned Mrs. Western, "what do I hear? I thought
what a fine piece of work would be the consequence of my consent to
your coming to town yourself! nay, it was indeed your own headstrong
will, nor can I charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did
not you promise me, brother, that you would take none of these
headstrong measures? Was it not by these headstrong measures that
you forced my niece to run away from you in the country? Have you a
mind to oblige her to take such another step?" "Z--ds and the
devil!" cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; "did ever
mortal hear the like? when I expected you would have commended me
for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this manner!" "How,
brother!" said the lady, "have I ever given you the least reason to
imagine I should commend you for locking up your daughter? Have I
not often told you that women in a free country are not to be
treated with such arbitrary power? We are as free as the men, and I
heartily wish I could not say we deserve that freedom better. If you
expect I should stay a moment longer in this wretched house, or that I
should ever own you again as my relation, or that I should ever
trouble myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist upon it
that my niece be set at liberty this instant." This she spoke with
so commanding an air, standing with her back to the fire, with one
hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question
whether Thalestris, at the head of her Amazons, ever made a more
tremendous figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire
was not proof against the awe which she inspired. "There," he cried,
throwing down the key, "there it is, do whatever you please. I
intended only to have kept her up till Blifil came to town, which
can't be long; and now if any harm happens in the mean time,
remember who is to be blamed for it."
"I will answer it with my life," cries Mrs. Western, "but I shall
not intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that
you will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any
one measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If
you ratify these preliminaries, brother. I yet will endeavour to
preserve the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a
neutral state."
"I pray you, good sir," said the parson, "permit yourself this
once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with
young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to
perpetrate by more rigorous measures."
"What, dost thee open upon me?" cries the squire: "if thee dost
begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently."
"Fie, brother," answered the lady, "is this language to a clergyman?
Mr. Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the
whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell
you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either
cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own
surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr. Supple, evacuate
the garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever."
"I pray you let me be a mediator," cries the parson, "let me
supplicate you."
"Why, there lies the key on the table," cries the squire. "She may
take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?"
"No, brother," answered the lady, "I insist on the formality of
its being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the
concessions stipulated."
"Why then I will deliver it to you.- There 'tis," cries the squire.
"I am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my
daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to
a time, without my ever zeeing her."
"And it would have been happy for her," answered the lady, "if she
had always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened
under my eye."
"Ay, certainly," cries he, "I only am to blame."
"Why, you are to blame, brother," answered she. "I have been often
obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so.
However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from
past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.
Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All
your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore,
insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past."--
"Z--ds and bl-d, sister," cries the squire, what would you have me
say? You are enough to provoke the devil."
"There, now," said she, "just according to the old custom. I see,
brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr. Supple,
who is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human
creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way."
"Let me beg you, madam," said the parson, "not to irritate his
worship."
"Irritate him?" said the lady; "sure, you are as great a fool as
himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I
will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy
upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of
one woman is worth a thousand of yours." And now having summoned a
servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.
She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)
ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her,
not sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but
added, "Now one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it
at last, for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live
for ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will."
The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire
having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when
anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully
of this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his
temper was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs. Western
returned with Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat
and capuchin, and the aunt acquainted Mr. Western, "that she
intended to take her niece with her to her own lodgings; for,
indeed, brother," says she, "these rooms are not fit to receive a
Christian soul in."
"Very well, madam," quoth Western, "whatever you please. The girl
can never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me
the justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back,
that you was one of the most sensible women in the world."
"To this," cries the parson, "I am ready to bear testimony."
"Nay, brother," says Mrs. Western, "I have always, I'm sure, given
you as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much
hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to
reflect, I never knew a man more reasonable."
"Why then, sister, if you think so," said the squire, "here's your
good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but
I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do
everything your aunt orders you."
"I have not the least doubt of her," answered Mrs. Western. "She
hath had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that
wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice.
O brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when
you set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent
fellow with the odious Irish name- that Fitzpatrick. He broke in
abruptly upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He
ran on a long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced
me to give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and
delivered him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer
himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg
you will not see her, for I am determined I will not."
"I zee her!" answered the squire; "you need not fear me. I'll ge
no encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow,
her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken
a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what
undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own
family."
"Brother," cries the aunt, "you need not shock my niece by such
odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?"
"Well, well, I wull, I wull," said the squire.
And now Mrs. Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the
conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had
it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most
probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom
education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally
violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for
Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.
5. CHAPTER V.
In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play
with Mrs. Miller and Partridge
The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that
grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly
comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which
he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of
the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which
Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her
liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her
confinement:
"SIR,
"As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am all at present, and with
whom I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I have
most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though she
hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the word
conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach of
her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what is
expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on reflection,
afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a comfort to you
of this kind; for though there is one thing in which I can never
comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly resolved never to act
in defiance of him, or to take any step of consequence without his
consent. A firm persuasion of this must teach you to divert your
thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps) made impossible. This your
own interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I hope, Allworthy to
you; and if it will, you have my injunctions to pursue it. Accidents
have laid some obligations on me, and your good intentions probably
more. Fortune may, perhaps, be some time kinder to us both than at
present. Believe this, that I shall always think of you as I
think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
your obliged humble servant,
"SOPHIA WESTERN"
"I charge you write to me no more- at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it."[22]
A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this
letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The
sensations it occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat
like what divide the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of
his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses
make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole,
however, he was more pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the
reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the
reader is not quite so much in love as was poor Jones; and love is a
disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a
consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in
direct opposition to it, and particularly in this, that it never
flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.
One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his
mistress had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she
might at least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another
comfortable circumstance was the reference which she made to her
promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested
he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous
overtures made in his letter, I very much question whether he could
have heard a more afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was
married to another, though the match had been never so great, and
never so likely to end in making her completely happy. That refined
degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the
flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift
confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard
declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with
the utmost readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation
was proved to be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover.
Hence, therefore, I conclude that this affection is in nature,
though I cannot pretend to say I have ever seen an instance of it.
Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the
aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from
the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an
appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to
attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at
the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company.
For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he
expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge,
from whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved,
indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.
In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs.
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places.
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever
been in. When the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder
how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one
another out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he
cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of
the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the
gunpowder-treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a
sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were candles
enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole
twelvemonth."
As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the
entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was
in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in
my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as
that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the
scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to
Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent
a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked
him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon
the stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told
me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and
in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only
person." "Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a
coward here besides thyself?" "Nay, may call me coward if you will;
but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never
saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to
be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
fool-hardiness!- Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.-- Follow
you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil-- for
they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.- Oh! here he is
again.-- No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther
than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to
speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear
him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes
fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth
open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
succeeding likewise in him.
When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed
my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible."
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I
can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such
things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the
ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have
been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou
imagine, then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really
frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and
he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have
been, had it been my own case?- But hush! O la! what noise is that?
There he is again.-- Well to be certain, though I know there is
nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those
men are." Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw
your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?"
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing
upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be
deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who
would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed
a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended
he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, "that he
might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the
ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now;
what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as
you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not
be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is
there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As
I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed,
you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know
it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this,
Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not
be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.- There,
there- Ay, no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked
wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To
be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings.-- Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you."
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet
introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand,
till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the
spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never
committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, "If she
did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,"
said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I
would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath,
to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run
away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."
The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who
expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage.
To which Jones answered, "That it was one of the most famous
burial-places about town." "No wonder then," cries Partridge, "that
the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger.
I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves
while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the
first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.
You had rather sing than work, I believe."- Upon Hamlet's taking up
the skull, he cried out, "Well! it is strange to see how fearless some
men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a
dead man, on any account.- He seemed frightened enough too at the
ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit."
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end
of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he had liked best?" To
this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,
"The king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs.
Miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are
all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on
the stage." "He the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous
sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done
just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it,
between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why,
Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a
mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking
with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London,
yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the
other.- Anybody may see he is an actor."
While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a
lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs.
Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the
gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had
something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then
acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next
day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to
the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had
afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to all
who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said,
than to anything that passed on the stage.
He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and
for many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to
sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great
horrors, crying out, "Lord have mercy upon us! there it is."
[[22]]
Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
6. CHAPTER VI.
In which the history is obliged to look back
It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact
impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should
bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when
that superiority determines his preference.
As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my
children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to
Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same
excuse, from the superiority of her character.
This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine, never
suffers me to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance.
I could now, therefore, return impatiently to inquire what hath
happened to this lovely creature since her departure from her
father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr.
Blifil.
Mr. Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast,
upon the sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first
hurry to go after her, had not once thought of sending any account
of the discovery to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he
recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first inn he
came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his
having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to
him immediately, if he would come up after him to town.
As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind,
which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident,
could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by
her having run away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own
account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he
now proposed the gratification of a very strong passion besides avarice, by marrying
this young lady, and this was hatred; for he concluded that
matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying either hatred or
love; and this opinion is very probably verified by much experience.
To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary behaviour of
married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to conclude
that the generality seek the indulgence of the former passion only, in
their union of everything but of hearts.
There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from
Mr. Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia
(for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from
him), the great aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be
seriously concerned that he had been deceived into carrying matters so
far. He by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who
think it as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children
in the affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their
servants when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or
decency at least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the
contrary, as he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred
kind, he thought every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it
holy and inviolate; and very wisely concluded, that the surest way
to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous affection.
Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of
deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been deceived
himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well
tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing
his addresses, was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that the very
appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius;
but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing
within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be atchieved.
Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and
the hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He
begged that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose,
he might at least be at liberty to try all fair means for success.
Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any
other than the most gentle methods! "Besides, sir," said he, "if
they fail, you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your
consent." He urged the great and eager desire which Mr. Western had
for the match; and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones,
to whom he imputed all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to
preserve so valuable a young lady was even an act of charity.
All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a
little stronger on the authority of parents than Mr. Blifil himself
had done. He ascribed the measures which Mr. Blifil was desirous to
take to Christian motives; "and though," says he, "the good young
gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his
first and principal consideration."
Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same
tune, though in a different key, and would have discovered much
moral fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the
recovery of his health.
Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the
desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where
he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady:
"But I declare," said he, "I will never give my consent to any
absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever
have her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance."
Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the
superior understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and
thus is the prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the
tenderness of the best of hearts.
Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his
uncle, rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as
no immediate business required Mr. Allworthy's presence in the
country, and little preparation is necessary to men for a journey,
they set out the very next day, and arrived in town that evening, when
Mr. Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at
the play.
The morning after his arrival, Mr. Blifil waited on Mr. Western,
by whom he was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he
had every possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that
he should very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would
the squire suffer the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he
had, almost against his will, carried him to his sister.
7. CHAPTER VII.
In which Mr. Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr.
Blifil
Mrs. Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial
politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less
ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw
Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her
faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all
her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.
"Brother," said she, "I am astonished at your behaviour; will you
never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every
apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants?
Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of
condition, without the least decency or notice?"-- "Why, what a pox is
the matter now?" quoth the squire; "one would think I had caught you
at-"- "None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you," answered she.--
"You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see,
support herself.-- Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your
spirits; for I see you have occasion." At which words Sophia, who
never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.
"To be sure, sister," cries the squire, "you are mad, when I have
brought Mr. Blifil here to court her, to force her away."
"Sure, brother," says she, "you are worse than mad, when you know in
what situation affairs are, to-- I am sure I ask Mr. Blifil's pardon,
but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a
reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to
see Mr. Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him
to proceed so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it."
Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western,
without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered,
"Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but
come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr. Blifil go to
her.-- He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost."
"Brother," cries Mrs. Western, "Mr. Blifil, I am confident,
understands himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more
this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice
contexture; and our spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed
in a moment. Had you suffered Mr. Blifil to have sent his
compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting
on her in the afternoon, I should possibly have prevailed on her to
have seen him; but now I despair of bringing about any such matter."
"I am very sorry, madam," cried Blifil, "that Mr. Western's
extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough acknowledge,
should have occasioned-" "Indeed, sir," said she, interrupting him,
"you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well."
"I don't care what anybody knows of me," answered the squire;-- "but
when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come up
on purpose, and so is Allworthy."- "Brother," said she, "whatever
message Mr. Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece, shall be
delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to
make a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr.
Blifil at a proper time."- "The devil she won't!" answered the
squire.- "Odsbud!- Don't we know- I say nothing, but some volk are
wiser than all the world.-- If I might have had my will, she had not
run away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is guone
again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well she
hates--" "No matter, brother," replied Mrs. Western, "I will not hear
my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an honour
to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will pawn
my whole reputation in the world on her conduct.-- I shall be glad to
see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have somewhat of
importance to mention to you.- At present, Mr. Blifil, as well as
you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress." "Well, but," said
the squire, "do appoint a time." "Indeed," said she, "I can appoint no
time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon."- "What the devil
would you have me do?" cries the squire, turning to Blifil; "I can
no more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will
be in a better humour in the afternoon."- "I am condemned, I see,
sir, to misfortune," answered Blifil; "but I shall always own my
obligations to you." He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs. Western,
who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they departed,
the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should see
his daughter in the afternoon.
If Mr. Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was
less. As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister
to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of
ceremony in the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things.
He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words
which dropt from the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected
right, as will appear when I have unfolded the several matters which
will be contained in the following chapter.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones
Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be
plucked up by the rude hands of Mr. Western. In the heat of resentment
he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the
captain had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at
all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had
seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he
had received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the
discharge of his duty, that, having after long inquiry found out the
squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a
tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by
that means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his
lodgings.
In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his
lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid
open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly
saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his
words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his
daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady
Bellaston, who readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with
certain assurance of a most favourable reception from all the elders
of the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober,
and should be made acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his
daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had
formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by
some means or other, she knew not what, procured himself tolerable
cloaths, and past for a gentleman. "Now," says she, "as I have, for
the sake of my cousin, made it my business to inquire after this
fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;" with which she then
acquainted his lordship. "I am thinking, my lord," added she "(for
this fellow is too mean for your personal resentment), whether it
would not be possible for your lordship to contrive some method of
having him pressed and sent on board a ship. Neither law nor
conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise you, however
well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in the
streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the conscientious
part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most
meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he
could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my cousin, it may probably be
the means of preserving him from the gallows, and perhaps may make his
fortune in an honest way."
Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part
which she was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which
his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at
present no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of
putting it in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her
ladyship to do him the honour of immediately mentioning his
proposals to the family; to whom he said he offered a carte
blanche,
and would settle his fortune in almost any manner they should require.
And after uttering many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he
took his leave and departed, but not before he had received the
strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing
his person, where he should no longer be in a capacity of making any
attempts to the ruin of the young lady.
The moment Mrs. Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was
despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner
received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her
cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes
offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the prospect of
making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than
to a gentleman whom she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot;
though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a refusal.
The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials,
fell to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as
begun; for Mrs. Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than
her cheeks glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with
the eagerness of his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and
the generosity of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the
most explicit terms.
In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to
Jones, and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate
attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs.
Western entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's
management. She concluded, however, at last, with declaring her
confidence in the good understanding of her niece, who, though she
would not give up her affection in favour of Blifil, will, I doubt
not, says she, soon be prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple
inclination to the addresses of a fine gentleman, who brings her
both a title and a large estate: "For, indeed," added she, "I must
do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil is but a hideous kind of
fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country gentlemen are, and hath
nothing but his fortune to recommend him."
"Nay," said Lady Bellaston, "I don't then so much wonder at my
cousin; for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and
hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us.
What do you think, Mrs. Western- I shall certainly make you laugh;
nay, I can hardly tell you myself for laughing- will you believe that
the fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you
should be inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own
handwriting, I assure you." She then delivered her cousin the letter
with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire
to see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this
history.
"Upon my word, I am astonished," said Mrs. Western; "this is,
indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave, I may possibly
make some use of this letter." "You have my full liberty," cries
Lady Bellaston, "to apply it to what purpose you please. However, I
would not have it shown to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you
find occasion." "Well, and how did you use the fellow?" returned
Mrs. Western. "Not as a husband," said the lady; "I am not married,
I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once
already; and once, I think, is enough for any reasonable woman."
This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the
balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to
give it up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out
of the way, and partly by having secured the evidence of Honour,
who, upon sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was
prepared to testify whatever she pleased.
But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her
heart hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which
was so much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire
such readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the
last, and there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that
women, notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts,
etc., in matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a
misfortune to have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they
imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher than upon these
disappointments; again, he will find it written much about the same
place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the possession
of a man, will go above halfway to the devil, to prevent any other
woman from enjoying the same.
If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I
see no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will
conceive she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I
see no cause to suspect.
Now this was the affair which Mrs. Western was preparing to
introduce to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love,
and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and
Blifil broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness
in her behaviour to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual
with him, imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he
being a much more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.
9. CHAPTER IX.
In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs. Fitzpatrick
The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr.
Jones, who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but
before we relate the conversation which now past, it may be proper,
according to our method, to return a little back, and to account for
so great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing
her lodging principally to avoid Mr. Jones, she had now industriously,
as hath been seen, sought this interview.
And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding
day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr. Western was arrived in
town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at
Piccadilly, where she was received with many scurvy compellations
too coarse to be repeated, and was even threatened to be kicked out of
doors. From hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she
was well acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who
treated her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the
truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both,
plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had
proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts
of bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of
revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at
the play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this
purpose.
The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
in the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs.
Western had formerly shewn for Mr. Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the
disappointment of which Mrs. Fitzpatrick derived the great
bitterness her aunt had expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no
doubt but that the good lady would as easily listen to the addresses
of Mr. Jones as she had before done to the other; for the
superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr. Jones; and the
advance which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how
justly I will not say), was an argument rather in favour of her
project than against it.
Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of
her desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance
how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some
excuses for her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr. Jones
in whose custody his mistress was, of which she thought him
ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised
him to make sham addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an
easy access to the younger, informing him at the same time of the
success which Mr. Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same
stratagem.
Mr. Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind
intentions towards him which she had expressed, and indeed
testified, by this proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence
of success from the lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which
had not been her case in regard to Mr. Fitzpatrick, he said, he was
afraid Miss Western would never agree to an imposition of this kind,
as well from her utter detestation of all fallacy, as from her
avowed duty to her aunt.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may
not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from
politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had
not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all
reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a
tacit rebuke on the other.
"Indeed, sir," answered the lady, with some warmth, "I cannot
think there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a
profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is
my aunt, I must say there never was a more liquorish one than her
ladyship. Can't you pretend that the despair of possessing her
niece, from her being promised to Blifil, has made you turn your
thoughts towards her? As to my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to
be such a simpleton as to have the least scruple on such an account,
or to conceive any harm in punishing one of these haggs for the many
mischiefs they bring upon families by their tragi-comic passions;
for which I think it is a pity they are not punishable by law. I had
no such scruple myself; and yet I hope my cousin Sophia will not think
it an affront when I say she cannot detest every real species of
falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I
pretend no duty, nor doth she deserve any. However, sir, I have
given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have
the less opinion of your understanding- that's all."
Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his
utmost power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into
nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to
abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to
rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper
instead of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such
occasions have the good-nature which Mrs. Fitzpatrick displayed to
Jones, by saying, with a smile, "You need attempt no more excuses; for
I can easily forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of
fondness for his mistress."
She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it,
omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject;
for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce
anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing
her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the
execution of a favourite scheme.
Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had
not, indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the
motives which induced Mrs. Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing
her advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard
he had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their
situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that
so divine a young lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man;
nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to wish she should.
He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have
not at present leisure to insert.
There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too
general terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never
detach it from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling
principle, they are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with,
and, though the property of others, convey it to their own use. In the
company of these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of
another woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often
improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her
wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what
do I deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a
degree?
To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is
commending another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and
generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a
charming lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this
tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may
seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom all
this really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr.
Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor
Sophia had formerly done.
To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more
irresistible object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding
some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote
(as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside,
and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the
approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine
with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of
the sun.
When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have
become the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick heaved a deep
sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been
some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried,
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness
to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my
cousin better than you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes
no return to such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both."
"Sure, madam," said Jones, "you can't mean-" "Mean!" cries Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, "I know not what I mean; there is something, I think,
in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet it in men, and
fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such
truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force
one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women
who can overlook such merit."
The manner and look with which all this was spoke, infused a
suspicion into Jones, which we don't care to convey in direct words to
the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, "I am afraid,
madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;" and offered to take his
leave.
"Not at all, sir," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick.- "Indeed I pity you,
Mr. Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I
have mentioned- I am convinced you will approve it- and let me see you
again as soon as you can.- To-morrow morning if you will, or at least
some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day."
Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully
retired; nor could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of
a look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have
had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it
confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as
he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now
so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could
have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended
to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and
accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in
sorrowful notes to record.
10. CHAPTER X.
The consequence of the preceding visit
Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from
Mrs. Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to
which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence
the day after set forward to London.
The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of
this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion
which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in
the room with Mrs. Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had
afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the
reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him
to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and
jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was
naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that
green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had
just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was
issuing from it.
Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing
a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly
up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? "for
I am sure," said he, "you must have been in it, as I saw you come
out of it."
Jones answered very modestly, "That he had been visiting a lady
there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, "What business have you with the
lady?" Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,
features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out- "Ha, my good
friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago."
"Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, "I don't know your name nor
your face." "Indeed, sir," said Jones, "neither have I the pleasure of
knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen
before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,
if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle."
"At Upton!" cried the other;-- "Ha! upon my soul, I believe your
name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it is."- "O! upon my soul,"
cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet.- Upon my
soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give
you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my
soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give
you another." And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of
defence, which was the only science he understood.
Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself, he also drew, and
though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon
Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his
sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received
it, than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and
leaning upon it, cried, "I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man."
"I hope not," cries Jones, "but whatever be the consequence, you
must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself." At this instant a
number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he
should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would take
care of the wounded gentleman.
"Ay," cries one of the fellows, "the wounded gentleman will be taken
care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for
you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." "D--n me, Jack," said
another, "he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port
now;" and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of
by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord
Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate
accident happened.
The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded, that
his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the
civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a
public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him
to his custody.
The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well drest, and hearing that
the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great
civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to inquire after
the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's
hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly
mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable
informed Jones, that he must go before a justice. He answered,
"Whenever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for
though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,
yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind."
Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who
dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the
wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the
Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for
Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till
seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly
frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a
message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart,
and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones, than he lamented
the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all
the while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now
arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended
every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered
him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from
Sophia by the hands of Black George.
Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having
eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:-
"You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to Lady
Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am convinced it is
your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that it is dated at
the very time when would have me imagine you was under such concern on
my account.- I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is,
that your name may never more be mentioned to
"S. W."
Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs
with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better
idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would
almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave
him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have
done. And here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.