BOOK VI
CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS
1. CHAPTER I.
Of love
In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the
passion of love; and in our succeeding book shall be forced to
handle this subject still more largely. It may not therefore in this
place be improper to apply ourselves to the examination of that modern
doctrine, by which certain philosophers, among many other wonderful
discoveries, pretend to have found out, that there is no such
passion in the human breast.
Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect,
who are honourably mentioned by the late Dr. Swift, as having, by
the mere force of genius alone, without the least assistance of any
kind of learning, or even reading, discovered that profound and
invaluable secret that there is no God; or whether they are not rather
the same with those who some years since very much alarmed the
world, by showing that there were no such things as virtue or goodness
really existing in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from
pride, I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined
to suspect, that all these several finders of truth, are the very
identical men who are by others called the finders of gold. The method
used in both these searches after truth and after gold, being indeed
one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, and examining into a
nasty place; indeed, in the former instances, into the nastiest of all
places, A BAD MIND.
But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the
truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be compared
together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between
the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder that had the impudence or
folly to assert, from the ill success of his search, that there was no
such thing as gold in the world? whereas the truth-finder, having
raked out that jakes, his own mind, and being there capable of tracing
no ray of divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or
loving, very fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such
things exist in the whole creation.
To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these
philosophers, if they will be called so; and to show our own
disposition to accommodate matters peaceably between us, we shall here
make them some concessions, which may possibly put an end to the
dispute.
First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the
philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a
passion.
Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of
satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate
white human flesh, is by no means that passion for which I here
contend. This is indeed more properly hunger; and as no glutton is
ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, and to say he LOVES
such and such dishes; so may the lover of this kind, with equal
propriety, say, he HUNGERS after such and such women.
Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable
concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, though it
satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth nevertheless
seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest of all our
appetites.
And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a
different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to
call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above; and which
it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its delights to a
degree scarce imaginable by those who have never been susceptible of
any other emotions than what have proceeded from appetite alone.
In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers
to grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human breasts a
kind and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by contributing to
the happiness of others. That in this gratification alone, as in
friendship, in parental and filial affection, as indeed in general
philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite delight. That if we
will not call such disposition love, we have no name for it. That
though the pleasures arising from such pure love may be heightened and
sweetened by the assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can
subsist alone, nor are they destroyed by the intervention of the
latter. Lastly, that esteem and gratitude are the proper motives to
love, as youth and beauty are to desire, and, therefore, though such
desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness overtakes its object;
yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or remove, from a
good mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and esteem
for its basis.
To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest
instances, seems to be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed
only from that self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but
how unfair is this! Doth the man who recognizes in his own heart no
traces of avarice or ambition, conclude, therefore, that there are
no such passions in human nature? Why will we not modestly observe the
same rule in judging of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or
why, in any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, "put the world in
our own person?"
Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is
one instance of that adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and
this almost universally. For there is scarce any man, how much
soever he may despise the character of a flatterer, but will
condescend in the meanest manner to flatter himself.
To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above
observations, whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have
advanced.
Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do
believe these matters with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their
exemplification in the following pages: if you do not, you have, I
assure you, already read more than you have understood; and it would
be wiser to pursue your business, or your pleasures (such as they
are), than to throw away any more of your time in reading what you can
neither taste nor comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to
you, must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind;
since possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we are
told such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; that
colour seemed to him to be very much like the sound of a trumpet:
and love probably may, in your opinion, very greatly resemble a dish
of soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.
2. CHAPTER II.
The character of Mrs. Western. Her great learning and knowledge of
the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived
from those advantages
The reader hath seen Mr. Western, his sister, and daughter, with
young Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr. Western's house,
where the greater part of the company spent the evening with much
joy and festivity. Sophia was indeed the only grave person; for as
to Jones, though love had now gotten entire possession of his heart,
yet the pleasing reflection on Mr. Allworthy's recovery, and the
presence of his mistress, joined to some tender looks which she now
and then could not refrain from giving him, so elevated our heroe,
that he joined the mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as
good-humoured people as any in the world.
Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning
at breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual,
leaving her father and aunt together. The squire took no notice of
this change in his daughter's disposition. To say the truth, though he
was somewhat of a politician, and had been twice a candidate in the
country interest at an election, he was a man of no great observation.
His sister was a lady of a different turn. She had lived about the
court, and had seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that
knowledge which the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect
mistress of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her
erudition stop here. She had considerably improved her mind by
study; she had not only read all the modern plays, operas,
oratorios, poems, and romances- in all which she was a critic; but
had gone through Rapin's History of England, Eachard's Roman
History, and many French Mémoires pour servir à
l'Histoire: to these
she had added most of the political pamphlets and journals published
within the last twenty years. From which she had attained a very
competent skill in politics, and could discourse very learnedly on the
affairs of Europe. She was, moreover, excellently well skilled in
the doctrine of amour, and knew better than anybody who and who were
together; a knowledge which she the more easily attained, as her
pursuit of it was never diverted by any affairs of her own; for either
she had no inclinations, or they had never been solicited; which
last is indeed very probable; for her masculine person, which was near
six foot high, added to her manner and learning, possibly prevented
the other sex from regarding her, notwithstanding her petticoats, in
the light of a woman. However, as she had considered the matter
scientifically, she perfectly well knew, though she had never
practised them, all the arts which fine ladies use when they desire to
give encouragement, or to conceal liking, with all the long
appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, etc., as they are at present
practised in the beau-monde. To sum the whole, no species of
disguise or affectation had escaped her notice; but as to the plain
simple workings of honest nature, as she had never seen any such,
she could know but little of them.
By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs. Western had now, as she
thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The
first hint of this she took from the behaviour of the young lady in
the field of battle; and the suspicion which she then conceived, was
greatly corroborated by some observations which she had made that
evening and the next morning. However, being greatly cautious to avoid
being found in a mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight
in her bosom, giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks,
nods, and now and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed
sufficiently alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother.
Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her
observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when she was
alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles in the
following manner:-
"Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary
in my niece lately?"- "No, not I," answered Western; "is anything the
matter with the girl?"- "I think there is," replied she; "and
something of much consequence too."- "Why, she doth not complain of
anything," cries Western; "and she hath had the small-pox."-
"Brother," returned she, "girls are liable to other distempers besides
the small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse." Here Western
interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged her, if anything
ailed his daughter, to acquaint him immediately; adding, "she knew he
loved her more than his own soul, and that he would send to the
world's end for the best physician to her." "Nay, nay," answered she,
smiling, "the distemper is not so terrible; but I believe, brother,
you are convinced I know the world, and I promise you I was never more
deceived in my life, if my niece be not most desperately in love."-
"How! in love!" cries Western, in a passion; "in love, without
acquainting me! I'll disinherit her; I'll turn her out of doors, stark
naked, without a farthing. Is all my kindness vor 'ur, and vondness
o'ur come to this, to fall in love without asking me leave?"- "But you
will not," answered Mrs. Western, "turn this daughter, whom you love
better than your own soul, out of doors, before you know whether you
shall approve her choice. Suppose she should have fixed on the very
person whom you yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry
then?"- "No, no," cries Western, "that would make a difference. If she
marries the man I would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I
shan't trouble my head about that." "That is spoken," answered the
sister, "like a sensible man; but I believe the very person she hath
chosen would be the very person you would choose for her. I will
disclaim all knowledge of the world, if it is not so; and I believe,
brother, you will allow I have some."- "Why, lookee, sister," said
Western, "I do believe you have as much as any woman; and to be sure
those are women's matters. You know I don't love to hear you talk
about politics; they belong to us, and petticoats should not meddle:
but come, who is the man?"- "Marry!" said she, "you may find him out
yourself if you please. You, who are so great a politician, can be at
no great loss. The judgment which can penetrate into the cabinets of
princes, and discover the secret springs which move the great state
wheels in all the political machines of Europe, must surely, with very
little difficulty, find out what passes in the rude uninformed mind of
a girl."- "Sister," cries the squire, "I have often warn'd you not to
talk the court gibberish to me. I tell you, I don't understand the
lingo: but I can read a journal, or the London Evening Post. Perhaps,
indeed, there may be now and tan a verse which I can't make much of,
because half the letters are left out; yet I know very well what is
meant by that, and that our affairs don't go so well as they should
do, because of bribery and corruption."- "I pity your country
ignorance from my heart," cries the lady.- "Do you?" answered Western;
"and I pity your town learning; I had rather be anything than a
courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some people, I
believe, are."- "If you mean me," answered she, "you know I am a
woman, brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides-" - "I do
know you are a woman," cries the squire, "and it's well for thee that
art one; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick
long ago."- "Ay, there," said she, "in that flick lies all your
fancied superiority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger
than ours. Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat
us; or, such is the superiority of our understanding, we should make
all of you what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are
already- our slaves."- "I am glad I know your mind," answered the
squire. "But we'll talk more of this matter another time. At present,
do tell me what man is it you mean about my daughter?"- "Hold a
moment," said she, "while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for
your sex; or else I ought to be angry too with you. There-- I have
made a shift to gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what think
you of Mr. Blifil? Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless
on the ground? Did she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again
the moment we came up to that part of the field where he stood? And
pray what else should be the occasion of all her melancholy that night
at supper, the next morning, and indeed ever since?"- "Fore George!"
cries the squire, "now you mind me on't, I remember it all. It is
certainly so, and I am glad on't with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a
good girl, and would not fall in love to make me angry. I was never
more rejoiced in my life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our
two estates. I had this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly
the two estates are in a manner joined together in matrimony already,
and it would be a thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed,
there be larger estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I
had rather bate something, than marry my daughter among strangers and
foreigners. Besides, most o' zuch great estates be in the hands of
lords, and I heate the very name of themmun. Well but, sister, what
would you advise me to do; for I tell you women know these matters
better than we do?"- "Oh, your humble servant, sir," answered the
lady: "we are obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything.
Since you are pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I
think you may propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no
indecorum in the proposal's coming from the parent of either side.
King Alcinous, in Mr. Pope's Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses.
I need not caution so politic a person not to say that your daughter
is in love; that would indeed be against all rules." "Well," said the
squire, "I will propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick,
if he should refuse me." "Fear not," cries Mrs. Western; "the match is
too advantageous to be refused." "I don't know that," answered the
squire: "Allworthy is a queer b--ch, and money hath no effect o'un."
"Brother," said the lady, "your politics astonish me. Are you really
to be imposed on by professions? Do you think Mr. Allworthy hath
more contempt for money than other men because he professes more? Such
credulity would better become one of us weak women, than that wise sex
which heaven hath formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would
make a fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. They would soon
persuade you, that they take towns out of mere defensive
principles." "Sister," answered the squire, with much scorn, "let your
friends at court answer for the towns taken; as you are a woman, I
shall lay no blame upon you; for I suppose they are wiser than to
trust women with secrets." He accompanied this with so sarcastical a
laugh, that Mrs. Western could bear no longer. She had been all this
time fretted in a tender part (for she was indeed very deeply
skilled in these matters, and very violent in them), and therefore,
burst forth in a rage, declared her brother to be both a clown and a
blockhead, and that she would stay no longer in his house.
The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was,
however, in many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all
those wise tenets, which are so well inculcated in that
Politico-Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just
value and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise
well skilled in the exact value of reversions, expectations, etc.,
and had often considered the amount of his sister's fortune, and the
chance which he or his posterity had of inheriting it. This he was
infinitely too wise to sacrifice to a trifling resentment. When he
found, therefore, he had carried matters too far, he began to think of
reconciling them; which was no very difficult task, as the lady had
great affection for her brother, and still greater for her niece;
and though too susceptible of an affront offered to her skill in
politics, on which she much valued herself, was a woman of a very
extraordinary good and sweet disposition.
Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose
escape from the stable no place but the window was left open, he
next applied himself to his sister; softened and soothed her, by
unsaying all he had said, and by assertions directly contrary to those
which had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned the eloquence of Sophia to
his assistance, who, besides a most graceful and winning address,
had the advantage of being heard with great favour and partiality by
her aunt.
The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs. Western, who
said, "Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those
have their use in the army of the empress queen, so you likewise
have some good in you. I will therefore once more sign a treaty of
peace with you, and see that you do not infringe it on your side; at
least, as you are so excellent a politician, I may expect you will
keep your leagues, like the French, till your interest calls upon
you to break them."
3. CHAPTER III.
Containing two defiances to the critics
The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen
in the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the
proposal to Allworthy, that Mrs. Western had the utmost difficulty
to prevent him from visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for
this purpose.
Mr. Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr. Western at the
time when he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged
out of the custody of physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on
all occasions, both the highest and the lowest) of fulfilling his
engagement.
In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last
chapter, and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from
certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some
apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion for
Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of wiping out all
such suspicions, and for that purpose to put an entire constraint on
her behaviour.
First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart
with the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest
gaiety in her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to
Mr. Blifil, and took not the least notice of poor Jones the whole day.
The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter,
that he scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in
watching opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by
winks and nods to his sister; who was not at first altogether so
pleased with what she saw as was her brother.
In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at
first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in her niece;
but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she soon attributed
this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered the many hints she had
given her niece concerning her being in love, and imagined the young
lady had taken this way to rally her out of her opinion, by an
overacted civility: a notion that was greatly corroborated by the
excessive gaiety with which the whole was accompanied. We cannot
here avoid remarking, that this conjecture would have been better
founded had Sophia lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square,
where young ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and
playing with that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods
and groves an hundred miles distant from London.
To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters
much that our own art be wound up, if I may use the expression, in the
same key with theirs: for very artful men sometimes miscarry by
fancying others wiser, or, in other words, greater knaves, than they
really are. As this observation is pretty deep, I will illustrate it
by the following short story. Three countrymen were pursuing a
Wiltshire thief through Brentford. The simplest of them seeing "The
Wiltshire House," written under a sign, advised his companions to
enter it, for there most probably they would find their countryman.
The second, who was wiser, laughed at this simplicity; but the
third, who was wiser still, answered, "Let us go in, however, for he
may think we should not suspect him of going amongst his own
countrymen." They accordingly went in and searched the house, and by
that means missed overtaking the thief, who was at that time but a
little way before them; and who, as they all knew, but had never
once reflected, could not read.
The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a
secret is communicated, since every gamester will agree how
necessary it is to know exactly the play of another, in order to
countermine him. This will, moreover, afford a reason why the wiser
man, as is often seen, is the bubble of the weaker, and why many
simple and innocent characters are so generally misunderstood and
misrepresented; but what is most material, this will account for the
deceit which Sophia put on her politic aunt.
Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, Mr.
Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty of what his
sister had told him, took Mr. Allworthy aside, and very bluntly
proposed a match between Sophia and young Mr. Blifil.
Mr. Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter at any
unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His mind was, indeed,
tempered with that philosophy which becomes a man and a Christian.
He affected no absolute superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all
joy and grief; but was not at the same time to be discomposed and
ruffled by every accidental blast, by every smile or frown of fortune.
He received, therefore, Mr. Western's proposal without any visible
emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said the
alliance was such as he sincerely wished; then launched forth into a
very just encomium on the young lady's merit; acknowledged the offer
to be advantageous in point of fortune; and after thanking Mr. Western
for the good opinion he had professed of his nephew, concluded, that
if the young people liked each other, he should be very desirous to
complete the affair.
Western was a little disappointed at Mr. Allworthy's answer, which
was not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt whether the young
people might like one another with great contempt, saying, "That
parents were the best judges of proper matches for their children:
that for his part he should insist on the most resigned obedience from
his daughter: and if any young fellow could refuse such a
bed-fellow, he was his humble servant, and hoped there was no harm
done."
Allworthy endeavoured to soften this resentment by many eulogiums on
Sophia, declaring he had no doubt but that Mr. Blifil would very
gladly receive the offer; but all was ineffectual; he could obtain
no other answer from the squire but- "I say no more- I humbly hope
there's no harm done- that's all." Which words he repeated at least a
hundred times before they parted.
Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be
offended at this behaviour; and though he was so averse to the
rigour which some parents exercise on their children in the article of
marriage, that he had resolved never to force his nephew's
inclinations, he was nevertheless much pleased with the prospect of
this union; for the whole country resounded the praises of Sophia, and
he had himself greatly admired the uncommon endowments of both her
mind and person. To which I believe we may add, the consideration of
her vast fortune, which, though he was too sober to be intoxicated
with it, he was too sensible to despise.
And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I
must and will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, of
which Mr. Allworthy was in reality as great a pattern as he was of
goodness.
True wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr. Hogarth's poor
poet may have writ against riches, and in spite of all which any
rich well-fed divine may have preached against pleasure, consists
not in the contempt of either of these. A man may have as much
wisdom in the possession of an affluent fortune, as any beggar in
the streets; or may enjoy a handsome wife or a hearty friend, and
still remain as wise as any sour popish recluse, who buries all his
social faculties, and starves his belly while he well lashes his back.
To say truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all worldly
blessings in an eminent degree; for as that moderation which wisdom
prescribes is the surest way to useful wealth, so can it alone qualify
us to taste many pleasures. The wise man gratifies every appetite
and every passion, while the fool sacrifices all the rest to pall
and satiate one.
It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously
avaricious. I answer, Not wise in that instance. It may likewise be
said, That the wisest men have been in their youth immoderately fond
of pleasure. I answer, They were not wise then.
Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as so hard
to learn by those who never were at her school, only teaches us to
extend a simple maxim universally known and followed even in the
lowest life, a little farther than that life carries it. And this
is, not to buy at too dear a price.
Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand
market of the world, and constantly applies it to honours, to
riches, to pleasures, and to every other commodity which that market
affords, is, I will venture to affirm, a wise man, and must be so
acknowledged in the worldly sense of the word; for he makes the best
of bargains, since in reality he purchases everything at the price
only of a little trouble, and carries home all the good things I
have mentioned, while he keeps his health, his innocence, and his
reputation, the common prices which are paid for them by others,
entire and to himself.
From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, which
complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath
made the best bargain, nor dejected when the market is empty, or
when its commodities are too dear for his purchase.
But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass
too far on the patience of a good-natured critic. Here, therefore, I
put an end to the chapter.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Containing sundry curious matters
As soon as Mr. Allworthy returned home, he took Mr. Blifil apart,
and after some preface, communicated to him the proposal which had
been made by Mr. Western, and at the same time informed him how
agreeable this match would be to himself.
The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil;
not that his heart was pre-engaged; neither was he totally
insensible of beauty, or had any aversion to women; but his
appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, by philosophy,
or by study, or by some other method, easily to subdue them: and as to
that passion which we have treated of in the first chapter of this
book, he had not the least tincture of it in his whole composition.
But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of which
we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty of Sophia formed
so notable an object; yet was he altogether as well furnished with
some other passions, that promised themselves very full
gratification in the young lady's fortune. Such were avarice and
ambition, which divided the dominion of his mind between them. He
had more than once considered the possession of this fortune as a very
desirable thing, and had entertained some distant views concerning it;
but his own youth, and that of the young lady, and indeed
principally a reflection that Mr. Western might marry again, and
have more children, had restrained him from too hasty or eager a
pursuit.
This last and most material objection was now in great measure
removed, as the proposal came from Mr. Western himself. Blifil,
therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr. Allworthy, that
matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet thought; but that he
was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly care, that he should in
all things submit himself to his pleasure.
Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity
arose from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any original phlegm in
his disposition; for he had possessed much fire in his youth, and
had married a beautiful woman for love. He was not therefore greatly
pleased with this cold answer of his nephew; nor could he help
launching forth into the praises of Sophia, and expressing some wonder
that the heart of a young man could be impregnable to the force of
such charms, unless it was guarded by some prior affection.
Blifil assured him he had no such guard; and then proceeded to
discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that he
would have stopt the mouth of a parent much less devoutly inclined
than was his uncle. In the end, the good man was satisfied that his
nephew, far from having any objections to Sophia, had that esteem
for her, which in sober and virtuous minds is the sure foundation of
friendship and love. And as he doubted not but the lover would, in a
little time, become altogether as agreeable to his mistress, he
foresaw great happiness arising to all parties by so proper and
desirable an union. With Mr. Blifil's consent therefore he wrote the
next morning to Mr. Western, acquainting him that his nephew had
very thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready
to wait on the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept
his visit.
Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately
returned answer; in which, without having mentioned a word to his
daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for opening the scene of
courtship.
As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest of his
sister, whom he found reading and expounding the Gazette to parson
Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to attend near a quarter
of an hour, though with great violence to his natural impetuosity,
before he was suffered to speak. At length, however, he found an
opportunity of acquainting the lady, that he had business of great
consequence to impart to her; to which she answered, "Brother, I am
entirely at your service. Things look so well in the north, that I was
never in a better humour."
The parson then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with all which
had passed, and desired her to communicate the affair to Sophia, which
she readily and chearfully undertook; though perhaps her brother was a
little obliged to that agreeable northern aspect which had so
delighted her, that he heard no comment on his proceedings; for they
were certainly somewhat too hasty and violent.
5. CHAPTER V.
In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt
Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. The
moment she saw Mrs. Western, she shut the book with so much eagerness,
that the good lady could not forbear asking her, What book that was
which she seemed so much afraid of showing? "Upon my word, madam,"
answered Sophia, "it is a book which I am neither ashamed nor afraid
to own I have read. It is the production of a young lady of fashion,
whose good understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose
good heart is an honour to human nature." Mrs. Western then took up
the book, and immediately after threw it down, saying- "Yes, the
author is of a very good family; but she is not much among people one
knows. I have never read it; for the best judges say, there is not
much in it."- "I dare not, madam, set up my own opinion," says
Sophia, "against the best judges, but there appears to me a great deal
of human nature in it; and in many parts so much true tenderness and
delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear."- "Ay, and do you love to
cry then?" says the aunt. "I love a tender sensation," answered the
niece, "and would pay the price of a tear for it at any
time."- "Well, but show me," said the aunt, "what was you reading
when I came in; there was something very tender in that, I believe,
and very loving too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah! child, you
should read books which would teach you a little hypocrisy, which
would instruct you how to hide your thoughts a little better."- I
hope, madam," answered Sophia, "I have no thoughts which I ought to be
ashamed of discovering."- "Ashamed! no," cries the aunt, "I don't
think you have any thoughts which you ought to be ashamed of; and yet,
child, you blushed just now when I mentioned the word loving. Dear
Sophy, be assured you have not one thought which I am not well
acquainted with; as well, child, as the French are with our motions,
long before we put them in execution. Did you think, child, because
you have been able to impose upon your father, that you could impose
upon me? Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting
all that friendship for Mr. Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little too
much of the world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again.
I tell you it is a passion you need not be ashamed of. It is a passion
I myself approve, and have already brought your father into the
approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your inclination; for I
would always have that gratified, if possible, though one may
sacrifice higher prospects. Come, I have news which will delight
your very soul. Make me your confident, and I will undertake you shall
be happy to the very extent of your wishes." "La, madam," says Sophia,
looking more foolishly than ever she did in her life, "I know not what
to say- why, madam, should you suspect?"- "Nay, no dishonesty,"
returned Mrs. Western. "Consider, you are speaking to one of your own
sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced you speak to a friend.
Consider, you are only revealing to me what I know already, and what I
plainly saw yesterday, through that most artful of all disguises,
which you had put on, and which must have deceived any one who had not
perfectly known the world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I
highly approve." "La, madam," says Sophia, "you come upon one so
unawares, and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind- and
certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections assembled
together- but is it possible my father and you, madam, can see with my
eyes?" "I tell you," answered the aunt, "we do entirely approve; and
this very afternoon your father hath appointed for you to receive your
lover." "My father, this afternoon!" cries Sophia, with the blood
starting from her face.- "Yes, child," said the aunt, "this afternoon.
You know the impetuosity of my brother's temper. I acquainted him with
the passion which I first discovered in you that evening when you
fainted away in the field. I saw it in your fainting. I saw it
immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that evening at supper, and
the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have seen the
world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but he immediately
wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it yesterday, Allworthy
consented (as to be sure he must with joy), and this afternoon, I tell
you, you are to put on all your best airs." "This afternoon!" cries
Sophia. "Dear aunt, you frighten me out of my senses." "O, my dear,"
said the aunt, "you will soon come to yourself again; for he is a
charming young fellow, that's the truth on't." "Nay, I will own," says
Sophia, "I know none with such perfections. So brave, and yet so
gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so civil, so genteel,
so handsome! What signifies his being base born, when compared with
such qualifications as these?" "Base born? What do you mean?" said the
aunt, "Mr. Blifil base born!" Sophia turned instantly pale at this
name, and faintly repeated it. Upon which the aunt cried, "Mr.
Blifil- ay, Mr. Blifil, of whom else have we been talking?" "Good
heavens," answered Sophia, ready to sink, "of Mr. Jones, I thought;
I am sure I know no other who deserves-" "I protest," cries the
aunt, "you frighten me in your turn. Is it Mr. Jones, and not Mr.
Blifil, who is the object of your affection?" "Mr. Blifil!" repeated
Sophia. "Sure it is impossible you can be in earnest; if you are, I am
the most miserable woman alive." Mrs. Western now stood a few
moments silent, while sparks of fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At
length, collecting all her force of voice, she thundered forth in
the following articulate sounds:
"And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by
allying yourself to a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns submit to
such contamination? If you have not sense sufficient to restrain
such monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of our family would
have prevented you from giving the least encouragement to so base an
affection; much less did I imagine you would ever have had the
assurance to own it to my face."
"Madam," answered Sophia, trembling, "what I have said you have
extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever mentioned the name of
Mr. Jones with approbation to any one before; nor should I now had I
not conceived he had your approbation. Whatever were my thoughts of
that poor, unhappy young man, I intended to have carried them with
me to my grave- to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek
repose." Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and,
in all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a
spectacle which must have affected almost the hardest heart.
All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt.
On the contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage.- "And I
would rather," she cried, in a most vehement voice, "follow you to
your grave, than I would see you disgrace yourself and your family by
such a match. O Heavens! could I have ever suspected that I should
live to hear a niece of mine declare a passion for such a fellow?
You are the first- yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name
who ever entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted for
the prudence of its women"- here she ran on a full quarter of an
hour, till, having exhausted her breath rather than her rage, she
concluded with threatening to go immediately and acquaint her brother.
Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her hands,
begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn from her; urging
the violence of her father's temper, and protesting that no
inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her to do anything which
might offend him.
Mrs. Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having
recollected herself, said, "That on one consideration only she would
keep the secret from her brother; and this was, that Sophia should
promise to entertain Mr. Blifil that very afternoon as her lover,
and to regard him as the person who was to be her husband."
Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt's power to deny her anything
positively; she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr.
Blifil, and be as civil to him as possible; but begged her aunt that
the match might not be hurried on. She said, "Mr. Blifil was by no
means agreeable to her, and she hoped her father would be prevailed on
not to make her the most wretched of women."
Mrs. Western assured her, "That the match was entirely agreed
upon, and that nothing could or should prevent it. I must own," said
she, "I looked on it as on a matter of indifference; nay, perhaps, had
some scruples about it before, which were actually got over by my
thinking it highly agreeable to your own inclinations; but now I
regard it as the most eligible thing in the world: nor shall there be,
if I can prevent it, a moment of time lost on the occasion."
Sophia replied, "Delay at least, madam, I may expect from both
your goodness and my father's. Surely you will give me time to
endeavour to get the better of so strong a disinclination as I have at
present to this person."
The aunt answered, "She knew too much of the world to be so
deceived; that as she was sensible another man had her affections, she
should persuade Mr. Western to hasten the match as much as possible.
It would be bad politics, indeed," added she, "to protract a siege
when the enemy's army is at hand, and in danger of relieving it. No,
no, Sophy," said she, "as I am convinced you have a violent passion
which you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put
your honour out of the care of your family: for when you are married
those matters will belong only to the consideration of your husband. I
hope, child, you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes
you; but if you should not, marriage hath saved many a woman from
ruin."
Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper
to make her an answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr.
Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as she could, for on that
condition only she obtained a promise from her aunt to keep secret the
liking which her ill fortune, rather than any scheme of Mrs.
Western, had unhappily drawn from her.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs. Honour, which may a
little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may
have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader
Mrs. Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we
have seen in the last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived
Mrs. Honour. She was at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been
summoned to the keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding
dialogue, where she had continued during the remaining part of it.
At her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing motionless, with
the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she immediately
ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, and then
began, "O Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?"- "Nothing,"
cries Sophia. "Nothing! O dear madam!" answers Honour, "you must not
tell me that, when your ladyship is in this taking, and when there
hath been such a preamble between your ladyship and Madam Western."-
"Don't teaze me," cries Sophia; "I tell you nothing is the matter.
Good heavens! why was I born?"- "Nay, madam," says Mrs. Honour, "you
shall never persuade me that your la'ship can lament yourself so for
nothing. To be sure I am but a servant; but to be sure I have been
always faithful to your la'ship, and to be sure I would serve your
la'ship with my life."- "My dear Honour," says Sophia, "'tis not in
thy power to be of any service to me. I am irretrievably undone."-
"Heaven forbid!" answered the waiting-woman; "but if I can't be of any
service to you, pray tell me, madam- it will be some comfort to me to
know- pray, dear ma'am, tell me what's the matter."- "My father,"
cries Sophia, "is going to marry me to a man I both despise and
hate."- "O dear, ma'am," answered the other, "who is this wicked man?
for to be sure he is very bad, or your la'ship would not despise
him."- "His name is poison to my tongue," replied Sophia: "thou wilt
know it too soon." Indeed, to confess the truth, she knew it already,
and therefore was not very inquisitive as to that point. She then
proceeded thus: "I don't pretend to give your la'ship advice, whereof
your la'ship knows much better than I can pretend to, being but a
servant; but, ifackins! no father in England should marry me against
my consent. And, to be sure, the 'squire is so good, that if he did
but know your la'ship despises and hates the young man, to be sure he
would not desire you to marry him. And if your la'ship would but give
me leave to tell my master so. To be sure, it would be more properer
to come from your own mouth; but as your la'ship doth not care to foul
your tongue with his nasty name-" - "You are mistaken, Honour," says
Sophia; "my father was determined before he ever thought fit to
mention it to me."- "More shame for him," cries Honour: "you are to go
to bed to him, and not master: and thof a man may be a very proper
man, yet every woman mayn't think him handsome alike. I am sure my
master would never act in this manner of his own head. I wish some
people would trouble themselves only with what belongs to them; they
would not, I believe, like to be served so, if it was their own case;
for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as how all men are not
equally agreeable. And what signifies your la'ship having so great a
fortune, if you can't please yourself with the man you think most
handsomest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a pity some
folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I should not
mind it myself; but then there is not so much money; and what of that?
your la'ship hath money enough for both; and where can your la'ship
bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must allow that
he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest, properest man
in the world."- "What do you mean by running on in this manner to me?"
cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance. "Have I ever given any
encouragement for these liberties?"- "Nay, ma'am, I ask pardon; I
meant no harm," answered she; "but to be sure the poor gentleman hath
run in my head ever since I saw him this morning. To be sure, if your
la'ship had but seen him just now, you must have pitied him. Poor
gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to him; for he
hath been walking about with his arms across, and looking so
melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me almost cry
to see him."- "To see whom?" says Sophia. "Poor Mr. Jones," answered
Honour. "See him! why, where did you see him?" cries Sophia, "By the
canal, ma'am," says Honour. "There he hath been walking all this
morning, and at last there he laid himself down: I believe he lies
there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my modesty, being a
maid, as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma'am, let me
go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is there still."- "Pugh!"
says Sophia. "There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone
before this time, to be sure. Besides, why- what- why should you go to
see? besides, I want you for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and
gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner." Honour
did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on; when,
looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her hat was
tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon
of a different colour; and then giving Mrs. Honour repeated charges
not to leave her work on any account, as she said it was in violent
haste, and must be finished that very day, she muttered something more
about going to the grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and
walked, as fast as her tender trembling limbs could carry her,
directly towards the canal.
Jones had been there as Mrs. Honour had told her; he had indeed
spent two hours there that morning in melancholy contemplation on
his Sophia, and had gone out from the garden at one door the moment
she entered it at another. So that those unlucky minutes which had
been spent in changing the ribbons, had prevented the lovers from
meeting at this time;- a most unfortunate accident, from which my
fair readers will not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I
strictly forbid all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance
which I have recounted only for the sake of the ladies, and upon which
they only are at liberty to comment.
7. CHAPTER VII.
A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be
drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full length
It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that
misfortunes do not come single. This wise maxim was now verified by
Sophia, who was not only disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but
had the vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, in order to
receive a visit from the man she hated.
That afternoon Mr. Western, for the first time, acquainted his
daughter with his intention; telling her, he knew very well that she
had heard it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this,
nor could she prevent a few pearls from stealing into her eyes. "Come,
come," says Western, "none of your maidenish airs; I know all; I
assure you sister hath told me all."
"Is it possible," says Sophia, "that my aunt can have betrayed me
already?"- "Ay, ay," says Western; "betrayed you! ay. Why, you
betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You showed your fancy very
plainly, I think. But you young girls never know what you would be at.
So you cry because I am going to marry you to the man you are in love
with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the same
manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we were
married: Mr. Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put an end to
your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un every
minute."
Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to
her: and she determined to go through that disagreeable afternoon with
as much resolution as possible, and without giving the least suspicion
in the world to her father.
Mr. Blifil soon arrived; and Mr. Western soon after withdrawing,
left the young couple together.
Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the
gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the unbecoming
modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often attempted to speak,
and as often suppressed his words just at the very point of utterance.
At last out they broke in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained
compliments, which were answered on her side by downcast looks, half
bows, and civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the
ways of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour
for a modest assent to his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene
which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the room,
he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself
that he should soon have enough of her company.
He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success;
for as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart of his
mistress which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it never
entered his head. Her fortune and her person were the sole objects
of his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to obtain the absolute
property; as Mr. Western's mind was so earnestly bent on the match;
and as he well knew the strict obedience which Sophia was always ready
to pay to her father's will, and the greater still which her father
would exact, if there was occasion. This authority, therefore,
together with the charms which he fancied in his own person and
conversation, could not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a young
lady, whose inclinations were, he doubted not, entirely disengaged.
Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have
often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the
character which Jones bore all over the country (how justly, let the
reader determine), of being one of the wildest fellows in England,
might render him odious to a lady of the most exemplary modesty.
Perhaps his suspicions might be laid asleep by the behaviour of
Sophia, and of Jones himself, when they were all in company
together. Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there
was not another self in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones to the
bottom, and had in reality a great contempt for his understanding, for
not being more attached to his own interest. He had no apprehension
that Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for any lucrative
motives, he imagined they would sway very little with so silly a
fellow. Blifil, moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still
went on, and indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones
really loved him from his childhood, and had kept no secret from
him, till his behaviour on the sickness of Mr. Allworthy had
entirely alienated his heart; and it was by means of the quarrel which
had ensued on this occasion, and which was not yet reconciled, that
Mr. Blifil knew nothing of the alteration which had happened in the
affection which Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.
From these reasons, therefore, Mr. Blifil saw no bar to his
success with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that of all
other young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and it had indeed
entirely answered his expectations.
Mr. Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his
mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so enamoured with
his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception of him, that the old
gentleman began to caper and dance about his hall, and by many other
antic actions to express the extravagance of his joy; for he had not
the least command over any of his passions; and that which had at
any time the ascendant in his mind hurried him to the wildest
excesses.
As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty
kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went
instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no sooner found than he
poured forth the most extravagant raptures, bidding her chuse what
clothes and jewels she pleased; and declaring that he had no other use
for fortune but to make her happy. He then caressed her again and
again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the most
endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on earth.
Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did
not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not
unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than ordinary),
thought she should never have a better opportunity of disclosing
herself than at present, as far at least as regarded Mr. Blifil; and
she too well foresaw the necessity which she should soon be under of
coming to a full explanation. After having thanked the squire,
therefore, for all his professions of kindness, she added, with a look
full of inexpressible softness, "And is it possible my papa can be
so good to place all his joy in his Sophy's happiness?" which
Western having confirmed by a great oath, and a kiss; she then laid
hold of his hand, and, falling on her knees, after many warm and
passionate declarations of affection and duty, she begged him "not
to make her the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to
marry a man whom she detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir,"
said she, "for your sake, as well as my own, since you are so very
kind to tell me your happiness depends on mine."- "How! what!" says
Western, staring wildly. "Oh! sir," continued she, "not only your poor
Sophy's happiness; her very life, her being, depends upon your
granting her request. I cannot live with Mr. Blifil. To force me
into this marriage would be killing me."- "You can't live with Mr.
Blifil?" says Western. "No, upon my soul I can't," answered Sophia.
"Then die and be d--d," cries he, spurning her from him. "Oh! sir,"
cries Sophia, catching hold of the skirt of his coat, "take pity on
me, I beseech you. Don't look and say such cruel-- Can you be unmoved
while you see your Sophy in this dreadful condition? Can the best of
fathers break my heart? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel,
lingering death?"- "Pooh! pooh!" cries the squire; "all stuff and
nonsense; all maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill
you?"- "Oh! sir," answered Sophia, "such a marriage is worse than
death. He is not even indifferent; I hate and detest him."- "If you
detest un never so much," cries Western, "you shall ha'un." This he
bound by an oath too shocking to repeat; and after many violent
asseverations, concluded in these words: "I am resolved upon the
match, and unless you consent to it I will not give you a groat, not a
single farthing; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in the
street, I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. This is my
fixed resolution, and so I leave you to consider on it." He then broke
from her with such violence, that her face dashed against the floor;
and he burst directly out of the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate
on the ground.
When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing
his friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not
forbear enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appearances. Upon
which the squire immediately acquainted him with the whole matter,
concluding with bitter denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic
lamentations of the misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate to
have daughters.
Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of
Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead with this
relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, as he
afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr. Western,
which seemed to require more impudence than a human forehead was
ever gifted with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might
endeavour to obtain her concurrence with her father's inclinations.
If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for
the contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded him.
He thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and said,
"Go, go, prithee, try what canst do;" and then swore many execrable
oaths that he would turn her out of doors unless she consented to
the match.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
The meeting between Jones and Sophia
Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just
risen from the ground, where her father had left her, with the tears
trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from her lips. He
presently ran to her, and with a voice full at once of tenderness
and terrour, cried, "O my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?" She
looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and then said,
"Mr. Jones, for Heaven's sake how came you here?- Leave me, I beseech
you, this moment."- "Do not," says he, "impose so harsh a command
upon me- my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily
could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood."- "I
have too many obligations to you already," answered she, "for sure you
meant them such." Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and
then bursting into an agony, cried, "Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you save
my life? my death would have been happier for us both."- "Happier for
us both!" cried he. "Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as
Sophia's- I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?"
Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he
spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her
hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she
hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in
silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on
Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground: at last she recovered
strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain
ruin would be the consequence of their being found together; adding,
"Oh, Mr. Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel
afternoon." "I know all, my Sophia," answered he; "your cruel father
hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you."- "My
father sent you to me!" replied she: "sure you dream."- "Would to
Heaven," cries he, "it was but a dream! Oh, Sophia, your father hath
sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to solicit
you in his favour. I took any means to get access to you. O speak to
me, Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever
doated like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this
gentle hand- one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me- nothing
less than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered
the respect and awe with which you have inspired me." She stood a
moment silent, and covered with confusion; then lifting up her eyes
gently towards him, she cried, "What would Mr. Jones have me
say?"- "O do but promise," cries he, "that you never will give
yourself to Blifil."- "Name not," answered she, "the detested sound.
Be assured I never will give him what is in my power to withhold from
him."- "Now then," cries he, "while you are so perfectly kind, go a
little farther, and add that I may hope."- "Alas!" says she, "Mr.
Jones, whither will you drive me? What hope have I to bestow? You know
my father's intentions."- "But I know," answered he, "your compliance
with them cannot be compelled."- "What," says she, "must be the
dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least
concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my
father's misery."- "He is himself the cause," cries Jones, "by
exacting a power over you which Nature hath not given him. Think on
the misery which I am to suffer if I am to lose you, and see on which
side pity will turn the balance."- "Think of it!" replied she: "can
you imagine I do not feel the ruin which I must bring on you, should I
comply with your desire? It is that thought which gives me
resolution to bid you fly from me for ever, and avoid your own
destruction."- "I fear no destruction," cries he, "but the loss of
Sophia. If you would save me from the most bitter agonies, recall that
cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part with you, indeed I cannot."
The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being
unable to withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to
hold it; when the scene, which I believe some of my readers will think
had lasted long enough, was interrupted by one of so different a
nature, that we shall reserve the relation of it for a different
chapter.
9. CHAPTER IX.
Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former
Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be
proper to recount what had past in the hall during their tender
interview.
Soon after Jones had left Mr. Western in the manner above mentioned,
his sister came to him, and was presently informed of all that had
passed between her brother and Sophia relating to Blifil.
This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an
absolute breach of the condition on which she had engaged to keep
her love for Mr. Jones a secret. She considered herself, therefore, at
full liberty to reveal all she knew to the squire, which she
immediately did in the most explicit terms, and without any ceremony
or preface.
The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never
once entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest minutes
of his affection towards that young man, or from suspicion, or on
any other occasion. He did indeed consider a parity of fortune and
circumstances to be physically as necessary an ingredient in marriage,
as difference of sexes, or any other essential; and had no more
apprehension of his daughter's falling in love with a poor man, than
with any animal of a different species.
He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister's
relation. He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, having
been almost deprived of his breath by the violence of the surprize.
This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual in other cases after an
intermission, with redoubled force and fury.
The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery
from the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a
round volley of oaths and imprecations. After which he proceeded
hastily to the apartment where he expected to find the lovers, and
murmured, or rather indeed roared forth, intentions of revenge every
step he went.
As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and
Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into some
pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation of Love,
that bashful boy, who cannot speak in public, and is never a good
companion to more than two at a time; here, while every object is
serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly through the shattered
clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts
from the mossy bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds
the red regimentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear
shakes her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling
tottering limbs.
Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the
place, are cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at
Salisbury, if the great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as well
as some of his setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his chains,
and dreadfully hum forth the grumbling catch along the gallery; the
frighted strangers stand aghast; scared at the horrid sound, they seek
some place of shelter from the approaching danger; and if the
well-barred windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to
escape the threatening fury now coming upon them.
So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her
father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing,
cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I
believe the youth himself would, from some prudent considerations,
have preferred another place of abode at this time, had his terror
on Sophia's account given him liberty to reflect a moment on what
any other ways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake
whatever affected her.
And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object
which instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the
ghastly appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover's
arms. This tragical sight Mr. Western no sooner beheld, than all his
rage forsook him; he roared for help with his utmost violence; ran
first to his daughter, then back to the door calling for water, and
then back again to Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then
was, nor perhaps once recollecting that there was such a person in the
world as Jones; for indeed I believe the present circumstances of
his daughter were now the sole consideration which employed his
thoughts.
Mrs. Western and a great number of servants soon came to the
assistance of Sophia with water, cordials, and everything necessary on
those occasions. These were applied with such success, that Sophia
in a very few minutes began to recover, and all the symptoms of life
to return. Upon which she was presently led off by her own maid and
Mrs. Western: nor did that good lady depart without leaving some
wholesome admonitions with her brother, on the dreadful effects of his
passion, or, as she pleased to call it, madness.
The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as it
was delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration: at
least, if he did understand it, he profited very little by it; for
no sooner was he cured of his immediate fears for his daughter, than
he relapsed into his former frenzy, which must have produced an
immediate battle with Jones, had not parson Supple, who was a very
strong man, been present, and by mere force restrained the squire from
acts of hostility.
The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very suppliant
manner to Mr. Western, whom the parson held in his arms, and begged
him to be pacified; for that, while he continued in such a passion, it
would be impossible to give him any satisfaction.
"I wull have satisfaction o' thee," answered the squire: "so doff
thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I'll lick thee as well as wast
ever licked in thy life." He then bespattered the youth with abundance
of that language which passes between country gentlemen who embrace
opposite sides of the question; with frequent applications to him to
salute that part which is generally introduced into all
controversies that arise among the lower orders of the English
gentry at horse-races, cock-matches, and other public places.
Allusions to this part are likewise often made for the sake of the
jest. And here, I believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In
reality, it lies in desiring another to kiss your a-- for having just
before threatened to kick his; for I have observed very accurately,
that no one ever desires you to kick that which belongs to himself,
nor offers to kiss this part in another.
It may likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand kind
invitations of this sort, which every one who hath conversed with
country gentlemen must have heard, no one, I believe, hath ever seen a
single instance where the desire hath been complied with;- a great
instance of their want of politeness; for in town nothing can be
more common than for the finest gentlemen to perform this ceremony
every day to their superiors, without having that favour once
requested of them.
To all such wit, Jones very calmly answered, "Sir, this usage may
perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred on me; but
there is one you can never cancel; nor will I be provoked by your
abuse to lift my hand against the father of Sophia."
At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than before; so
that the parson begged Jones to retire; saying, "You behold, sir,
how he waxeth wrath at your abode here; therefore let me pray you
not to tarry any longer. His anger is too much kindled for you to
commune with him at present. You had better, therefore, conclude
your visit, and refer what matters you have to urge in your behalf
to some other opportunity."
Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately departed.
The squire now regained the liberty of his hands, and so much temper
as to express some satisfaction in the restraint which had been laid
upon him; declaring that he should certainly have beat his brains out;
and adding, "It would have vexed one confoundedly to have been
hanged for such a rascal."
The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peacemaking
endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against anger, which might
perhaps rather have tended to raise than to quiet that passion in some
hasty minds. This lecture he enriched with many valuable quotations
from the antients, particularly from Seneca; who hath indeed so well
handled this passion, that none but a very angry man can read him
without great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this
harangue with the famous story of Alexander and Clitus; but as I
find that entered in my common-place under title Drunkenness, I
shall not insert it here.
The squire took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything
he said; for he interrupted him before he had finished, by calling for
a tankard of beer; observing (which is perhaps as true as any
observation on this fever of the mind) that anger makes a man dry.
No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than he renewed
the discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution of going the next
morning early to acquaint Mr. Allworthy. His friend would have
dissuaded him from this, from the mere motive of good-nature; but
his dissuasion had no other effect than to produce a large volley of
oaths and curses, which greatly shocked the pious ears of Supple;
but he did not dare to remonstrate against a privilege which the
squire claimed as a freeborn Englishman. To say truth, the parson
submitted to please his palate at the squire's table, at the expense
of suffering now and then this violence to his ears. He contented
himself with thinking he did not promote this evil practise, and
that the squire would not swear an oath the less, if he never
entered within his gates. However, though he was not guilty of ill
manners by rebuking a gentleman in his own house, he paid him off
obliquely in the pulpit: which had not, indeed, the good effect of
working a reformation in the squire himself; yet it so far operated on
his conscience, that he put the laws very severely in execution
against others, and the magistrate was the only person in the parish
who could swear with impunity.
10. CHAPTER X.
In which Mr. Western visits Mr. Allworthy
Mr. Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his nephew, well
satisfied with the report of the young gentleman's successful visit to
Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, more on account of the young
lady's character than of her riches), when Mr. Western broke
abruptly in upon them, and without any ceremony began as follows:-
"There, you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have brought
up your bastard to a fine purpose; not that I believe you have had any
hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, designedly: but there
is a fine kettle-of-fish made on't up at our house." "What can be
the matter, Mr. Western?" said Allworthy. "O, matter enow of all
conscience: my daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard,
that's all; but I won't ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a
brass varden. I always thought what would come o' breeding up a
bastard like a gentleman, and letting un come about to vok's houses.
It's well vor un I could not get at un: I'd a lick'd un; I'd a spoil'd
his caterwauling; I'd a taught the son of a whore to meddle with
meat for his master. He shan't ever have a morsel of meat of mine,
or a varden to buy it: if she will ha un, one smock shall be her
portion. I'd sooner ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it may
be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation with." "I am heartily sorry,"
cries Allworthy. "Pox o' your sorrow," says Western; "it will do me
abundance of good when I have lost my only child, my poor Sophy,
that was the joy of my heart, and all the hope and comfort of my
age; but I am resolved I will turn her out o' doors; she shall beg,
and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny, not a hapeny shall
she ever hae o' mine. The son of a bitch was always good at finding
a hare sitting, an be rotted to'n: I little thought what puss he was
looking after; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in his life.
She shall be no better than carrion: the skin o'er is all he shall ha,
and zu you may tell un." "I am in amazement," cries Allworthy, "at
what you tell me, after what passed between my nephew and the young
lady no longer ago than yesterday." "Yes, sir," answered Western,
"it was after what passed between your nephew and she that the whole
matter came out. Mr. Blifil there was no sooner gone than the son of a
whore came lurching about the house. Little did I think when I used to
love him for a sportsman that he was all the while a-poaching after my
daughter." "Why truly," says Allworthy, "I could wish you had not
given him so many opportunities with her; and you will do me the
justice to acknowledge that I have always been averse to his staying
so much at your house, though I own I had no suspicion of this
kind." "Why, zounds," cries Western, "who could have thought it?
What the devil had she to do wi'n? He did not come there a courting to
her; he came there a hunting with me." "But was it possible," says
Allworthy, "that you should never discern any symptoms of love between
them, when you have seen them so often together?" "Never in my life,
as I hope to be saved," cries Western: "I never so much as zeed him
kiss her in all my life; and so far from courting her, he used
rather to be more silent when she was in company than at any other
time; and as for the girl, she was always less civil to'n than to
any young man that came to the house. As to that matter, I am not more
easy to be deceived than another; I would not have you think I am,
neighbour." Allworthy could scarce refrain laughter at this; but he
resolved to do a violence to himself; for he perfectly well knew
mankind, and had too much good-breeding and good-nature to offend
the squire in his present circumstances. He then asked Western what he
would have him do upon this occasion. To which the other answered,
"That he would have him keep the rascal away from his house, and
that he would go and lock up the wench; for he was resolved to make
her marry Mr. Blifil in spite of her teeth." He then shook Blifil by
the hand, and swore he would have no other
son-in-law. Presently after which he took his leave; saying his
house was in such disorder that it was necessary for him to make haste
home, to take care his daughter did not give him the slip; and as
for Jones, he swore if he caught him at his house, he would qualify
him to run for the geldings' plate.
When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long silence
ensued between them; all which interval the young gentleman filled
up with sighs, which proceeded partly from disappointment, but more
from hatred; for the success of Jones was much more grievous to him
than the loss of Sophia.
At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and he
answered in the following words:- "Alas! sir, can it be a question
what step a lover will take, when reason and passion point different
ways? I am afraid it is too certain he will, in that dilemma, always
follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit all thoughts of a
woman who places her affections on another; my passion bids me hope
she may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I
conceive an objection may be raised, which, if it could not fully be
answered, would totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean
the injustice of endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of
which he seems already in possession; but the determined resolution of
Mr. Western shows that, in this case, I shall, by so doing, promote
the happiness of every party; not only that of the parent, who will
thus be preserved from the highest degree of misery, but of both the
others, who must be undone by this match. The lady, I am sure, will be
undone in every sense; for, besides the loss of most part of her own
fortune, she will be not only married to a beggar, but the little
fortune which her father cannot withhold from her will be squandered
on that wench with whom I know he yet converses. Nay, that is a
trifle; for I know him to be one of the worst men in the world; for
had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto endeavoured to conceal,
he must have long since abandoned so profligate a wretch." "How!" said
Allworthy; "hath he done anything worse than I already know? Tell
me, I beseech you?" "No," replied Blifil; "it is now past, and perhaps
he may have repented of it." "I command you, on your duty," said
Allworthy, "to tell me what you mean." "You know, sir," says Blifil,
"I never disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since it may
now look like revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever
entered my heart; and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his
petitioner to you for your forgiveness." "I will have no
conditions," answered Allworthy; "I think I have shown tenderness
enough towards him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me
for." "More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved," cries Blifil; "for
in the very day of your utmost danger, when myself and all the
family were in tears, he filled the house with riot and debauchery. He
drank, and sung, and roared; and when I gave him a gentle hint of
the indecency of his actions, he fell into a violent passion, swore
many oaths, called me rascal, and struck me." "How!" cries
Allworthy; "did he dare to strike you?" "I am sure," cries Blifil,
"I have forgiven him that long ago. I wish I could so easily forget
his ingratitude to the best of benefactors; and yet even that I hope
you will forgive him, since he must have certainly been possessed with
the devil: for that very evening, as Mr. Thwackum and myself were
taking the air in the fields, and exulting in the good symptoms then
first began to discover themselves, we unluckily saw him engaged
with a wench in a manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr. Thwackum, with
more boldness than prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when (I am
sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man, and beat him so
outrageously that I wish he may have yet recovered the bruises. Nor
was I without my share of the effects of his malice, while I
endeavoured to protect my tutor; but that I have long forgiven; nay, I
prevailed with Mr. Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to inform
you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him. And now, sir,
since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this matter, and your
commands have obliged me to discover the whole, let me intercede
with you for him." "O child!" said Allworthy, "I know not whether I
should blame or applaud your goodness, in concealing such villany a
moment: but where is Mr. Thwackum? Not that I want any confirmation of
what you say; but I will examine all the evidence of this matter, to
justify to the world the example I am resolved to make of such a
monster."
Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated
every circumstance which the other had deposed; nay, he produced the
record upon his breast, where the handwriting of Mr. Jones remained
very legible in black and blue. He concluded with declaring to Mr.
Allworthy, that he should have long since informed him of this matter,
had not Mr. Blifil, by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him.
"He is," says he, "an excellent youth: though such forgiveness of
enemies is carrying the matter too far."
In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the
parson, and to prevent the discovery at that time; for which he had
many reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt to be softened and
relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. Besides, he imagined
that if the story was told when the fact was so recent, and the
physician about the house, who might have unravelled the real truth,
he should never be able to give it the malicious turn which he
intended. Again, he resolved to hoard up this business, till the
indiscretion of Jones should afford some additional complaints; for he
thought the joint weight of many facts falling upon him together,
would be the most likely to crush him; and he watched, therefore, some
such opportunity as that with which fortune had now kindly presented
him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the matter for a
time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of his friendship to Jones,
which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr. Allworthy.
11. CHAPTER XI.
A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to affect
the good-natured reader
It was Mr. Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, not even to
turn away a servant, in a passion. He resolved therefore to delay
passing sentence on Jones till the afternoon.
The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual; but his heart was
too much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief too was a good deal
aggravated by the unkind looks of Mr. Allworthy; whence he concluded
that Western had discovered the whole affair between him and Sophia;
but as to Mr. Blifil's story, he had not the least apprehension; for
of much the greater part he was entirely innocent; and for the
residue, as he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he
suspected no remembrance on the other side. When dinner was over,
and the servants departed, Mr. Allworthy began to harangue. He set
forth, in a long speech, the many iniquities of which Jones had been
guilty, particularly those which this day had brought to light; and
concluded by telling him, "That unless he could clear himself of the
charge, he was resolved to banish him his sight for ever."
Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay,
indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr. Allworthy, in
recounting the drunkenness, etc., while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk
everything that related particularly to himself, which indeed
principally constituted the crime; Jones could not deny the charge.
His heart was, besides, almost broken already; and his spirits were so
sunk, that he could say nothing for himself; but acknowledge the
whole, and, like a criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy;
concluding, "That though he must own himself guilty of many follies
and inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what would
be to him the greatest punishment in the world."
Allworthy answered, "That he had forgiven him too often already,
in compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now
found he was an abandoned reprobate, and such as it would be
criminal in any one to support and encourage. Nay," said Mr. Allworthy
to him, "your audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls
upon me to justify my own character in punishing you. The world who
have already censured the regard I have shown for you may think,
with some colour at least of justice, that I connive at so base and
barbarous an action- an action of which you must have known my
abhorrence: and which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour,
as well as for my friendship, you would never have thought of
undertaking. Fie upon it, young man! indeed there is scarce any
punishment equal to your crimes, and I can scarce think myself
justifiable in what I am now going to bestow on you. However, as I
have educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked
into the world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find
something which may enable you, with industry, to get an honest
livelihood; but if you employ it to worse purposes, I shall not
think myself obliged to supply you farther, being resolved, from
this day forward, to converse no more with you on any account. I
cannot avoid saying, there is no part of your conduct which I resent
more than your ill-treatment of that good young man (meaning Blifil)
who hath behaved with so much tenderness and honour towards you."
These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A
flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of
speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before
he was able to obey Allworthy's peremptory commands of departing;
which he at length did, having first kissed his hands with a passion
difficult to be affected, and as difficult to be described.
The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in
which Jones then appeared to Mr. Allworthy, he should blame the rigour
of his sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, either from this
weakness, or from some worse motive, condemned this justice and
severity as the highest cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had
before censured the good man for the kindness and tenderness shown
to a bastard (his own, according to the general opinion), now cried
out as loudly against turning his own child out of doors. The women
especially were unanimous in taking the part of Jones, and raised more
stories on the occasion than I have room, in this chapter, to set
down.
One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this
occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper which
Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds;
but all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some said naked,
from the house of his inhuman father.
12. CHAPTER XII.
Containing love-letters, etc.
Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that
his clothes and everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he
should order them.
He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding,
and indeed scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook
obstructing his passage, he threw himself down by the side of it;
nor could he help muttering with some little indignation, "Sure my
father will not deny me this place to rest in!"
Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his
hair from his head, and using most other actions which generally
accompany fits of madness, rage, and despair.
When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion,
he began to come a little to himself. His grief now took another turn,
and discharged itself in a gentler way, till he became at last cool
enough to reason with his passion, and to consider what steps were
proper to be taken in his deplorable condition.
And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The
thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart asunder; but the
consideration of reducing her to ruin and beggary still racked him, if
possible, more; and if the violent desire of possessing her person
could have induced him to listen one moment to this alternative, still
he was by no means certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes
at so high an expense. The resentment of Mr. Allworthy, and the injury
he must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and
lastly, the apparent impossibility of his success, even if he would
sacrifice all these considerations to it, came to his assistance;
and thus honour at last backed with despair, with gratitude to his
benefactors, and with real love to his mistress, got the better of
burning desire, and he resolved rather to quit Sophia, than pursue her
to her ruin.
It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the
glowing warmth which filled his breast on the first contemplation of
this victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so agreeably,
that his mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness; but this was only
momentary: Sophia soon returned to his imagination, and allayed the
joy of his triumph with no less bitter pangs than a good-natured
general must feel, when he surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of
whose blood he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender
ideas lay murdered before our conqueror.
Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour,
as the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewell
letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off,
where, being furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:-
"MADAM,-
"WHEN you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my letter
contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full, that no
language can express its dictates.
"I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.
"Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I imagined
they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness and
tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of those
pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing, which
you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment's concern; for,
after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.
"O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire
you to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
severely punished.- I am unable to say more.- May guardian angels
protect you for ever!"
He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor
indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic
disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his
pocket-book, which he had received from Mr. Allworthy, which he had
never opened, and which now first occurred to his memory.
The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with
which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook
side, in order to search for the things which he had there lost. In
his way he met his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with
him on his misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and
indeed those of all the neighbourhood.
Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily
went back with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of
grass in the meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he
had been; but all to no purpose, for they found nothing; for,
indeed, though the things were then in the meadow, they omitted to
search the only place where they were deposited; to wit, in the
pockets of the said George; for he had just before found them, and
being luckily apprized of their value, had very carefully put them
up for his own use.
The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr. Jones to recollect
if he had been in no other place: "For sure," said he, "if you had
lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still; for
this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by." And indeed it
was by great accident that he himself had passed through that field,
in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
poulterer at Bath the next morning.
Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him
earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?
George answered with some hesitation, "Sir, you know you may command
me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power
to do you any service." In fact, the question staggered him; for he
had, by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr.
Western's service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some
small matter of him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety,
by being desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great
pleasure he promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours
which he would not have gladly conferred on Mr. Jones; for he bore
as much gratitude towards him as he could, and was as honest as men
who love money better than any other thing in the universe,
generally are.
Mrs. Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which
this letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper
returned home to Mr. Western's, and Jones walked to an alehouse at
half a mile's distance, to wait for his messenger's return.
George no sooner came home to his master's house than he met with
Mrs. Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous
questions, he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at
the same time another from her, for Mr. Jones; which Honour told him
she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to despair of
finding any means of delivering it.
The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
received Sophia's letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
breaking it open, read as follows:-
"SIR,
"It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
to see them bestowed."
Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred
times as often. His passion now brought all tender desires back into
his mind. He repented that he had writ to Sophia in the manner we have
seen above; but he repented more that he had made use of the
interval of his messenger's absence to write and dispatch a letter
to Mr. Allworthy, in which he had faithfully promised and bound
himself to quit all thoughts of his love. However, when his cool
reflections returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither
mended nor altered by Sophia's billet, unless to give him some
little glimpse of hope, from her constancy, of some favourable
accident hereafter. He therefore resumed his resolution, and taking
leave of Black George, set forward to a town about five miles distant,
whither he had desired Mr. Allworthy, unless he pleased to revoke
his sentence, to send his things after him.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which none of her
sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And
the discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience
Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable
manner. During a large part of them she had been entertained by her
aunt with lectures of prudence, recommending to her the example of the
polite world, where love (so the good lady said) is at present
entirely laughed at, and where women consider matrimony, as men do
offices of public trust, only as the means of making their fortunes,
and of advancing themselves in the world. In commenting on which
text Mrs. Western had displayed her eloquence during several hours.
These sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste
or inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than
her own thoughts, that formed the entertainment of the night, during
which she never once closed her eyes.
But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet,
having no avocation from it, she was found there by her father at
his return from Allworthy's, which was not till past ten o'clock in
the morning. He went directly up to her apartment, opened the door,
and seeing she was not up, cried, "Oh! you are safe then, and I am
resolved to keep you so." He then locked the door, and delivered the
key to Honour, having first given her the strictest charge, with great
promises of rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of
punishment in case should betray her trust.
Honour's orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of
her room without the authority of the squire himself, and to admit
none to her but him and her aunt; but she was herself to attend her
with whatever Sophia pleased, except only pen, ink, and paper, of
which she was forbidden the use.
The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at
dinner; which she obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again
conducted to her prison.
In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she
received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or
thrice over, and then threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a
flood of tears. Mrs. Honour expressed great astonishment at this
behaviour in her mistress; nor could she forbear very eagerly
begging to know the cause of this passion. Sophia made her no answer
for some time, and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by
the hand, and cried, "O Honour! I am undone." "Marry forbid," cries
Honour: "I wish the letter had been burnt before I had brought it to
your la'ship. I'm sure I thought it would have comforted your la'ship,
or I would have seen it at the devil before I would have touched
it." "Honour," says Sophia, "you are a good girl, and it is vain to
attempt concealing longer my weakness from you; I have thrown away
my heart on a man who hath forsaken me." "And is Mr. Jones,"
answered the maid, "such a perfidy man?" "He hath taken his leave of
me," says Sophia, "for ever in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to
forget him. Could he have desired that if he had loved me? Could he
have borne such a thought? Could he have written such a word?" "No,
certainly, ma'am," cries Honour; "and to be sure, if the best man in
England was to desire me to forget him, I'd take him at his word.
Marry, come up! I am sure your la'ship hath done him too much honour
ever to think on him;- a young lady who may take her choice of all
the young men in the country. And to be sure, if I may be so
presumptuous as to offer my poor opinion, there is young Mr. Blifil,
who, besides that he is come of honest parents, and will be one of the
greatest squires all hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion,
a more handsomer and a more politer man by half; and besides, he is
a young gentleman of a sober character, and who may defy any of the
neighbours to say black is his eye; he follows no dirty trollops,
nor can any bastards be laid at his door. Forget him, indeed! I
thank Heaven I myself am not so much at my last prayers as to suffer
any man to bid me forget him twice. If the best he that wears a head
was for to go for to offer to say such an affronting word to me, I
would never give him my company afterwards, if there was another young
man in the kingdom. And as I was a saying, to be sure, there is
young Mr. Blifil." "Name not his detested name," cries Sophia. "Nay,
ma'am," says Honour, "if your la'ship doth not like him, there be more
jolly handsome young men that would court your la'ship, if they had
but the least encouragement. I don't believe there is arrow young
gentleman in this county, or in the next to it, that if your la'ship
was but to look as if you had a mind to him, would not come about to
make his offers directly." "What a wretch dost thou imagine me," cries
Sophia, "by affronting my ears with such stuff! I all detest all
mankind." "Nay, to be sure, ma'am," answered Honour, "your la'ship
hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them. To be used ill by
such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow."- "Hold your blasphemous
tongue," cries Sophia: "how dare you mention his name with
disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his poor bleeding heart
suffered more when he writ the cruel words than mine from reading
them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I am ashamed of
the weakness of my own passion, for blaming what I ought to admire.
O Honour! it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he
sacrifices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me hath
driven him to despair." "I am very glad," says Honour, to hear your
la'ship takes that into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be
nothing less than ruin to give your mind to one that is turned out
of doors, and is not worth a farthing in the world." "Turned out of
doors!" cries Sophia hastily: "how! what dost thou mean?" "Why, to be
sure, ma'am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr. Jones
having offered to make love to your la'ship than the squire stripped
him stark naked, and turned him out of doors!" "Ha!" says Sophia, "I
have been the cursed, wretched cause of his destruction! Turned
naked out of doors! Here, Honour, take all the money I have; take
the rings from my fingers. Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find
him immediately." "For Heaven's sake, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour,
"do but consider, if my master should miss any of these things, I
should be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg your la'ship
not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, I think,
is enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master can never know
anything of the matter." "Here, then," cries Sophia, "take every
farthing I am worth, find him out immediately, and give it him. Go,
go, lose not a moment."
Mrs. Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen
guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her
father was very liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.
Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the
alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he
should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however,
immediately started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him
with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his avarice answered, That
his conscience should have considered the matter before, when he
deprived poor Jones of his £500. That having quietly acquiesced in
what was of so much greater importance, it was absurd, if not
downright hypocrisy, to affect any qualms at this trifle. In return to
which, Conscience, like a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish
between an absolute breach of trust, as here, where the goods were
delivered, and a bare concealment of what was found, as in the
former case. Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a
distinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted that when
once all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any one
instance, that there was no precedent for resorting to them upon a
second occasion. In short, poor Conscience had certainly been defeated
in the argument, had not Fear stept in to her assistance, and very
strenuously urged that the real distinction between the two actions,
did not lie in the different degrees of honour but of safety: for that
the secreting the £500 was a matter of very little hazard; whereas the
detaining the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of
discovery.
By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory
in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments
on his honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire
Western and his sister
Mrs. Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met
her at her return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he
acquainted her that he had secured her safe enough. "She is locked
up in chamber," cries he, "and Honour keeps the key." As his looks
were full of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister
this information, it is probable he expected much applause from her
for what he had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most
disdainful aspect, she cried, "Sure, brother, you are the weakest of
all men. Why will you not confide in me for the management of my
niece? Why will you interpose? You have now undone all that I have
been spending my breath in order to bring about. While I have been
endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence, you have been
provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank
heaven, are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and
Italian wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We
are to be convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by
force. I have seen the world, brother, and know what arguments to make
use of; and if your folly had not prevented me, should have
prevailed with her to form her conduct by those rules of prudence
and discretion which I formerly taught her." "To be sure," said the
squire, "I am always in the wrong." "Brother," answered the lady, "you
are not in the wrong, unless when you meddle with matters beyond
your knowledge. You must agree that I have seen most of the world; and
happy had it been for my niece if she had not been taken from under my
care. It is by living at home with you that she hath learnt romantic
notions of love and nonsense." "You don't imagine, I hope," cries
the squire, "that I have taught her any such things." "Your ignorance,
brother," returned she, "as the great Milton says, almost subdues my
patience."[6]"D--n Milton!" answered the squire: "if he had the
impudence to say so to my face, I'd lend him a douse, thof he was
never so great a man. Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have
more occasion of patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy,
as I am by you. Do you think no one hath any understanding, unless
he hath been about at court? Pox! the world is come to a fine pass
indeed, if we are all fools, except a parcel of roundheads and Hanover
rats. Pox! I hope the times are a coming when we shall make fools of
them, and every man shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister; and every
man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the
Hanover rats have eat up all our corn, and left us nothing but turneps
to feed upon."- "I protest, brother," cries she, "you are now got
beyond my understanding. Your jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to
me perfectly unintelligible."- "I believe"' cries he, "you don't care
to hear o'em; but the country interest may succeed one day or other
for all that."- "I wish," answered the lady, "you would think a
little of your daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in greater
danger than the nation."- "Just now," said he, "you chid me for
thinking on her, and would ha' her left to you."- "And if you will
promise to interpose no more," answered she, "I will, out of my regard
to my niece, undertake the charge."- "Well, do then," said the
squire, "for you know I always agreed, that women are the properest to
manage women."
Mrs. Western then departed, muttering something with an air of
disdain, concerning women and management of the nation. She
immediately repaired to Sophia's apartment, who was now, after a day's
confinement, released again from her captivity.
[[6]]
The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if
he searches for this in Milton.