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THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING
By Henry Fielding
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
To the Honourable
GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ;
One of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury.
A Treasury Lord.
Sir,
Dude,
Notwithstanding your constant refusal, when I have asked leave to prefix your name to this dedication, I must still insist on my right to desire your protection of this work.
Despite your ongoing refusal when I've asked to include your name in this dedication, I must still assert my right to seek your support for this work.
To you, Sir, it is owing that this history was ever begun. It was by your desire that I first thought of such a composition. So many years have since past, that you may have, perhaps, forgotten this circumstance: but your desires are to me in the nature of commands; and the impression of them is never to be erased from my memory.
To you, Sir, I owe the beginning of this story. Because of your wish, I first contemplated writing it. So many years have passed that you may have forgotten this fact, but your wishes feel like commands to me, and I can never erase them from my memory.
Again, Sir, without your assistance this history had never been completed. Be not startled at the assertion. I do not intend to draw on you the suspicion of being a romance writer. I mean no more than that I partly owe to you my existence during great part of the time which I have employed in composing it: another matter which it may be necessary to remind you of; since there are certain actions of which you are apt to be extremely forgetful; but of these I hope I shall always have a better memory than yourself.
Once again, sir, without your help, this story would never have been finished. Don’t be surprised by this statement. I don’t mean to suggest that you’re a fiction writer. What I mean is that I owe you part of my life during much of the time I spent writing this: it's another thing I might need to remind you of; because there are certain things you tend to forget quite often; but I hope I’ll always remember them better than you do.
Lastly, It is owing to you that the history appears what it now is. If there be in this work, as some have been pleased to say, a stronger picture of a truly benevolent mind than is to be found in any other, who that knows you, and a particular acquaintance of yours, will doubt whence that benevolence hath been copied? The world will not, I believe, make me the compliment of thinking I took it from myself. I care not: this they shall own, that the two persons from whom I have taken it, that is to say, two of the best and worthiest men in the world, are strongly and zealously my friends. I might be contented with this, and yet my vanity will add a third to the number; and him one of the greatest and noblest, not only in his rank, but in every public and private virtue. But here, whilst my gratitude for the princely benefactions of the Duke of Bedford bursts from my heart, you must forgive my reminding you that it was you who first recommended me to the notice of my benefactor.
Lastly, it’s because of you that history is what it is today. If there’s a stronger portrayal of a genuinely kind mind in this work, as some have claimed, who knows you—and one of your close acquaintances—will doubt where that kindness came from? I don’t think the world will flatter me by believing I drew it from myself. I don’t mind: they must admit that the two people I’ve taken it from, namely, two of the best and most worthy men out there, are my strong and devoted friends. I could be satisfied with that, but my vanity will add a third to the mix, someone great and noble, not just in rank but in every public and private virtue. However, while my gratitude for the generous support of the Duke of Bedford overflows, you must forgive me for reminding you that it was you who first introduced me to my benefactor.
And what are your objections to the allowance of the honour which I have sollicited? Why, you have commended the book so warmly, that you should be ashamed of reading your name before the dedication. Indeed, sir, if the book itself doth not make you ashamed of your commendations, nothing that I can here write will, or ought. I am not to give up my right to your protection and patronage, because you have commended my book: for though I acknowledge so many obligations to you, I do not add this to the number; in which friendship, I am convinced, hath so little share: since that can neither biass your judgment, nor pervert your integrity. An enemy may at any time obtain your commendation by only deserving it; and the utmost which the faults of your friends can hope for, is your silence; or, perhaps, if too severely accused, your gentle palliation.
And what are your reasons for objecting to the honor I've requested? You've praised the book so much that you should feel embarrassed to see your name before the dedication. Honestly, if the book itself doesn’t make you embarrassed about your praise, then nothing I write here will or should. I don't have to give up my right to your support and patronage just because you've praised my book: even though I feel indebted to you in many ways, I don't consider this to be one of them; I truly believe that friendship plays a minimal role in this situation, since it shouldn't sway your judgment or compromise your integrity. An enemy can earn your praise anytime they deserve it; and the most a friend’s faults can expect from you is your silence, or maybe, if they’re accused too harshly, your gentle defense.
In short, sir, I suspect, that your dislike of public praise is your true objection to granting my request. I have observed that you have, in common with my two other friends, an unwillingness to hear the least mention of your own virtues; that, as a great poet says of one of you, (he might justly have said it of all three), you
In short, sir, I think your dislike of public praise is really why you don’t want to grant my request. I've noticed that, like my other two friends, you’re not keen on hearing even a slight mention of your own qualities; that, as a great poet says about one of you, (he could rightly say it about all three), you
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
Do good quietly, and feel embarrassed if it gets recognized.
If men of this disposition are as careful to shun applause, as others are to escape censure, how just must be your apprehension of your character falling into my hands; since what would not a man have reason to dread, if attacked by an author who had received from him injuries equal to my obligations to you!
If guys like this are just as careful to avoid praise as others are to avoid criticism, how right is your concern about your reputation falling into my hands? After all, who wouldn’t be worried if they were being targeted by a writer who had been wronged by them just like I owe you?
And will not this dread of censure increase in proportion to the matter which a man is conscious of having afforded for it? If his whole life, for instance, should have been one continued subject of satire, he may well tremble when an incensed satirist takes him in hand. Now, sir, if we apply this to your modest aversion to panegyric, how reasonable will your fears of me appear!
And doesn't the fear of criticism grow with how much a person knows they've given others to criticize? If, for example, someone's entire life has been a constant target for mockery, it's no wonder they would feel anxious when an angry critic decides to focus on them. Now, if we think of this in relation to your humble dislike of praise, how reasonable do your fears about me seem!
Yet surely you might have gratified my ambition, from this single confidence, that I shall always prefer the indulgence of your inclinations to the satisfaction of my own. A very strong instance of which I shall give you in this address, in which I am determined to follow the example of all other dedicators, and will consider not what my patron really deserves to have written, but what he will be best pleased to read.
Yet surely you could have satisfied my ambition, based on this one assurance: I will always prioritize your preferences over my own satisfaction. I will provide a clear example of this in this address, where I’ve decided to follow the lead of all other dedicators and consider not what my patron truly deserves to have written, but what will make him happiest to read.
Without further preface then, I here present you with the labours of some years of my life. What merit these labours have is already known to yourself. If, from your favourable judgment, I have conceived some esteem for them, it cannot be imputed to vanity; since I should have agreed as implicitly to your opinion, had it been given in favour of any other man's production. Negatively, at least, I may be allowed to say, that had I been sensible of any great demerit in the work, you are the last person to whose protection I would have ventured to recommend it.
Without any more introduction, I present to you the results of several years of my work. You already know how valuable this work is. If I've come to hold it in some regard based on your positive opinion, it isn't out of vanity; I would have felt the same way if you had praised any other person's work. At the very least, I can say that if I had recognized any serious flaws in it, you are the last person I would have dared to seek support from.
From the name of my patron, indeed, I hope my reader will be convinced, at his very entrance on this work, that he will find in the whole course of it nothing prejudicial to the cause of religion and virtue, nothing inconsistent with the strictest rules of decency, nor which can offend even the chastest eye in the perusal. On the contrary, I declare, that to recommend goodness and innocence hath been my sincere endeavour in this history. This honest purpose you have been pleased to think I have attained: and to say the truth, it is likeliest to be attained in books of this kind; for an example is a kind of picture, in which virtue becomes, as it were, an object of sight, and strikes us with an idea of that loveliness, which Plato asserts there is in her naked charms.
From the name of my supporter, I hope my reader will be reassured, right from the start of this work, that throughout it, there’s nothing harmful to religion and virtue, nothing that goes against the strictest standards of decency, nor anything that could offend even the most modest reader. Instead, I want to emphasize that promoting goodness and innocence has been my genuine goal in this story. You seem to think I have achieved this honest purpose, and to be truthful, it’s most likely to be achieved in works like this; because an example acts like a picture, in which virtue becomes, in a way, something we can see, and it impresses upon us the idea of the beauty that Plato claims is found in her unadorned allure.
Besides displaying that beauty of virtue which may attract the admiration of mankind, I have attempted to engage a stronger motive to human action in her favour, by convincing men, that their true interest directs them to a pursuit of her. For this purpose I have shown that no acquisitions of guilt can compensate the loss of that solid inward comfort of mind, which is the sure companion of innocence and virtue; nor can in the least balance the evil of that horror and anxiety which, in their room, guilt introduces into our bosoms. And again, that as these acquisitions are in themselves generally worthless, so are the means to attain them not only base and infamous, but at best incertain, and always full of danger. Lastly, I have endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that virtue and innocence can scarce ever be injured but by indiscretion; and that it is this alone which often betrays them into the snares that deceit and villainy spread for them. A moral which I have the more industriously laboured, as the teaching it is, of all others, the likeliest to be attended with success; since, I believe, it is much easier to make good men wise, than to make bad men good.
Aside from showcasing the appealing beauty of virtue that can draw people’s admiration, I’ve tried to offer a stronger reason for humans to act in her favor by demonstrating that their true interests lead them to pursue her. To support this, I’ve shown that no amount of wrongdoing can make up for the solid inner peace that comes with innocence and virtue, nor can it balance out the fear and anxiety that guilt brings into our hearts. Additionally, I’ve pointed out that these wrongful gains are generally worthless, and the means to achieve them are not only shameful and disgraceful but also uncertain and always risky. Finally, I’ve worked hard to emphasize that virtue and innocence are rarely harmed except by foolishness, and it is this alone that often leads them into the traps set by deceit and wickedness. I focus on this moral because I believe it is one of the most likely to succeed; after all, I think it’s much easier to make good people wise than to make bad people good.
For these purposes I have employed all the wit and humour of which I am master in the following history; wherein I have endeavoured to laugh mankind out of their favourite follies and vices. How far I have succeeded in this good attempt, I shall submit to the candid reader, with only two requests: First, that he will not expect to find perfection in this work; and Secondly, that he will excuse some parts of it, if they fall short of that little merit which I hope may appear in others.
For these purposes, I’ve used all the wit and humor I have in the following story, where I’ve tried to laugh people out of their favorite foolishness and bad habits. How successful I’ve been in this effort, I’ll leave to the thoughtful reader, with just two requests: First, please don’t expect perfection in this work; and Second, please excuse some parts if they don’t meet the little standard of quality I hope to show in other sections.
I will detain you, sir, no longer. Indeed I have run into a preface, while I professed to write a dedication. But how can it be otherwise? I dare not praise you; and the only means I know of to avoid it, when you are in my thoughts, are either to be entirely silent, or to turn my thoughts to some other subject.
I won’t hold you up any longer, sir. I’ve ended up writing a preface instead of a dedication. But how can it be any different? I can’t bring myself to praise you, and the only way I know to avoid doing so when you’re on my mind is to either stay completely quiet or focus on something else.
Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this epistle, not only without your consent, but absolutely against it; and give me at least leave, in this public manner, to declare that I am, with the highest respect and gratitude,—
Pardon me for what I've said in this letter, not just without your agreement, but completely against it; and at least let me take this opportunity to say that I am, with the utmost respect and gratitude,—
Sir,
Hey,
Your most obliged,
You’re most welcome,
Obedient, humble servant,
Faithful, modest servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING.
BOOK I. — CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.
Chapter i. — The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.
An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to d—n their dinner without controul.
An author should think of himself not as a gentleman hosting a private or charitable gathering, but more like someone running a public restaurant where everyone is welcome as long as they pay. In the first situation, it’s well-known that the host serves whatever food he wants; and even if it’s poor quality and completely unappealing to his guests, they can’t complain. In fact, good manners force them to outwardly approve and praise whatever is served. In contrast, the owner of a restaurant faces a different situation. Diners who pay for their meals will demand to satisfy their tastes, no matter how particular or fussy they might be. If everything doesn’t meet their expectations, they will feel entitled to criticize, complain, and condemn their meal without restraint.
To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
To avoid upsetting their customers with any disappointment, it's common for a thoughtful and well-intentioned host to provide a menu that everyone can look at as soon as they enter. This way, they can see what food is available and choose to either stay and enjoy what's offered or leave for another place that better suits their preferences.
As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes.
Since we are happy to take inspiration from anyone who can offer us insight or cleverness, we have decided to take a cue from these hardworking food providers. We will include not only an overall menu for our entire presentation but also specific lists for each course that will be presented in this and the upcoming volumes.
The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named but one article. The tortoise—as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much experience—besides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so extensive a subject.
The point we're making here is simply Human Nature. I doubt my discerning reader, no matter how indulgent their tastes, will be shocked, argue, or take offense just because I've mentioned only one item. The tortoise—something the well-experienced alderman of Bristol knows all too well—has, in addition to the tasty calipash and calipee, many different kinds of food. It’s also common knowledge that within human nature, even when referred to by that one broad term, there’s such an incredible diversity that a cook will finish exploring all the various types of animal and plant dishes long before an author could thoroughly cover this vast topic.
An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops.
Some sensitive people might complain that this dish is too ordinary and common; after all, isn't that the topic of countless romances, novels, plays, and poems that clutter the shelves? An epicure might dismiss many exquisite dishes simply because something with the same name can be found in the most rundown streets. In truth, genuine quality is as hard to find in literature as Bayonne ham or Bologna sausage is in the stores.
But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us—
But the whole thing, to stick with the same metaphor, is about the author's cooking; because, as Mr. Pope tells us—
“True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.”
“True wit is nature dressed to look its best; What was often thought, but never expressed so well.”
The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
The same animal that gets the honor of having some of its flesh served at a duke's table might also be treated with disrespect elsewhere, with parts of it displayed in the most disgusting stall in town. So, what's the real difference between what a nobleman eats and what a porter eats if both are dining on the same ox or calf? It's all in the seasoning, the preparation, the presentation, and the way it's served. One excites and entices the most lackluster appetite, while the other dulls and overpowers the keenest cravings.
In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have made some persons eat.
Similarly, the quality of mental entertainment relies more on the author’s ability to present the content attractively than on the subject itself. How pleased, then, will the reader be to discover that in the following work, we closely follow one of the highest principles set by the greatest chef of our time, or perhaps even that of Heliogabalus. This renowned chef, as every foodie knows, starts by serving simple dishes to hungry guests and gradually works up to the most refined sauces and spices as their appetites wane. In the same way, we will initially present human nature to our discerning reader in the straightforward and simple way it exists in the countryside, and later on, we’ll dress it up with all the extravagant French and Italian flavors of pretense and corruption that can be found in courts and cities. With this approach, we are confident that our reader will feel an endless desire to continue reading, much like those who were said to be captivated by the chef mentioned above.
Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the first course of our history for their entertainment.
Having set the stage like this, we won't keep those who enjoy our menu waiting any longer, and we'll go straight to serving the first course of our story for their entertainment.
Chapter ii. — A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.
In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention, nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to all the various blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the county.
In the western part of this kingdom, commonly known as Somersetshire, there recently lived, and maybe still lives, a gentleman named Allworthy, who could easily be called the favorite of both nature and fortune; as both of them seemed to have competed to see which would bless and enrich him more. In this competition, nature might appear to some to have won, since she granted him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift at her disposal; however, when she gave it, she was so generous that others might think this single gift was worth more than all the various blessings he received from nature. From nature, he gained a pleasant appearance, good health, strong intelligence, and a kind heart; through fortune, he inherited one of the largest estates in the county.
This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had three children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five years before the time in which this history chuses to set out. This loss, however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though it must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this head; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey which he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and that he had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he should never part with her more—sentiments for which his sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, and his sincerity by a third.
This gentleman had married a very admirable and beautiful woman in his youth, whom he was extremely fond of. They had three children together, all of whom died in infancy. He also faced the sorrow of burying his beloved wife about five years before the time when this story begins. Despite this immense loss, he handled it like a person of reason and resilience, though it must be acknowledged that he would sometimes speak a bit oddly about it. He occasionally said he viewed himself as still married and believed his wife was just ahead of him on a journey that he would definitely take after her, and he had no doubt that he would meet her again in a place where they would never part—thoughts that drew criticism from some of his neighbors, challenged his beliefs from others, and raised questions about his sincerity from a third group.
He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their own sex, very good sort of women—as good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading, every net in their power; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture to attack.
He mostly lived a quiet life in the countryside with his sister, whom he cared for deeply. She was now a little over thirty, an age that, according to some unkind people, could almost earn her the label of an old maid. She was the kind of woman you praised more for her good qualities than her looks, and other women referred to her as a very good sort of woman—exactly the type you’d want to know. In fact, she was so far from regretting her lack of beauty that she rarely brought it up without a hint of disdain; she often thanked God that she wasn’t as attractive as Miss So-and-so, who might have made mistakes that she managed to avoid because of her looks. Miss Bridget Allworthy (that was her name) rightly viewed a woman’s physical beauty as more of a trap than an advantage, both for herself and for others. Still, she was so careful in her behavior that her caution seemed ready to spring into action at any moment, as if she were constantly aware of every danger that might come her way. Interestingly, I’ve noticed, even if it seems odd to the reader, that this caution tends to be most active in situations where there’s the least threat. It often cruelly abandons the admired women who capture men's attention, leaving them sighing and dreaming and ready to use every trick they could come up with; meanwhile, it is always there at the side of those women who inspire awe and respect from men, whom the other gender rarely approaches, probably out of hopelessness for success.
Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction.
Reader, I think it's important, before we move forward together, to let you know that I plan to stray from the main story whenever I see fit, as I know better than any petty critic out there; and here I ask all those critics to stick to their own business and not get involved in matters or works that don't concern them; because until they can show the authority that makes them judges, I won’t recognize their authority.
Chapter iii. — An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper animadversions on bastards.
I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family. Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had rather beg than work, by giving them the offals from it; that he died immensely rich and built an hospital.
I mentioned in the previous chapter that Mr. Allworthy inherited a large fortune, that he had a good heart, and no family. Therefore, many will likely conclude that he lived like an honest man, didn’t owe anyone anything, only took what was rightfully his, maintained a welcoming home, generously hosted his neighbors at his table, and was charitable to the poor—meaning those who would rather beg than work—by giving them the leftovers from his meals; that he died extremely wealthy and established a hospital.
And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit on some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a much more extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or I should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work; and you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure travel through some pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously pleased to call The History of England.
And it's true that he did a lot of these things; but if he had done nothing else, I would have let him record his own achievements on a nice stone above the entrance of that hospital. This history will cover much more extraordinary matters, or I would be wasting my time writing such a lengthy work; and you, my wise friend, could just as easily enjoy reading some pages from those amusing writers who have humorously titled their work The History of England.
Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very particular business, though I know not what it was; but judge of its importance by its having detained him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a month at a time during the space of many years. He came to his house very late in the evening, and after a short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber. Here, having spent some minutes on his knees—a custom which he never broke through on any account—he was preparing to step into bed, when, upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant, wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonishment at this sight; but, as good nature had always the ascendant in his mind, he soon began to be touched with sentiments of compassion for the little wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him; and in the meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty of innocence, appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and sleep always display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed given her master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of respect to him, and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting her hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in which she had been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for aught she knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.
Mr. Allworthy had been away in London for a whole three months on some important business, though I don't know what it was; but you can guess how significant it was since it kept him away from home for so long. He returned to his house very late in the evening, and after a quick dinner with his sister, he went to his room feeling quite tired. After spending a few minutes on his knees—a routine he never skipped for any reason—he was getting ready to get into bed when, to his great surprise, he found an infant wrapped in some rough linen, sound asleep between his sheets. He stood there for a while, astonished by the sight; but since kindness always prevailed in his mind, he soon felt compassion for the little one in front of him. He rang his bell and instructed an older female servant to come to him immediately. In the meantime, he was so absorbed in admiring the beauty of innocence, which is always vividly displayed in sleeping infants, that he didn’t realize he was still in his nightshirt when the woman entered. She had indeed given him enough time to get dressed; out of respect for him and concern for propriety, she had spent several minutes fixing her hair in the mirror, despite the rush in which she had been called, even though her master might have been suffering from a stroke or some other serious condition.
It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least deviation from it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw her master standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his hand, than she started back in a most terrible fright, and might perhaps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his being undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay without the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and was become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, who, though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he considers the time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation in which she found her master, will highly justify and applaud her conduct, unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend maidens at that period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a little lessen his admiration.
It's not surprising that someone who was so particular about her own decency would be shocked by even the slightest lapse in someone else. So, as soon as she opened the door and saw her master standing by the bed in his shirt, holding a candle, she recoiled in shock and might have fainted if he hadn't realized he was undressed and quickly asked her to wait outside until he could throw on some clothes and avoid shocking the pure eyes of Mrs. Deborah Wilkins, who, at fifty-two, swore she'd never seen a man without a coat. Skeptics and rude jokers might laugh at her initial fright, but my more serious readers will understand, considering the late hour, the urgency of being summoned from her bed, and the awkward situation with her master, that her reaction was entirely justifiable. Unless, of course, the common sense expected of young women at Mrs. Deborah's age slightly diminishes that admiration.
When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her master with the finding the little infant, her consternation was rather greater than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying out, with great horror of accent as well as look, “My good sir! what's to be done?” Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to provide it a nurse. “Yes, sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send out your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of the neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her first, by her impudence in laying it to your worship.” “In laying it to me, Deborah!” answered Allworthy: “I can't think she hath any such design. I suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child; and truly I am glad she hath not done worse.” “I don't know what is worse,” cries Deborah, “than for such wicked strumpets to lay their sins at honest men's doors; and though your worship knows your own innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an honest man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot; and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make the people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship provide for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part, if it was an honest man's child, indeed—but for my own part, it goes against me to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don't look upon as my fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a Christian. If I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door. It is a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was well wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better for such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them.”
When Mrs. Deborah returned to the room and was informed by her master about finding the little baby, her shock was even greater than his; she couldn’t help but cry out, with both horror in her voice and on her face, “My good sir! What are we going to do?” Mr. Allworthy replied that she needed to take care of the child that evening, and in the morning he would arrange for a nurse. “Yes, sir,” she said, “and I hope you’ll send out your warrant to arrest the hussy its mother, as she must be from the neighborhood; I’d be happy to see her locked up in Bridewell and whipped at the back of the cart. Honestly, such wicked women deserve the harshest punishment. I bet this isn’t her first time, given her boldness to leave it with you.” “With me, Deborah!” answered Allworthy. “I can’t believe she intended that. I think she just wanted to find a way to care for her child; and truly, I’m relieved she hasn’t done something worse.” “I don’t know what could be worse,” Deborah shot back, “than for such wicked women to dump their sins on honest men; and while you know your own innocence, the world loves to talk; many an honest man has been wrongly seen as the father of children he never fathered. If you help this child, it might make people even more inclined to believe that, besides, why should you take responsibility for what the parish should support? For me, if it were an honest man’s child, that would be different—but honestly, I can’t bear to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don’t consider my fellow creatures. Ugh! It reeks! It doesn’t smell like a Christian. If I may be so bold as to suggest, I’d have it put in a basket, sent out, and left at the churchwarden's door. It’s a good night, just a little rainy and windy; and if it’s wrapped up well and put in a warm basket, there’s a good chance it’ll survive until morning. But if it doesn’t, we’ve done our duty by taking proper care of it; and perhaps it’s better for such beings to die in innocence than to grow up and follow in their mothers' footsteps; nothing good can be expected from them.”
There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had certainly out-pleaded the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs Deborah positive orders to take the child to her own bed, and to call up a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.
There were some parts of this speech that might have upset Mr. Allworthy if he had been paying close attention; however, he had one of his fingers in the infant's hand, which, with its gentle squeeze, seemed to be asking for his help, and this definitely outperformed Mrs. Deborah's arguments, even if they had been much better. He then gave Mrs. Deborah clear instructions to take the child to her own bed and to call a maid to get it some formula and other things for when it woke up. He also ordered that proper clothes should be arranged for it early in the morning and that it should be brought to him as soon as he was up.
Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore her master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her scruples gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the child under her arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality of its birth; and declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it to her own chamber.
Such was Mrs. Wilkins's insight and the respect she had for her master, with whom she held a wonderful position, that her doubts faded in the face of his firm orders; she picked up the child without showing any disgust at its illegitimate birth and, stating it was a sweet little baby, carried it off to her own room.
Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied. As these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other hearty meal, I should take more pains to display them to the reader, if I knew any air to recommend him to for the procuring such an appetite.
Allworthy settled into a nice sleep, the kind that someone who longs for goodness enjoys when completely satisfied. Since this sleep is probably sweeter than any other meal could provide, I would go to greater lengths to describe it to you if I knew of a way to help you develop such an appetite.
Chapter iv. — The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck you with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian architecture; and it was as commodious within as venerable without.
The Gothic style of architecture could create nothing more impressive than Mr. Allworthy's house. There was a sense of grandeur about it that filled you with awe, rivaling the beauty of the finest Greek architecture; and it was just as spacious inside as it was majestic on the outside.
It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the valley beneath.
It was located on the southeast side of a hill, closer to the bottom than the top, providing shelter from the northeast by a grove of old oaks that rose above it in a gentle slope of about half a mile, yet still high enough to have a beautiful view of the valley below.
In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of about thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock, then running off in a pebly channel, that with many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south side, and which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, that for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, with a large arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was closed.
In the middle of the grove was a lovely lawn sloping down towards the house, where a plentiful spring bubbled out of a rock covered in fir trees. It created a steady cascade about thirty feet high, not flowing down a straight set of steps, but tumbling in a natural way over broken, mossy stones until it reached the bottom of the rock. From there, it flowed off in a pebbly stream, winding along with many smaller cascades before it emptied into a lake at the base of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house on the south side, which could be seen from every room in the front. This lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain adorned with clusters of beeches and elms and grazed by sheep, fed a river that meandered for several miles through a stunning variety of meadows and woods until it flowed into the sea, closing off the view with a large arm of the sea and an island beyond it.
On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which remained still entire.
On the right side of this valley, there was another, smaller one, decorated with a few villages and ending at one of the towers of an old ruined abbey, covered in ivy, with part of the front still intact.
The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but owing less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were above the clouds.
The left side showed a beautiful park, featuring uneven terrain and a pleasing mix of hills, lawns, woods, and water, designed with great taste, though it was more a gift from nature than from art. Beyond that, the land slowly climbed into a range of wild mountains, their peaks reaching above the clouds.
It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene, when Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened every minute that lovely prospect we have before described to his eye; and now having sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue firmament before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself presented—a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most good to his creatures.
It was now the middle of May, and the morning was wonderfully peaceful when Mr. Allworthy stepped out onto the terrace, where the dawn revealed the beautiful view we described earlier. As light spread across the blue sky in front of him, like heralds announcing his arrival, the sun rose in all its glory. The only thing more magnificent in this world than the sun was Mr. Allworthy himself—a man full of kindness, thinking about how he could best please his Creator by doing the most good for others.
Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your company.
Reader, be careful. I've foolishly brought you to the top of a hill as steep as Mr. Allworthy's, and I’m not quite sure how to get you down without hurting yourself. However, let’s just take the chance and slide down together; Miss Bridget is ringing her bell, and Mr. Allworthy has been called to breakfast, where I have to go, and if you'd like, I would be happy to have your company.
The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and told his sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked him—imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and she, in complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt for dress, and for those ladies who made it their study.
After exchanging the usual compliments, Mr. Allworthy poured the tea and called for Mrs. Wilkins. He then told his sister that he had a gift for her, to which she thanked him, probably thinking it was a dress or some kind of jewelry for herself. He often gave her such gifts, and in return, she spent a lot of time getting dressed up for him. I mention this because, despite her efforts, she always showed a strong disdain for fashion and for the women who obsessed over it.
But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master, produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed, are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began, and told her the whole story, which, as the reader knows it already, we shall not repeat.
But if that was what she expected, how disappointed was she when Mrs. Wilkins, following the instructions from her master, brought out the little baby? Great surprises, as has been noted, tend to leave people speechless; and Miss Bridget was no different until her brother started talking and told her the whole story, which, as the reader already knows, we won’t repeat.
Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would have voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather took the good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for the helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity in what he had done.
Miss Bridget had always shown a strong regard for what the ladies like to call virtue and had upheld such a strict character that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she would express a lot of bitterness on this occasion and would have voted to send the child, like a troublesome animal, straight out of the house. However, contrary to expectations, she actually took a more sympathetic view, showed some compassion for the helpless little creature, and praised her brother's kindness in what he had done.
Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her condescension to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him that the good man had ended his narrative with owning a resolution to take care of the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to acknowledge the truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very seldom, if ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed, sometimes make a few observations, as that men were headstrong, and must have their own way, and would wish she had been blest with an independent fortune; but these were always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted only to what is called muttering.
Maybe the reader can explain her behavior because of her condescension toward Mr. Allworthy, especially after we mention that the good man concluded his story by saying he had decided to take care of the child and raise him as his own. To be honest, she was always willing to accommodate her brother and hardly ever disagreed with his opinions. She would, at times, make a few comments, like how men are stubborn and need to have their own way, and wish she had an independent fortune; but these were always said in a quiet tone, and they really only amounted to what people refer to as muttering.
However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet, with every other appellation with which the tongue of virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex. — A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters of the female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to find such another set of scarecrows.
However, what she kept from the baby, she poured out in excess on the poor, unknown mother, whom she called a shameless woman, a provocative hussy, a bold harlot, a wicked woman, a vile prostitute, and with every other name that virtue's tongue uses to insult those who shame the female gender. — A discussion began on how to find the mother. First, they examined the characters of the female servants in the house, all of whom Mrs. Wilkins cleared of any wrongdoing, and with good reason; she had chosen them herself, and it might be hard to find another group quite so useless.
The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all imaginable diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.
The next step was to look into the people living in the parish; this task was given to Mrs. Wilkins, who was to investigate with great care and bring back her findings in the afternoon.
Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had undertaken the care of it.
With everything sorted out, Mr. Allworthy went to his study, as he usually did, and left the child with his sister, who had agreed to take care of it at his request.
Chapter v. — Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon them.
When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the prudent housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had often known the sentiments of the lady in her brother's absence to differ greatly from those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did not, however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation; for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased with its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage dame of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bridegroom, crying out, in a shrill voice, “O, the dear little creature!—The dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is as fine a boy as ever was seen!”
When her master left, Mrs. Deborah stood quietly, waiting for her cue from Miss Bridget. As for what had happened before her master, the cautious housekeeper didn't trust it at all, having often seen how the lady's feelings in her brother's absence were very different from what she expressed when he was around. However, Miss Bridget didn’t let Mrs. Deborah stay in this uncertain state for long. After watching the child sleeping in Mrs. Deborah's lap for a while, the good lady couldn't help but give it a big kiss, declaring how wonderfully pleased she was with its beauty and innocence. The moment Mrs. Deborah noticed this, she began squeezing and kissing the child with as much excitement as a wise woman of forty-five might show toward a young and vigorous groom, exclaiming in a loud voice, “Oh, the dear little creature! The dear, sweet, pretty creature! I swear it’s the finest boy ever seen!”
These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady, who now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother, and gave orders for providing all necessaries for the child, appointing a very good room in the house for his nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a child of her own, she could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous reader may condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think proper to observe that she concluded the whole with saying, “Since it was her brother's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she could not help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but that she knew too much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridiculous humours.”
These exclamations went on until the lady interrupted, as she now set out to carry out her brother's request and gave instructions to gather everything needed for the child, designating a really nice room in the house for his nursery. Her instructions were so generous that, if it were her own child, she couldn't have gone further; but, to avoid any judgment from the virtuous reader for showing too much affection to a child born out of wedlock, which the law deems irreligious, we should mention that she wrapped things up by saying, “Since it was my brother's whim to adopt the little brat, I guess little master must be treated with great care. For my part, I can't help but think it's encouraging vice; but I know too well how stubborn people can be to challenge any of their silly whims.”
With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted, accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclinations; and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the folly and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will, and consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but when a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire, with grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which they undergo must greatly enhance the obligation.
With thoughts like these, she often, as has been mentioned, supported every act of following her brother's wishes; and nothing could more increase the value of this compliance than admitting that she understood, at the same time, the foolishness and unreasonable nature of those desires she went along with. Quiet obedience requires no force on the will and can easily be maintained without effort; however, when a wife, a child, a relative, or a friend does what we want with complaints and hesitance, showing dislike and dissatisfaction, the obvious struggle they go through must significantly heighten the obligation.
As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.
Since this is one of those insightful observations that very few readers are likely to have the ability to grasp on their own, I felt it necessary to offer my help; however, this is a favor you can rarely expect throughout my work. In fact, I will hardly ever do this again, unless in cases like this, where only the inspiration that we writers possess can truly allow anyone to make the discovery.
Chapter vi. — Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.
Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to conceal its mother.
Mrs. Deborah, having taken care of the child as her master instructed, was now getting ready to visit the places that were believed to hide its mother.
Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm, and fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air, conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.
Not any differently than when a huge kite is seen by the other birds soaring high above and hovering over them, the lovesick dove and every little innocent bird spread the alarm and fly scared to their hiding spots. He confidently beats the air, aware of his status, and thinks about the trouble he plans to cause.
So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street, all the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron dreading lest the visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps proudly advances over the field: aloft she bears her towering head, filled with conceit of her own pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her intended discovery.
So when Mrs. Deborah's approach was announced on the street, all the residents hurried, scared, into their homes, each woman fearing that the visit would be her turn. She strides confidently across the field: with her head held high, full of pride in her own superiority, and plots to achieve her goal.
The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor people had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was now coming towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may possibly sleep these hundred years, till some future commentator shall take this work in hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little assistance in this place.
The wise reader shouldn't assume that these unfortunate people understood the purpose of Mrs. Wilkins approaching them; however, since the true brilliance of the comparison may remain unrecognized for another hundred years until some future commentator reviews this work, I feel it's necessary to offer the reader a bit of help here.
It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such persons as Mrs Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people. This being indeed the means which they use to recompense to themselves their extreme servility and condescension to their superiors; for nothing can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers should exact the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to all above them.
It is my intention, therefore, to point out that just as a kite preys on small birds, so do people like Mrs. Wilkins insult and dominate those who are weaker. In fact, this is how they compensate for their extreme subservience and willingness to please their betters; it’s only fair that those who are slaves and sycophants impose the same demands on those beneath them that they themselves endure from those above them.
Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary condescension to Mrs Bridget, and by that means had a little soured her natural disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among these people, in order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she was by no means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally dreaded and hated by them all.
Whenever Mrs. Deborah needed to show any extraordinary kindness to Mrs. Bridget, and it ended up making her a bit sour, she usually went out among these people to improve her mood by venting and, in a way, getting rid of all her bad feelings; for this reason, she was not a welcome visitor: to be honest, she was universally feared and disliked by them all.
On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to resemble herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her age, she had generally been more favourable than to any of the rest. To this woman she imparted what had happened, and the design upon which she was come thither that morning. These two began presently to scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived in any of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on one Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have committed this fact.
Upon her arrival, she went right to the home of an older woman who looked a lot like her, both in appearance and age, which made her more favorable toward this woman than the others. She shared what had happened and the reason she had come that morning. The two of them immediately started to evaluate the personalities of the various young girls who lived in those houses, and eventually, they both agreed that Jenny Jones was the most likely person to have done it.
This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with what is generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl, and an extraordinary desire of learning—for every leisure hour she was always found reading in the books of the scholars—had the good-nature, or folly—just as the reader pleases to call it—to instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young men of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of an extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for as it is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well accomplished should have little relish for the society of those whom fortune had made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much her inferiors; so is it matter of no greater astonishment, that this superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which is its certain consequence, should produce among the rest some little envy and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
This Jenny Jones wasn't very pretty, either in her looks or her figure; however, nature had somewhat made up for her lack of beauty with what is generally more valued by those women whose judgment has matured over time—she had given her an unusual amount of intelligence. Jenny had further developed this gift through education. She had spent several years working as a servant for a schoolmaster, who, noticing her quick intelligence and extraordinary desire to learn—she was always seen reading in the scholars' books during her free time—was kind enough, or perhaps foolish enough, depending on how you look at it, to teach her enough that she gained a decent proficiency in Latin and was likely as good a scholar as many of the young men of quality of her time. However, this advantage, like most extraordinary ones, came with some minor drawbacks. It’s not surprising that a young woman so well-educated would find little interest in the company of those who, by fortune, were her equals, but whom education had made her inferior to. It’s equally not surprising that this superiority in Jenny, along with the behavior that comes with it, might cause some envy and resentment among her peers; these feelings had likely been simmering in the hearts of her neighbors ever since she returned from her service.
Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny, to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.
Their jealousy didn't show openly until poor Jenny, to everyone's surprise and to the annoyance of all the young women around, publicly flaunted a new silk gown, along with a laced cap and other fitting accessories, on a Sunday.
The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, she gained nothing but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole parish declared she could not come honestly by such things; and parents, instead of wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves that their children had them not.
The flame that had previously been dormant now ignited. Jenny, through her education, had boosted her own pride, which none of her neighbors were generous enough to acknowledge with the admiration she seemed to seek; and now, instead of respect and admiration, she received nothing but resentment and insults due to her fancy clothes. The entire neighborhood claimed she couldn't have obtained such things honestly; and instead of wishing their daughters had the same, parents congratulated themselves that their children did not.
Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name of this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been often at Mr Allworthy's house. She had officiated as nurse to Miss Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat up many nights with that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the very day before Mr Allworthy's return, by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious person had not at first conceived any suspicion of her on that account: for, as she herself said, “She had always esteemed Jenny as a very sober girl (though indeed she knew very little of her), and had rather suspected some of those wanton trollops, who gave themselves airs, because, forsooth, they thought themselves handsome.”
So, maybe that’s why the good woman first brought up the name of this poor girl to Mrs. Wilkins; but there was another thing that made the latter more suspicious, because Jenny had recently been at Mr. Allworthy's house quite a bit. She had worked as a nurse for Miss Bridget during a severe illness and had stayed up many nights with her; in addition, Mrs. Wilkins had seen her there just the day before Mr. Allworthy came back, although that clever woman hadn’t immediately thought anything suspicious about it. As she put it herself, “She always thought of Jenny as a very sensible girl (though she really didn’t know much about her), and she suspected some of those flashy girls who acted all high and mighty just because they thought they were pretty.”
Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which she immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a judge, with somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration with the words, “You audacious strumpet!” in which she proceeded rather to pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
Jenny was called to appear in person before Mrs. Deborah, which she did right away. When Mrs. Deborah assumed the seriousness of a judge, with even more sternness than usual, she began her speech with the words, “You brazen hussy!” in which she was more focused on passing judgment on the accused than actually accusing her.
Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the reasons above shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required some stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she saved her accusers any such trouble, by freely confessing the whole fact with which she was charged.
Though Mrs. Deborah was completely convinced of Jenny's guilt for the reasons mentioned above, it’s possible Mr. Allworthy might have wanted stronger evidence to convict her. However, she spared her accusers that trouble by openly admitting to the entire incident she was accused of.
This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a second judgment against her, in more opprobrious language than before; nor had it any better success with the bystanders, who were now grown very numerous. Many of them cried out, “They thought what madam's silk gown would end in;” others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a single female was present but found some means of expressing her abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except the malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her nose, said, “The man must have a good stomach who would give silk gowns for such sort of trumpery!” Jenny replied to this with a bitterness which might have surprized a judicious person, who had observed the tranquillity with which she bore all the affronts to her chastity; but her patience was perhaps tired out, for this is a virtue which is very apt to be fatigued by exercise.
This confession, although expressed with apparent regret, did nothing to soften Mrs. Deborah, who then passed a second judgment against her, using even harsher words than before; nor did it change the minds of the growing crowd around them. Many shouted, “We knew what madam's silk gown would lead to;” others made sarcastic comments about her education. Not a single woman in attendance failed to show her disdain for poor Jenny, who endured everything patiently, except for the spite of one woman who insulted her appearance, tossing her head back and saying, “The man must have a strong stomach to give silk gowns for such trash!” Jenny responded to this with a bitterness that might have surprised anyone who had noticed how calmly she had taken all the attacks on her honor; but perhaps her patience had simply run out, as it's a virtue that can easily get worn out by constant use.
Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report to Mr Allworthy, who was much surprized at the relation; for he had heard of the extraordinary parts and improvements of this girl, whom he intended to have given in marriage, together with a small living, to a neighbouring curate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion, was at least equal to the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs Deborah, and to many readers may seem much more reasonable.
Mrs. Deborah had exceeded her expectations in her search and returned with great pride. At the scheduled time, she gave a detailed report to Mr. Allworthy, who was quite surprised by what he heard. He had heard about the girl’s exceptional talents and progress and had planned to arrange her marriage, along with a small living, to a local curate. Therefore, his concern in this situation was at least as strong as the satisfaction that Mrs. Deborah showed, and to many readers, it might seem even more justified.
Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, “For her part, she should never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman.” For Jenny before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.
Miss Bridget crossed herself and said, “As for me, I will never again have a good opinion of any woman.” Because Jenny had previously enjoyed a lot of her favor as well.
The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy culprit before Mr Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some, and expected by all, to be sent to the house of correction, but to receive wholesome admonition and reproof; which those who relish that kind of instructive writing may peruse in the next chapter.
The careful housekeeper was once again sent to bring the unfortunate wrongdoer before Mr. Allworthy, not to be sent to a reform school, as some hoped and everyone expected, but to receive some valuable advice and criticism. Those who enjoy that kind of educational writing can read more about it in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the author.
When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke to her as follows: “You know, child, it is in my power as a magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for what you have done; and you will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door.
When Jenny showed up, Mr. Allworthy took her into his study and said: “You know, child, as a magistrate, I have the authority to punish you harshly for what you’ve done. You might be even more afraid that I would use that authority because you’ve basically put your mistakes on me.”
“But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in a milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your offence, that I will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded from a natural affection to your child, since you might have some hopes to see it thus better provided for than was in the power of yourself, or its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly offended with you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of some inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their humanity, than to have parted with their chastity. It is the other part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you, I mean the violation of your chastity;—a crime, however lightly it may be treated by debauched persons, very heinous in itself, and very dreadful in its consequences.
"But maybe this is one reason I’ve decided to be kinder to you: because no personal grudge should ever affect a judge's decisions. I won’t view your leaving the baby at my home as a further fault. Instead, I’ll assume that it was driven by a genuine love for your child, since you might have hoped it would be better cared for here than what you or its cruel father could offer. I would have been truly angry with you if you had abandoned the poor little one like some heartless mothers who seem to have lost both their compassion and their purity. Therefore, I want to address the other part of your offense, which is the violation of your purity—a crime that, no matter how casually it’s regarded by immoral people, is very serious in itself and has terrifying consequences."
“The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws of our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that religion.
“The terrible nature of this offense should be clear to every Christian, as it goes against the laws of our faith and the explicit commands of the one who established that faith."
“And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach of the divine commands; and that in an instance against which the highest vengeance is specifically denounced?
“And here its consequences can certainly be said to be terrible; for what could be worse than to earn divine anger by breaking divine commands, especially in a case where the greatest punishment is explicitly stated?”
“But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can never need information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense of this matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
"But these things, though I worry they're not given enough attention, are so obvious that people, no matter how much they might need a reminder, won't ever truly lack understanding on this topic. So, just a hint to spark your awareness of this issue will be enough; I want to encourage you to feel remorse, not push you to despair."
“There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete with horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered, must, one would think, deter all of your sex at least from the commission of this crime.
“There are other consequences, not as shocking or terrifying as this; and yet, if you think about them carefully, they should, one would hope, discourage all of your gender from committing this crime."
“For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old, out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked and reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.
“For by it you become infamous, and are cast out of society, like lepers of old; at least, from the company of everyone except for wicked and rejected people, because no one else will want to be around you.”
“If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the destruction of both body and soul.
“If you have wealth, you're unable to truly enjoy it; if you have none, you're unable to acquire any, not even to secure your basic needs; because no respectable person will welcome you into their home. So, you are often forced by necessity into a situation of shame and despair, which inevitably leads to the ruin of both your body and soul.
“Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and terror from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?
“Can any pleasure make up for these evils? Can any temptation be so deceptive and misleading that it convinces you to accept such a straightforward deal? Or can any physical desire be so overwhelming that it completely shuts down your reason, preventing you from fleeing in fear and terror from a crime that always comes with such severe consequences?”
“How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of human creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal, and to sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her heavenly part, to an appetite which she hath in common with the vilest branch of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice to them our lives, and what ought to be dearer to us, our innocence. Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man who solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have described to you, and who would purchase to himself a short, trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely upon her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser? If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a real affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing, treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her body, but her understanding at the same time?”
“How low and contemptible must that woman be, how lacking in dignity and self-respect, without which we aren’t worthy of being called human, who can allow herself to sink to the level of the lowest creature, sacrificing all that is great and noble within her, all her divine qualities, for an urge she shares with the most despicable part of creation! No woman, surely, would use the passion of love as an excuse. That would mean admitting she is merely a tool and plaything of the man. Love, however much we may corrupt and twist its meaning, is a noble and rational passion, and can only be intense when it’s mutual; for although the Scripture tells us to love our enemies, it doesn’t mean with the fiery love we naturally have for our friends; much less does it imply that we should sacrifice our lives and, what should be even more precious to us, our innocence, for them. Now, how else but as an enemy can a reasonable woman view the man who urges her to invite all the misery I’ve described, who would gain a fleeting, trivial, contemptible pleasure at her expense? Because, according to social norms, all the shame and its dreadful consequences fall entirely on her. Can love, which always seeks the well-being of its object, try to lead a woman into a situation where she stands to lose so much? If such a corruptor has the audacity to pretend to have real feelings for her, shouldn’t she see him not only as an enemy but as the worst kind of enemy—a false, scheming, treacherous, fake friend—who aims not only to corrupt her body but her mind as well?”
Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and then proceeded: “I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you for what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you for the future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from some opinion of your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have made; and from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do not deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of your shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the punishment which, as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and I hope, by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence denounced against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your days, and want shall be no motive to your going astray; and, believe me, there is more pleasure, even in this world, in an innocent and virtuous life, than in one debauched and vicious.
Here Jenny, looking worried, Allworthy paused for a moment and then continued: “I’m telling you this, child, not to insult you for what’s already done and can't be changed, but to warn and prepare you for what’s ahead. I wouldn’t bother with this unless I believed in your good sense, despite the terrible mistake you’ve made; and I have some hope for your sincere remorse, which comes from the honesty and openness of your confession. If I’m not mistaken, I will make sure to get you away from this place of shame, where, by remaining anonymous, you can escape the consequences that, as I said, are associated with your wrongdoing in this life; and I hope that through repentance, you’ll avoid the much harsher punishment that’s been declared in the next life. Be a good girl for the rest of your life, and lack will not be a reason for you to go astray; and believe me, there is much more joy, even in this world, in a pure and virtuous life than in one that is corrupt and immoral.”
“As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now nothing remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that seduced you; for my anger against him will be much greater than you have experienced on this occasion.”
“As for your child, don’t let any worries about it bother you; I will take care of it in a way that’s far better than you could ever imagine. Now, all that’s left is for you to tell me who the terrible person was that led you astray; because my anger toward him will be much stronger than what you’ve felt this time.”
Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and decent voice thus began:—
Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a humble expression and a calm voice, she began:—
“To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument of total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on this occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I know you will spare my blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much better declare my sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave to assure you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your generous offer with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it is an instance of your opinion of my understanding.”—Here her tears flowing apace, she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded thus:—“Indeed, sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will endeavour to deserve this good opinion: for if I have the understanding you are so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away upon me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful for all the favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my knees entreat you not to persist in asking me to declare the father of my infant. I promise you faithfully you shall one day know; but I am under the most solemn ties and engagements of honour, as well as the most religious vows and protestations, to conceal his name at this time. And I know you too well, to think you would desire I should sacrifice either my honour or my religion.”
"To know you, sir, and not appreciate your goodness would show a complete lack of sense or goodness in anyone. For me, it would be the utmost ingratitude not to genuinely feel the great kindness you have shown on this occasion. As for my feelings about the past, I know you will spare me the embarrassment of going over it again. My future actions will express my feelings far better than any promises I can make now. I want to assure you, sir, that I value your advice much more than your generous offer at the end; as you kindly mentioned, it reflects your opinion of my understanding." — Here, with tears flowing, she paused for a moment, then continued: — "Indeed, sir, your kindness overwhelms me, but I will strive to live up to this good opinion: for if I truly have the understanding you graciously attribute to me, then such advice is invaluable. I sincerely thank you, sir, for your intended kindness towards my poor helpless child: he is innocent, and I hope he will grow up to appreciate all the favors you will show him. But now, sir, I must on my knees beg you not to keep asking me to reveal the father of my infant. I promise you faithfully that one day you will know; however, I am bound by the most serious obligations of honor, as well as the most sacred vows, to keep his name secret for now. And I know you well enough to believe that you would not want me to sacrifice either my honor or my faith."
Mr Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then told her, she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking them. He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had inquired, but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he might not ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
Mr. Allworthy, who was easily shaken by even a hint of those sacred words, paused for a moment before responding. He told her that it was wrong to get involved with a villain, but since she had, he couldn’t force her to break those ties. He explained that his inquiry wasn’t out of mere curiosity, but to hold the guy accountable; at the very least, he wanted to ensure that he wasn’t unknowingly doing favors for someone unworthy.
As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances, that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to his power, nor in any probability of becoming an object of his goodness.
Regarding these matters, Jenny assured him very seriously that the man was completely beyond his reach; he was neither under his control nor likely to become someone deserving of his kindness.
The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with this worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit her honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little apprehensions that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.
The cleverness of Jenny's behavior earned her a lot of trust from this respectable man, so he easily believed what she told him. Since she refused to make excuses with a lie and risked his displeasure in her current situation rather than compromise her honor or integrity by betraying someone else, he had very little concern that she would be dishonest with him.
He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred; concluding with some additional documents, in which he recommended repentance, saying, “Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance to you than mine.”
He reassured her that he would soon take her away from the shame she had faced; he ended with some extra documents, urging her to repent, saying, “Think about it, child, there is still one more person you need to make amends with, whose favor is far more important to you than mine.”
Chapter viii. — A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more amusement, but less instruction, than the former.
When Mr Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as hath been seen, Mrs Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken themselves to a post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through the conveyance of a keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the instructive lecture delivered by Mr Allworthy, together with the answers of Jenny, and indeed every other particular which passed in the last chapter.
When Mr. Allworthy had gone to his study with Jenny Jones, as described earlier, Mrs. Bridget and the good housekeeper had taken up a position right next to that study; from where, by listening through the keyhole, they absorbed the enlightening lecture given by Mr. Allworthy, along with Jenny's responses, and everything else that happened in the last chapter.
This hole in her brother's study-door was indeed as well known to Mrs Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the famous hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good purposes. For by such means Mrs Bridget became often acquainted with her brother's inclinations, without giving him the trouble of repeating them to her. It is true, some inconveniences attended this intercourse, and she had sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in Shakspeare, “O, wicked, wicked wall!” For as Mr Allworthy was a justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations concerning bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great offence to the chaste ears of virgins, especially when they approach the age of forty, as was the case of Mrs Bridget. However, she had, on such occasions, the advantage of concealing her blushes from the eyes of men; and De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est ratio—in English, “When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not blush at all.”
This hole in her brother's study door was just as well known to Mrs. Bridget, and she used it just as often, as Thisbe did the famous hole in the wall back in the day. It served many good purposes. Through this means, Mrs. Bridget often learned about her brother's thoughts without him having to tell her. It’s true, there were some downsides to this arrangement, and she sometimes had reason to exclaim with Thisbe in Shakespeare, “O, wicked, wicked wall!” Since Mr. Allworthy was a justice of the peace, there were certain things that came up during interrogations about bastards and such, which could be quite offensive to the sensitive ears of virtuous women—especially when they're approaching forty, like Mrs. Bridget. However, during those times, she had the advantage of being able to hide her blushes from men, and De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est ratio—in English, “When a woman isn’t seen to blush, she doesn’t blush at all.”
Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene between Mr Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and that gentleman was out of hearing, Mrs Deborah could not help exclaiming against the clemency of her master, and especially against his suffering her to conceal the father of the child, which she swore she would have out of her before the sun set.
Both the good women kept quiet during the entire exchange between Mr. Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was over and he was out of earshot, Mrs. Deborah couldn't help but voice her disapproval of her master's leniency, especially for allowing her to hide the father of the child, whom she vowed to reveal before sunset.
At these words Mrs Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine, that this was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you conceive came from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving goddess; nor was it one of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots from the stage-box, and which Venus would quit her immortality to be able to equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might be supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the august Tisiphone, or from one of the misses, her sisters.
At these words, Mrs. Bridget forced a smile—a very unusual thing for her. I don’t want my reader to think this was one of those mischievous smiles that Homer would have you believe came from Venus, the laughter-loving goddess; nor was it one of those smiles that Lady Seraphina tosses from the stage box, which Venus would give up her immortality to match. No, this was more like one of those smiles that might be imagined coming from the dimpled cheeks of the impressive Tisiphone or one of her sister misses.
With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs Bridget gently reproved the curiosity of Mrs Deborah; a vice with which it seems the latter was too much tainted, and which the former inveighed against with great bitterness, adding, “That, among all her faults, she thanked Heaven her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the affairs of other people.”
With a smile like that, and a voice as sweet as the evening breeze in November, Mrs. Bridget gently reminded Mrs. Deborah of her curiosity; a flaw that Mrs. Deborah seemed to have in abundance, and which Mrs. Bridget criticized quite harshly, saying, “Of all my faults, I’m grateful to Heaven that my enemies can’t accuse me of prying into other people's business.”
She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny had acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother, that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in her integrity to her lover: that she had always thought her a very good girl, and doubted not but she had been seduced by some rascal, who had been infinitely more to blame than herself, and very probably had prevailed with her by a promise of marriage, or some other treacherous proceeding.
She then went on to praise the honor and spirit with which Jenny had acted. She said she couldn't help agreeing with her brother that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession and her loyalty to her lover. She had always thought Jenny was a really good girl and didn’t doubt that she had been tricked by some jerk, who was much more at fault than she was, and who likely had convinced her with a false promise of marriage or some other deceitful tactic.
This behaviour of Mrs Bridget greatly surprised Mrs Deborah; for this well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or his sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with which her sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought she might have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader will not perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so doing, but will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she tacked about, when she found herself steering a wrong course.
This behavior of Mrs. Bridget really surprised Mrs. Deborah; this well-mannered woman rarely said anything, either to her employer or his sister, until she had first gauged their feelings, which she always aligned with. However, in this case, she thought she could speak freely; and the clever reader will likely not blame her for not planning ahead in doing so, but will instead appreciate how quickly she adjusted when she realized she was on the wrong track.
“Nay, madam,” said this able woman, and truly great politician, “I must own I cannot help admiring the girl's spirit, as well as your ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by some wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest, plain girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys in the neighbourhood are.”
“Actually, ma'am,” said this capable woman, and truly great politician, “I have to admit I can't help but admire the girl's spirit, just like you do. And, as you mentioned, if she was tricked by some wicked man, the poor thing deserves our sympathy. And of course, as you say, the girl has always seemed like a good, honest, plain girl, not vain about her looks at all, unlike some flirtatious women in the neighborhood.”
“You say true, Deborah,” said Miss Bridget. “If the girl had been one of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the parish, I should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I saw two farmers' daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows, it is no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it would be much better for them that their faces had been seamed with the smallpox; but I must confess, I never saw any of this wanton behaviour in poor Jenny: some artful villain, I am convinced, hath betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and I pity the poor wretch with all my heart.”
“You're right, Deborah,” said Miss Bridget. “If the girl had been one of those vain hussies, of which we have way too many in the parish, I would have criticized my brother for being too lenient with her. I saw two farmers' daughters at church the other day with their necks showing. I swear they shocked me. If girls are going to flaunt themselves for attention, they shouldn't be surprised by what happens to them. I can't stand people like that; it would be better for them if their faces were scarred with smallpox. But I have to admit, I've never seen that kind of behavior in poor Jenny: some crafty villain, I’m sure, has betrayed her, or maybe even forced her; and I truly feel sorry for the poor thing with all my heart.”
Mrs Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue concluded with a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with many compassionate considerations for all honest plain girls who are deluded by the wicked arts of deceitful men.
Mrs. Deborah agreed with all these feelings, and the conversation ended with a collective and harsh criticism of beauty, along with many sympathetic thoughts for all the honest plain girls who are misled by the deceitful tricks of dishonest men.
Chapter ix. — Containing matters which will surprize the reader.
Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with from Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made public; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly from the more prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and silencing their clamours.
Jenny returned home very happy with how Mr. Allworthy had welcomed her. She made sure to share how generous he had been to her, possibly as a way to feed her own pride, but also to more wisely win over her neighbors and quiet their complaints.
But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for when she was convened before the justice, and it was universally apprehended that the house of correction would have been her fate, though some of the young women cryed out “It was good enough for her,” and diverted themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a silk gown; yet there were many others who began to pity her condition: but when it was known in what manner Mr Allworthy had behaved, the tide turned against her. One said, “I'll assure you, madam hath had good luck.” A second cryed, “See what it is to be a favourite!” A third, “Ay, this comes of her learning.” Every person made some malicious comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the partiality of the justice.
But even though this later perspective, if she actually had it, might seem reasonable enough, the outcome didn't meet her expectations. When she was called before the judge, and everyone thought she would end up in the correctional facility—some of the young women shouted, “She deserves it,” and entertained themselves with the idea of her working in a silk gown while beating hemp—many others started to feel sorry for her situation. But when people learned how Mr. Allworthy had acted, opinions shifted. One person said, “I assure you, the lady has been lucky.” Another exclaimed, “See what it’s like to be a favorite!” A third remarked, “Yeah, this is what comes from being educated.” Everyone made some spiteful comment or another about the situation and criticized the judge's favoritism.
The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to the reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr Allworthy. But as to his power, he never used it; and as to his benevolence, he exerted so much, that he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours; for it is a secret well known to great men, that, by conferring an obligation, they do not always procure a friend, but are certain of creating many enemies.
The behavior of these people might seem rude and ungrateful to anyone who recognizes Mr. Allworthy's power and kindness. However, he never used his power, and regarding his kindness, he was so generous that he ended up upsetting all his neighbors. It's a well-known secret among influential people that by doing someone a favor, they don't always gain a friend; in fact, they’re likely to make quite a few enemies instead.
Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr Allworthy, soon removed out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer able to vent its rage on her, began to seek another object of its bitterness, and this was no less than Mr Allworthy, himself; for a whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was the father of the foundling child.
Jenny was, however, thanks to the care and kindness of Mr. Allworthy, soon out of the reach of criticism; when malice could no longer direct its rage at her, it started looking for another target for its bitterness, and that target was none other than Mr. Allworthy himself; for a rumor quickly spread that he was the father of the abandoned child.
This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his lenity soon began to take another turn, and was changed into an invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good women exclaimed against men who begot children, and then disowned them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the departure of Jenny, insinuated that she was spirited away with a design too black to be mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to be made into the whole matter, and that some people should be forced to produce the girl.
This assumption aligned his actions with public opinion so well that it received widespread acceptance; soon, the criticism of his leniency shifted to accusations of his cruelty towards the poor girl. Serious and respectable women condemned men who fathered children and then abandoned them. There were also some who, after Jenny's departure, suggested that she was taken away for a purpose too sinister to discuss, and they hinted that a legal investigation should be conducted into the entire situation, insisting that certain individuals should be compelled to reveal her whereabouts.
These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at the least might have occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more doubtful and suspicious character than Mr Allworthy was blessed with; but in his case they had no such effect; and, being heartily despised by him, they served only to afford an innocent amusement to the good gossips of the neighbourhood.
These rumors could have had negative effects, or at least caused some trouble, for someone with a more doubtful and suspicious character than Mr. Allworthy, who was more secure in himself; however, in his case, they had no such impact. He completely disregarded them, and they only provided some innocent entertainment for the well-meaning chatterers in the neighborhood.
But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may be of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of Jenny, we think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr Allworthy was, and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of any criminal intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than an error in politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to gratify the good-natured disposition of the mob,[*] with an object for their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom, in order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and infamy, by a shameful correction in Bridewell.
But since we can't really guess what kind of person our reader might be, and since it will be a while before he hears more about Jenny, we think it's important to let him know right away that Mr. Allworthy was, and will continue to be, completely innocent of any criminal intent whatsoever. He indeed made no mistake other than an error in judgment, by mixing justice with mercy, and by choosing not to satisfy the kindly nature of the crowd, who wanted to find someone to feel sorry for in the unfortunate Jenny. They wanted to see her sacrificed to disgrace and ruin through a humiliating punishment in Bridewell.
[*]Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest rank are often meant by it.
[*]Whenever this word appears in our writings, it refers to people lacking virtue or sense, in all positions; and many individuals of the highest rank are often included in this.
So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all hopes of reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut against her if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her to chuse the road of virtue, Mr Allworthy rather chose to encourage the girl to return thither by the only possible means; for too true I am afraid it is, that many women have become abandoned, and have sunk to the last degree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip. This will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain among their former acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy the pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill consequences of losing it.
Instead of giving in to her tendencies, which would have wiped out all hopes for reform and closed the door on her if she ever wanted to choose the path of virtue, Mr. Allworthy decided to encourage the girl to head back there by the only way possible. Sadly, it often happens that many women end up lost and descend into the depths of wrongdoing because they can’t recover from their first mistake. This will likely continue to be the case as long as they stay around their old friends. Therefore, Mr. Allworthy wisely moved Jenny to a place where she could enjoy the benefits of a good reputation after experiencing the negative effects of losing it.
To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the little foundling her child, having matters of much higher importance to communicate to the reader.
To this place, wherever it may be, we wish her a good journey, and for now, we bid farewell to her and the little foundling, her child, as we have much more important matters to share with the reader.
Chapter x. — The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were entertained by that gentleman.
Neither Mr Allworthy's house, nor his heart, were shut against any part of mankind, but they were both more particularly open to men of merit. To say the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom where you was sure to gain a dinner by deserving it.
Neither Mr. Allworthy's house nor his heart were closed off to anyone, but they were especially welcoming to people of merit. To be honest, this was the only house in the kingdom where you could always count on getting a meal if you earned it.
Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal place in his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for though he had missed the advantage of a learned education, yet, being blest with vast natural abilities, he had so well profited by a vigorous though late application to letters, and by much conversation with men of eminence in this way, that he was himself a very competent judge in most kinds of literature.
Above all, he favored men of genius and learning; he had a keen eye for them. Even though he missed out on formal education, his natural abilities were huge. He made great strides through dedicated study, even if it came later in life, and through conversations with notable people in the field. As a result, he became quite knowledgeable and a competent judge of most types of literature.
It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so little in fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of it should very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of being received with great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy almost the same advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were entitled to it in their own right; for Mr Allworthy was not one of those generous persons who are ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and lodging on men of wit and learning, for which they expect no other return but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and subserviency; in a word, that such persons should be enrolled in the number of domestics, without wearing their master's cloathes, or receiving wages.
It's no surprise that in a time when this type of talent is so out of style and hardly recognized, people who have it are quick to seek a place where they know they'll be welcomed warmly; in fact, where they can enjoy almost the same perks of a wealthy lifestyle as if they were entitled to it themselves. Mr. Allworthy wasn’t one of those generous people who lavishly provide food, drink, and shelter to clever and educated individuals expecting nothing in return but amusement, knowledge, praise, and obedience. In short, these people were to be counted among the household staff without wearing their master's clothes or receiving a salary.
On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of his own time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his appetites within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion; so he might, if his health required, or his inclination prompted him to temperance, or even to abstinence, absent himself from any meals, or retire from them, whenever he was so disposed, without even a sollicitation to the contrary: for, indeed, such sollicitations from superiors always savour very strongly of commands. But all here were free from such impertinence, not only those whose company is in all other places esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but even those whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a great man's table because they stand in need of it.
On the contrary, every person in this house had complete control over their own time: and as they could satisfy all their desires within the limits of law, morality, and religion, they could also, if their health required it or if they chose to be moderate or even abstinent, skip any meals or leave them whenever they wanted, without any pressure to do otherwise. After all, such pressure from those in charge usually feels a lot like orders. But everyone here was free from such annoyances, not just those whose company is considered a privilege due to their equal social status, but even those whose less fortunate situation makes their stay here convenient, and who are therefore less welcomed at a wealthy person's table because they need it.
Among others of this kind was Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy of a father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged to study physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books of this kind were almost the only ones with which he was unacquainted; and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master of almost every other science but that by which he was to get his bread; the consequence of which was, that the doctor at the age of forty had no bread to eat.
Among others like him was Dr. Blifil, a man who unfortunately lost the benefit of his great talents because of his father's stubbornness, who forced him into a profession he hated. Out of obedience to this stubbornness, the doctor had to study medicine in his youth, or rather he pretended to study it; because in reality, the only books he wasn't familiar with were those related to medicine. Unfortunately for him, the doctor excelled in nearly every other field except the one that would provide for him, resulting in the fact that by the time he was forty, he had no food to eat.
Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr Allworthy's table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation, when they were derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of the unfortunate person himself. Besides this negative merit, the doctor had one positive recommendation;—this was a great appearance of religion. Whether his religion was real, or consisted only in appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any touchstone which can distinguish the true from the false.
Someone like this would definitely be welcomed at Mr. Allworthy's table, as he always had a soft spot for misfortunes that came from the foolishness or wickedness of others, rather than from the unfortunate person themselves. On top of this negative trait, the doctor had one positive quality—he seemed very religious. Whether his faith was genuine or just for show, I can’t say, since I don’t have any way to tell the true from the false.
If this part of his character pleased Mr Allworthy, it delighted Miss Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on which occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the doctor's knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he frequently bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much English divinity, and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates. Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and her whole deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to deserve the name of saint equally with her namesake, or with any other female in the Roman kalendar.
If this part of his character pleased Mr. Allworthy, it delighted Miss Bridget. She got him involved in many religious debates, during which she often expressed her great satisfaction with the doctor's knowledge, as well as her appreciation for the compliments he frequently paid her. To be honest, she had read a lot of English theology and had puzzled more than one of the local curates. In fact, her conversation was so refined, her expression so wise, and her entire demeanor so serious and solemn that she seemed just as deserving of the title of saint as her namesake or any other woman in the Roman calendar.
As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than those of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to lament an unfortunate accident which had happened to him about ten years before; namely, his marriage with another woman, who was not only still alive, but, what was worse, known to be so by Mr Allworthy. This was a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise saw sufficient probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as to criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. This was owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or to the purity of his passion, which was fixed on those things which matrimony only, and not criminal correspondence, could put him in possession of, or could give him any title to.
As all kinds of sympathy tend to create love, experience teaches us that none is more effective in this regard than religious sentiments between men and women. The doctor found himself so likable to Miss Bridget that he began to regret an unfortunate event from about ten years ago: his marriage to another woman, who was not only still alive but, worse, known to be so by Mr. Allworthy. This was a serious obstacle to the happiness he otherwise saw as likely to achieve with this young lady; as for any inappropriate actions, he certainly never considered them. This was likely due either to his religious beliefs or to the purity of his feelings, which were focused on the things that only marriage could grant him or give him any right to.
He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to his memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy incapacity. This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he discerned, as he thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady; and the reader perhaps, when he hears the brother's qualifications, will not blame the confidence which he entertained of his success.
He hadn’t thought about these things for long before he remembered that he had a brother who wasn’t in such an unfortunate position. He had no doubt that this brother would succeed; he sensed, as he believed, that the lady had an interest in marriage. And the reader, upon learning about the brother's qualities, might not fault him for his confidence in his success.
This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a middle size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his forehead, which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for he was a half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and something affable, when he pleased, in his smile; though naturally his countenance, as well as his air and voice, had much of roughness in it: yet he could at any time deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour. He was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth had abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately put on a more serious character, he could, when he pleased, resume.
This man was about thirty-five years old. He was of average height and what you would call well-built. He had a scar on his forehead, which didn't really hurt his looks but showed his bravery (since he was a retired officer). He had nice teeth, and when he wanted to, his smile was quite friendly; however, his face, along with his demeanor and voice, had a rough edge to it. Still, he could easily drop that and come across as gentle and cheerful. He wasn't uncouth, nor was he completely lacking in wit, and in his youth, he was full of energy, which, even though he had recently adopted a more serious demeanor, he could bring back whenever he chose.
He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father had, with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before, decreed him for holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he was ordained, he chose the church military, and preferred the king's commission to the bishop's.
He had, just like the doctor, a formal education; his father had, with the same authority we mentioned earlier, intended for him to enter the clergy. However, since the old man died before he was ordained, he decided to pursue a military career in the church and chose a king's commission over a bishop's.
He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and afterwards came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his colonel, was by his interest obliged to sell; from which time he had entirely rusticated himself, had betaken himself to studying the Scriptures, and was not a little suspected of an inclination to methodism.
He bought the position of lieutenant in the dragoons and later became a captain; however, after having a falling out with his colonel, he had to sell his position due to connections he had. Since then, he completely removed himself from society, focused on studying the Scriptures, and was somewhat suspected of leaning towards Methodism.
It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but why the doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother, should for his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality of Allworthy, is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.
It didn't seem unlikely that someone like that would succeed with a woman of such a saintly nature, whose interests were only generally focused on marriage. However, it's hard to understand why the doctor, who clearly wasn't very close to his brother, would consider making such a poor return for Allworthy's hospitality.
Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which experience seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in aggrandizing our families, even though we have not the least love or respect for them?
Is it that some people find joy in wrongdoing, just as others are believed to find joy in doing good? Or is there a thrill in being involved in a theft when we can't commit it ourselves? Or finally (which experience seems to support), do we get some satisfaction from elevating our families, even if we don't have any love or respect for them?
Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily found means to introduce him at Allworthy's as a person who intended only a short visit to himself.
Whether any of these motives influenced the doctor, we won't decide; but that’s how it was. He called for his brother and conveniently found a way to introduce him to Allworthy as someone who planned to stay for just a brief visit.
The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He had besides received proper hints from his brother, which he failed not to improve to the best advantage.
The captain hadn’t been in the house for a week before the doctor had a reason to congratulate himself on his insight. The captain was truly as skilled in the art of love as Ovid once was. He also got some good advice from his brother, which he definitely used to his full advantage.
Chapter xi. — Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning falling in love: descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to matrimony.
It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that all persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No particular season is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at which Miss Bridget was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as any to be fixed on for this purpose: it often, indeed, happens much earlier; but when it doth not, I have observed it seldom or never fails about this time. Moreover, we may remark that at this season love is of a more serious and steady nature than what sometimes shows itself in the younger parts of life. The love of girls is uncertain, capricious, and so foolish that we cannot always discover what the young lady would be at; nay, it may almost be doubted whether she always knows this herself.
It has been noted, by wise people, I can’t recall which, that everyone is bound to fall in love at least once in their lives. There’s no specific time assigned for this; however, the age at which Miss Bridget has reached seems to me like a fitting time for it: often, it happens much earlier; but when it doesn’t, I've noticed that it rarely fails to occur around this time. Furthermore, we can observe that at this age, love tends to be more serious and stable than what sometimes appears in younger years. The love of girls can be unpredictable, whimsical, and so silly that we can’t always understand what the young lady wants; in fact, it might even be questioned whether she knows this herself.
Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own meaning, so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity to discover it with the utmost certainty.
Now it's never hard to see this in women around forty; serious and experienced ladies know their own intentions, so it's always pretty easy for a man with even a little sense to figure it out with complete confidence.
Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not been many times in the captain's company before she was seized with this passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and she enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor ashamed.
Miss Bridget embodies all these observations. She hadn't spent much time with the captain before she was struck by this passion. Nor did she wander around the house pining and moping like a weak, foolish girl unaware of her condition: she felt, she knew, and she enjoyed the delightful sensation, which she was certain was not only innocent but also commendable, so she was neither afraid nor ashamed.
And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference between the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy, which is often fixed on the outside only, and on things of little value and no duration; as on cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands, sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dapper shapes; nay, sometimes on charms more worthless than these, and less the party's own; such are the outward ornaments of the person, for which men are beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter, and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well be ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to themselves or others.
To be honest, there's a significant difference between the genuine feelings women have for men at this age and the immature, superficial crushes that girls have on boys. Those crushes often focus only on superficial traits that are trivial and fleeting, like rosy cheeks, small white hands, dark eyes, flowing hair, soft chins, and stylish figures. Sometimes, they even fixate on attractions that are even less valuable and not truly theirs, relying on external appearances created by tailors, lace makers, wig stylists, hat makers, and milliners, rather than real beauty. Girls often feel embarrassed about such shallow feelings, and they tend to hide them from both themselves and others.
The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed nothing to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person much more beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such as, had they appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have been the contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The former of these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of fashion. As for the latter, we have expressly described it above. So far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherry-coloured, that you could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks was, they being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended to his eyes. His shape and limbs were indeed exactly proportioned, but so large that they denoted the strength rather of a ploughman than any other. His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and the calves of his legs larger than those of a common chairman. In short, his whole person wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very reverse of clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors, viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an early town education.
Miss Bridget's love was different. The captain didn’t owe anything to the outfitters for his clothing, nor did he rely on nature much for his appearance. Both his attire and his looks would have drawn scorn and laughter from all the fashionable ladies at a social gathering. His clothing was indeed neat, but it was plain, rough, poorly designed, and out of style. As for his appearance, we’ve described it earlier. His cheeks were far from cherry-red; you couldn’t even see their natural color, as they were completely covered by a thick black beard that reached up to his eyes. His body and limbs were well-proportioned, but they were so large that they suggested more the build of a farmer than anyone else. His shoulders were incredibly broad, and the calves of his legs were bigger than an average porter’s. In short, he lacked all the elegance and beauty that contrasts with clumsy strength, qualities that most of our refined gentlemen possess, partly due to their noble lineage—blood enriched by fine foods and quality wines—and partly from a privileged upbringing in the city.
Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste, yet such were the charms of the captain's conversation, that she totally overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and perhaps very wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with the captain than with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the consideration of pleasing her eyes, in order to procure herself much more solid satisfaction.
Though Miss Bridget had impeccable taste, the captain's conversation was so charming that she completely overlooked his physical flaws. She believed, and perhaps correctly, that she would have more enjoyable moments with the captain than with a much better-looking guy, and she chose to forgo pleasing her eyes for a much more substantial satisfaction.
The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in which discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned it. The lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I would attempt to draw her picture, but that is done already by a more able master, Mr Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago, and hath been lately exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a winter's morning, of which she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking (for walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book.
The captain quickly noticed Miss Bridget's feelings, and he honestly returned them. The lady, just like her suitor, wasn't particularly known for her beauty. I would try to describe her, but that's already been done by someone much more skilled, Mr. Hogarth himself, who painted her many years ago. His print of a winter morning recently showcased her as a fitting representation, where you can see her walking (and she indeed walks in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a tiny foot-boy behind her carrying her prayer book.
The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was one of those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very worthless and superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly, who rather chuse to possess every convenience of life with an ugly woman, than a handsome one without any of those conveniences. And having a very good appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play his part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce of beauty.
The captain wisely preferred the deeper joys he expected with this woman over the temporary allure of looks. He was one of those wise individuals who see beauty in the opposite sex as a trivial and shallow attribute; in fact, he would rather have all the comforts of life with an unattractive woman than deal with a beautiful one who lacked any of those comforts. With a healthy appetite and not much fussiness, he believed he would manage just fine at the marriage feast, even without the garnish of beauty.
To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his arrival, at least from the moment his brother had proposed the match to him, long before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in Miss Bridget, had been greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr Allworthy's house and gardens, and of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all which the captain was so passionately fond, that he would most probably have contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.
To be straightforward with the reader, ever since the captain arrived, and at least from the time his brother suggested the match to him, long before he noticed any appealing traits in Miss Bridget, he had been very much in love; that is to say, with Mr. Allworthy's house and gardens, as well as his lands, properties, and inheritances. The captain was so passionately attached that he probably would have married them even if he had to include the witch of Endor as part of the deal.
As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he never intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his interposition, would have done for him; the doctor and his brother thought it an act of benevolence to give being to a human creature, who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential means of happiness. The whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were how to engage the affections of this amiable lady.
As Mr. Allworthy had told the doctor that he never planned to take a second wife, since his sister was his closest relative, and since the doctor had figured out that he intended to make any child of hers his heir, which the law would have done for him without his interference; the doctor and his brother thought it would be a kind gesture to bring a human being into the world who would have plenty of the essential means to be happy. So, both brothers were focused on how to win the affection of this lovely lady.
But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so industrious for the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same desires with himself, and was on her side contriving how to give the captain proper encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she was a strict observer of all rules of decorum. In this, however, she easily succeeded; for as the captain was always on the look-out, no glance, gesture, or word escaped him.
But fortune, who is like a caring parent and often does more for her favorite children than they deserve or want, had been so busy helping the captain that while he was planning to achieve his goals, the lady developed the same desires as him and was figuring out how to give the captain the right encouragement without coming off as too eager; she was very mindful of all the rules of proper behavior. In this, though, she succeeded easily; the captain was always attentive, so not a glance, gesture, or word got past him.
The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind behaviour of Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his apprehensions of Mr Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested professions, the captain imagined he would, when he came to act, follow the example of the rest of the world, and refuse his consent to a match so disadvantageous, in point of interest, to his sister. From what oracle he received this opinion, I shall leave the reader to determine: but however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his conduct so as at once to convey his affection to the lady, and to conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to take all private opportunities of making his addresses; but in the presence of Mr Allworthy to be as reserved and as much upon his guard as was possible; and this conduct was highly approved by the brother.
The satisfaction the captain felt from Miss Bridget's kind behavior was somewhat diminished by his worries about Mr. Allworthy. Despite his claims of being selfless, the captain thought that when it came down to it, he would act like everyone else and deny consent to a match that was not beneficial for his sister. Where he got this idea, I’ll leave it to the reader to decide; but however he came to it, it left him confused about how to show his feelings for the lady while keeping them hidden from her brother. He ultimately decided to seize every private chance to express his affections, but in Mr. Allworthy’s presence, he would be as reserved and cautious as possible; this approach was highly approved by the brother.
He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to his mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form, viz.: the answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and which hath been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter ever since. If I was to translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two words, Nolo Episcopari: a phrase likewise of immemorial use on another occasion.
He quickly found ways to directly express his feelings to his mistress, who responded appropriately, specifically with the answer that has been given for thousands of years and passed down from mother to daughter ever since. If I were to translate this into Latin, I would use the phrase Nolo Episcopari: a saying that has also been used for a long time in a different context.
The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with more warmth and earnestness than before, and was again, according to due form, rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his desires, so the lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the violence of her refusal.
The captain, however he gained his knowledge, completely understood the lady, and soon after expressed his proposal with more passion and seriousness than before, only to be rejected again, as is proper; but while his eagerness grew, the lady, with equal propriety, softened her rejection.
Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author, it is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his advances in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length, in proper form, surrendered at discretion.
Not to bore the reader by detailing every moment of this courtship (which, according to a famous author, is the most enjoyable experience for the person involved, but might be just as dull and tiresome for the audience), the captain made his moves formally, the fortress was defended formally, and ultimately, in due course, surrendered without conditions.
During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month, the captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in private, the more reserved was he in public. And as for the lady, she had no sooner secured her lover than she behaved to him before company with the highest degree of indifference; so that Mr Allworthy must have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was going forward.
During all this time, which lasted almost a month, the captain kept a significant distance in his behavior towards his lady in front of her brother; the more he succeeded with her in private, the more reserved he became in public. As for the lady, once she secured her lover, she acted towards him in front of others with the utmost indifference, so that Mr. Allworthy would have needed the insight of the devil (or maybe some of his worse traits) to have even entertained the slightest suspicion of what was happening.
Chapter xii. — Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it.
In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any other such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the matter to an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was the case at present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady were man and wife.
In all deals, whether to fight, to marry, or about anything else, not much formality is needed to get things sorted out when both sides are genuinely committed. That was the situation here, and in less than a month, the captain and his lady became husband and wife.
The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr Allworthy; and this was undertaken by the doctor.
The main worry now was how to tell Mr. Allworthy, and the doctor took on that task.
One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor came to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern which he could possibly affect in his countenance, said, “I am come, sir, to impart an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how shall I mention to you what it almost distracts me to think of!” He then launched forth into the most bitter invectives both against men and women; accusing the former of having no attachment but to their interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious inclinations that they could never be safely trusted with one of the other sex. “Could I,” said he, “sir, have suspected that a lady of such prudence, such judgment, such learning, should indulge so indiscreet a passion! or could I have imagined that my brother—why do I call him so? he is no longer a brother of mine——”
One day, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor approached him and, with a serious expression and all the concern he could muster, said, “I’ve come to discuss something very important with you, but how do I even begin to tell you what’s been driving me almost to distraction?” He then unleashed a barrage of harsh criticisms against both men and women, claiming that men were only interested in their own gain and that women were so prone to immoral behavior that they could never be trusted around men. “Could I,” he said, “have suspected that a lady of such wisdom, such judgment, such knowledge, would allow herself to have such an indiscreet passion? Or could I have imagined that my brother—why do I even call him that? He’s no longer my brother—”
“Indeed but he is,” said Allworthy, “and a brother of mine too.”
“Indeed he is,” said Allworthy, “and he’s my brother too.”
“Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the shocking affair?”
“Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the shocking situation?”
“Look'ee, Mr Blifil,” answered the good man, “it hath been my constant maxim in life to make the best of all matters which happen. My sister, though many years younger than I, is at least old enough to be at the age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should have been more averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of thirty must certainly be supposed to know what will make her most happy. She hath married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her equal in fortune; and if he hath any perfections in her eye which can make up that deficiency, I see no reason why I should object to her choice of her own happiness; which I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only in immense wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have made of complying with almost any proposal, have expected to have been consulted on this occasion; but these matters are of a very delicate nature, and the scruples of modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome. As to your brother, I have really no anger against him at all. He hath no obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any necessity of asking my consent, since the woman is, as I have said, sui juris, and of a proper age to be entirely answerable only, to herself for her conduct.”
“Listen, Mr. Blifil,” replied the good man, “I’ve always believed in making the best out of whatever happens. My sister, although much younger than me, is at least old enough to know better. If he had taken advantage of a child, I would have been more reluctant to forgive him; but a woman who is over thirty should certainly be expected to know what will make her happiest. She has married a gentleman, even if he’s not exactly her equal when it comes to wealth; and if he has any qualities in her eyes that can make up for that, I see no reason to object to her choice for her own happiness, which I don’t believe - any more than she does - is solely based on having a lot of money. I might have thought, given my many statements about being open to almost any proposal, that I would have been consulted in this matter; but these issues are very sensitive, and perhaps the doubts of modesty cannot be easily set aside. As for your brother, I honestly hold no anger towards him at all. He owes me nothing, and I don’t think he needed to ask for my permission since the woman, as I said, is sui juris and of the right age to be fully responsible for her own actions.”
The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never more be brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then launched forth into a panegyric on Allworthy's goodness; into the highest encomiums on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he should never forgive his brother for having put the place which he bore in that friendship to a hazard.
The doctor criticized Mr. Allworthy for being too lenient, repeated his accusations against his brother, and stated that he would never again be willing to see him or acknowledge him as family. He then went on to praise Allworthy's kindness, gave him high compliments for his friendship, and concluded by saying he would never forgive his brother for jeopardizing his position in that friendship.
Allworthy thus answered: “Had I conceived any displeasure against your brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the innocent: but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother appears to me to be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of my sister; nor will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his inclinations. I have always thought love the only foundation of happiness in a married state, as it can only produce that high and tender friendship which should always be the cement of this union; and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are contracted from other motives are greatly criminal; they are a profanation of a most holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and misery: for surely we may call it a profanation to convert this most sacred institution into a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice: and what better can be said of those matches to which men are induced merely by the consideration of a beautiful person, or a great fortune?
Allworthy responded, “If I had any issues with your brother, I would never take that out on someone innocent. But I assure you, I have no problems with him. Your brother seems like a man of reason and honor. I don’t disapprove of my sister's choice; I have no doubt she’s equally attracted to him. I’ve always believed that love is the only real basis for happiness in marriage since it creates that deep and caring friendship that should be the foundation of this union. In my view, all marriages based on other reasons are quite wrong; they tarnish a sacred ceremony and usually lead to unrest and unhappiness. It’s certainly a desecration to turn this sacred institution into a selfish sacrifice to lust or greed. And what can we say about those unions formed simply because of someone's good looks or vast wealth?”
“To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour. It was my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought handsome, and I can truly say I liked her the better on that account. But to make this the sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so violently as to overlook all imperfections for its sake, or to require it so absolutely as to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense, which are qualities in their nature of much higher perfection, only because an elegance of person is wanting: this is surely inconsistent, either with a wise man or a good Christian. And it is, perhaps, being too charitable to conclude that such persons mean anything more by their marriage than to please their carnal appetites; for the satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was not ordained.
"Denying that beauty is pleasing to the eye and deserving of some admiration would be dishonest and silly. The term 'beautiful' is often used in the Scriptures and is always mentioned with respect. I was fortunate enough to marry a woman whom many considered attractive, and I can honestly say I appreciated her more because of that. However, making beauty the only reason for marriage, obsessing over it to the point of ignoring all flaws, or demanding it so much that one dismisses religion, virtue, and sense—qualities that are inherently of much higher worth—just because a person lacks physical elegance, is certainly inconsistent with being a wise individual or a good Christian. It may even be overly kind to assume that such people have any real intention in their marriages beyond satisfying their physical desires, for which we are taught marriage was not intended."
“In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence, perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely and altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of a married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard to what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly increased, beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which create abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet, and virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.
“Next, let’s talk about money. Practical wisdom might require some thought on this topic, and I won’t completely dismiss it. Given how the world works, being married and taking care of future generations do need some attention to what we call circumstances. However, this need is often inflated by foolishness and vanity, which create far more desires than are actually necessary. Luxurious items for the wife and large fortunes for the children have become standard expectations, and in the pursuit of these, everything genuinely good, kind, virtuous, and meaningful gets ignored.”
“And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems scarce distinguishable from madness;—I mean where persons of immense fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be, disagreeable to them—to fools and knaves—in order to increase an estate already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely such persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that they are incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship, or that they sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are capable to the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion, which owe as well their force as their foundation to folly.”
“And this happens in many ways; the last and most extreme of which seems barely distinguishable from madness—I mean when wealthy individuals tie themselves to those who are, and must be, distasteful to them—fools and crooks—in order to grow a fortune that’s already more than enough for their pleasures. Surely such individuals, if they don’t want to be seen as crazy, must admit either that they can’t enjoy the joy of true friendship, or that they sacrifice their greatest happiness for the meaningless, uncertain, and senseless rules of public opinion, which owe both their power and their basis to foolishness.”
Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened with the profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to prevent now and then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now praised every period of what he had heard with the warmth of a young divine, who hath the honour to dine with a bishop the same day in which his lordship hath mounted the pulpit.
Here Allworthy wrapped up his sermon, which Blifil had listened to with intense focus, even though it took some effort to keep his muscles from tensing up now and then. He now praised each part of what he’d heard with the enthusiasm of a young clergyman who has the honor of dining with a bishop on the same day his lordship has taken to the pulpit.
Chapter xiii. — Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear unnatural.
The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must surely be thought matter of substance.
The reader might think, based on what has been said, that the reconciliation (if it can even be called that) was just a formality; so we'll skip over it and move on to what must definitely be considered substantial.
The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I promise you I paid you off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive you: for you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I might with safety venture on such a request with a person of his temper; and I was willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the least possibility of a suspicion.”
The doctor had filled his brother in on what had happened between Mr. Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I promise you I took care of it; in fact, I specifically asked the good gentleman not to forgive you: because you know after he expressed support for you, I could safely make such a request to someone like him; and I wanted, both for your sake and mine, to eliminate any chance of suspicion.”
Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; but he afterwards made a very notable use of it.
Captain Blifil didn’t pay any attention to this at the time; however, he later made very significant use of it.
One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth, left to his disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool from under you. In plain English, when you have made your fortune by the good offices of a friend, you are advised to discard him as soon as you can.
One of the sayings that the devil shared during a recent visit to earth is that once you've risen to success, you should kick the stool out from under you. In simpler terms, when you've achieved your fortune thanks to a friend's help, you're encouraged to cut ties with them as soon as possible.
Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively determine: so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be fairly derived from this diabolical principle; and indeed it is difficult to assign any other motive to them: for no sooner was he possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he began to show a coldness to his brother which increased daily; till at length it grew into rudeness, and became very visible to every one.
Whether the captain acted according to this principle, I won't say for sure: however, we can confidently suggest that his actions could be traced back to this wicked idea; it's hard to find any other motivation for them. For as soon as he had Miss Bridget and was on good terms with Allworthy, he started to become distant with his brother, and this coldness only increased over time, eventually turning into rudeness that was noticeable to everyone.
The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour, but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain declaration: “If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir, you know you are at liberty to quit it.” This strange, cruel, and almost unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke the poor doctor's heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good actions, however they are received or returned by those in whose favour they are performed, always administer some comfort to us; but what consolation shall we receive under so biting a calamity as the ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our wounded conscience at the same time flies in our face, and upbraids us with having spotted it in the service of one so worthless!
The doctor privately addressed him about this behavior, but all he got in return was a straightforward statement: “If you don’t like anything in my brother’s house, sir, you know you’re free to leave.” This strange, cruel, and nearly inexplicable ingratitude from the captain completely broke the poor doctor’s heart; because nothing cuts deeper than ingratitude from those for whom we've made sacrifices. Although we may struggle with how our good deeds are received, they still provide us some comfort; but what solace can we find when faced with the harsh reality of a friend's ungratefulness, especially when our guilty conscience reminds us that we acted for someone so undeserving?
Mr Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's behalf, and desired to know what offence the doctor had committed; when the hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should never forgive him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in his favour; which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a cruelty that it ought not to be forgiven.
Mr. Allworthy himself spoke to the captain on behalf of his brother and wanted to know what the doctor had done wrong. The cold-hearted villain had the audacity to say that he would never forgive him for the harm he tried to cause him while pretending to help. He claimed he had extracted this information from him, and it was such a cruelty that it shouldn't be forgiven.
Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which, he said, became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much resentment against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last pretended to be convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to be reconciled.
Allworthy spoke very highly of this statement, saying it was beneath any human being. He showed so much anger towards an unforgiving attitude that the captain eventually pretended to be swayed by his arguments and outwardly claimed to be reconciled.
As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so passionately fond of her new husband that he never appeared to her to be in the wrong; and his displeasure against any person was a sufficient reason for her dislike to the same.
As for the bride, she was now on her honeymoon and so deeply in love with her new husband that she could do no wrong in her eyes; his anger toward anyone was enough for her to dislike them as well.
The captain, at Mr Allworthy's instance, was outwardly, as we have said, reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in his heart; and he found so many opportunities of giving him private hints of this, that the house at last grew insupportable to the poor doctor; and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences which he might encounter in the world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
The captain, at Mr. Allworthy's request, seemed to have made up with his brother; however, he still held onto the same bitterness inside. He found plenty of chances to let him know how he felt privately, which eventually made the house unbearable for the poor doctor. He decided it was better to face any hardships in the outside world than to endure these harsh and ungrateful insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he could not bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he must take to his share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how much the worse man he represented his brother to be, so much the greater would his own offence appear to Allworthy, and so much the greater, he had reason to imagine, would be his resentment.
He had once planned to tell Allworthy everything, but he couldn't bring himself to confess, knowing he would have to take on a huge amount of guilt. Moreover, the worse he portrayed his brother, the more serious his own wrongdoing would seem to Allworthy, and he thought Allworthy's anger would be even greater as a result.
He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother with so well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his part to the same perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with the truth of the reconciliation.
He pretended to have some business excuse for leaving and promised to come back soon. He said goodbye to his brother with such a fake smile that, since the captain matched his performance perfectly, Allworthy was completely convinced that the reconciliation was genuine.
The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a broken heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally imagined, and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all other diseases—viz., that no physician can cure it.
The doctor headed straight to London, where he soon died of a broken heart; a condition that takes many more lives than people usually think, and would deserve a spot on the death toll if it weren’t for one thing—namely, that no doctor can cure it.
Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these two brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy above mentioned, another reason for the captain's conduct: the captain, besides what we have before said of him, was a man of great pride and fierceness, and had always treated his brother, who was of a different complexion, and greatly deficient in both these qualities, with the utmost air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the better understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear; for though envy is at best a very malignant passion, yet is its bitterness greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards the same object; and very much afraid I am, that whenever an obligation is joined to these two, indignation and not gratitude will be the product of all three.
Now, after thoroughly looking into the past of these two brothers, I find, aside from the previously mentioned wicked and terrible principle of policy, another reason for the captain's behavior: the captain, in addition to what we’ve already said about him, was a very proud and fierce man, who always treated his brother, who was quite different in nature and severely lacking in both qualities, with a sense of superiority. However, the doctor possessed much more knowledge and was often considered to have better judgment. The captain was aware of this, and it bothered him; because while envy is a very toxic feeling, its bitterness is intensified when mixed with contempt for the same person. I'm quite afraid that whenever these three feelings are combined, it will lead to indignation instead of gratitude.
BOOK II. — CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.
Chapter i. — Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it is not like.
Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history, and not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers, who profess to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much paper with the detail of months and years in which nothing remarkable happened, as he employs upon those notable aeras when the greatest scenes have been transacted on the human stage.
Although we have appropriately titled this work a history, rather than a biography or an apology for a life, which is more common nowadays, we aim to follow the style of writers who focus on revealing the changes in countries, rather than emulate the tedious and lengthy historian who feels the need to fill pages with details about months and years that lacked any significant events, just as much as he writes about the remarkable periods when the most important moments have taken place on the human stage.
Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a stage coach, which performs constantly the same course, empty as well as full. The writer, indeed, seems to think himself obliged to keep even pace with time, whose amanuensis he is; and, like his master, travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when the world seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy age so nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet—
Such histories really resemble a newspaper, which has the same number of words regardless of whether there's any news in it. They can also be compared to a stagecoach that travels the same route, whether it's empty or full. The writer seems to feel obligated to keep pace with time, acting as its secretary; and, like his master, he moves slowly through centuries of boring monastic life, when the world seems to be asleep, just as he does through that bright and busy era famously described by the great Latin poet—
Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique.
The punishments are coming from every side for battle, All things, shaken by the fearful chaos of war, Trembled with dread under the high skies; It was uncertain whether everyone would fall Under either ruler's power, on land and at sea.
Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation than that by Mr Creech—
Of which we wish we could provide our readers a better translation than the one by Mr. Creech—
When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
When terrifying Carthage threatened Rome with weapons,
And the entire world was shaken with intense fear;
While it was still uncertain which side would fall,
Which nation would emerge as the glorious master of all.Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary method. When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will often be the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without producing anything worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our history; but shall hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such periods of time totally unobserved.
Now, in the following pages, we aim to take a different approach. When any remarkable scene comes up (as we hope will happen frequently), we will do our best to explore it thoroughly for our reader; but if several years go by without anything noteworthy, we won't worry about gaps in our story. Instead, we will quickly move on to important matters and skip over those periods entirely.
These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of time. We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks they dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be informed at whose office it was sold: indeed, commonly two or three different offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by which, I suppose, the adventurers are given to understand that certain brokers are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet council.
These are definitely seen as blanks in the big lottery of time. We, the people keeping track of that lottery, should follow the example of those savvy individuals who handle the drawings at Guildhall. They never bother the public with all the blanks they sell; instead, when a big prize is drawn, the newspapers quickly fill up with the news, and everyone learns where it was sold. In fact, usually two or three different places claim the honor of having sold it, which I think makes the players feel like certain brokers know the secrets of Fortune and her inner circle.
My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this work, he shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as long; some that contain only the time of a single day, and others that comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand still, and sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on myself as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever: for as I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at liberty to make what laws I please therein. And these laws, my readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to believe in and to obey; with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall principally regard their ease and advantage in all such institutions: for I do not, like a jure divino tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves, or my commodity. I am, indeed, set over them for their own good only, and was created for their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make their interest the great rule of my writings, they will unanimously concur in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all the honour I shall deserve or desire.
My readers shouldn't be surprised if, throughout this work, they come across some chapters that are really short and others that are quite long; some that cover just a single day and others that span many years. In short, if my narrative sometimes seems to drag and at other times moves quickly. For all of this, I don’t feel accountable to any critical authority whatsoever: since I’m essentially the creator of a new genre of writing, I can set whatever rules I want. And these rules, my readers, whom I see as my audience, are expected to believe in and follow; to which I assure them that I will mainly focus on their comfort and benefit in these guidelines: I don’t, like a jure divino tyrant, think of them as my slaves or my possessions. I am truly here for their own good and was made for their benefit, not the other way around. I have no doubt that as I make their interests the main focus of my writings, they will wholeheartedly support my role and give me the respect I deserve or seek.
Chapter ii. — Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.
Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty, merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.
Eight months after the wedding of Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a beautiful, talented, and wealthy young woman, Miss Bridget, due to a scare, gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The child appeared perfect in every way, but the midwife revealed that he was born a month early.
Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance of great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections from the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given his own name of Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom failed of visiting, at least once a day, in his nursery.
Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister brought Mr. Allworthy great joy, it didn't lessen his affection for the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given his own name of Thomas, and whom he had usually visited at least once a day in his nursery.
He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should be bred up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though with some little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for her brother; and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling with rather more kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring themselves to show to these children, who, however innocent, may be truly called the living monuments of incontinence.
He told his sister that if she agreed, the newborn baby should be raised alongside little Tommy, to which she agreed, though with some hesitation. She genuinely cared for her brother, and because of that, she had always treated the foundling with a bit more kindness than what women of strict virtue typically manage to show to these children, who, despite being innocent, can truly be considered as living reminders of indiscretion.
The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he condemned as a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints, that to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He quoted several texts (for he was well read in Scripture), such as, He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge,&c. Whence he argued the legality of punishing the crime of the parent on the bastard. He said, “Though the law did not positively allow the destroying such base-born children, yet it held them to be the children of nobody; that the Church considered them as the children of nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth.”
The captain found it hard to accept what he criticized as a flaw in Mr. Allworthy. He often dropped hints that accepting the consequences of wrongdoing was essentially supporting it. He referenced several passages (since he was quite knowledgeable about the Bible), such as, He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge, etc. From this, he argued that it was lawful to punish a child for the crimes of their parent. He said, “Although the law doesn’t explicitly permit the killing of such illegitimate children, it considers them to be the children of no one; that the Church views them as belonging to no one; and that at best, they should be raised for the lowest and most disgraceful roles in society.”
Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain had urged on this subject, “That, however guilty the parents might be, the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had quoted, the former of them was a particular denunciation against the Jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their heavenly King; and the latter was parabolically spoken, and rather intended to denote the certain and necessary consequences of sin, than any express judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first principles of natural justice, and against the original notions of right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which we were to judge not only in all matters which were not revealed, but even of the truth of revelation itself. He said he knew many held the same principles with the captain on this head; but he was himself firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had fortune to have been found in the same place.”
Mr. Allworthy responded to everything the captain had insisted about this issue, saying, “No matter how guilty the parents may be, the children are definitely innocent. As for the texts you've mentioned, the first one specifically condemns the Jews for their idolatry and for abandoning and despising their heavenly King; the second one is more of a metaphorical expression and is meant to highlight the inevitable consequences of sin rather than deliver a direct judgment against it. But to depict the Almighty as punishing the innocent for the sins of the guilty is inappropriate, if not blasphemous, just as it is to suggest that He acts contrary to the basic principles of natural justice and the foundational ideas of right and wrong that He Himself has instilled in our minds. These principles guide us not only in matters that are not revealed but also in assessing the truth of revelation itself. I know many share similar beliefs with the captain on this issue, but I am firmly convinced otherwise, and I will care for this poor infant just as I would if it were a legitimate child found in the same situation.”
While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and such like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr Allworthy's, of whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs Deborah had made a discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least to prove more fatal to poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the captain.
While the captain was trying every chance he got to push these kinds of arguments to take the little foundling away from Mr. Allworthy, whose affection for him he was starting to envy, Mrs. Deborah made a discovery that, in the end, was likely to be more harmful to poor Tommy than anything the captain had to say.
Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried her on to that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good graces of Mrs Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward behaviour to the foundling, frequently abused the infant in private, and her brother too, for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but she had now, as she conceived, fully detected the father of the foundling.
Whether the endless curiosity of this good woman led her to that situation, or whether she did it to win the favor of Mrs. Blifil, who, despite her public behavior towards the foundling, often criticized the infant in private and scolded her brother for being so attached to it, I won't say; but she now believed she had completely uncovered the identity of the foundling's father.
Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be necessary to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely lay open those previous matters by which it was produced; and for that purpose we shall be obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little family with which my reader is at present entirely unacquainted; and of which the oeconomy was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it will shock the utmost credulity of many married persons.
Now, since this was a discovery of great significance, it’s necessary to trace it back to its origins. We will therefore carefully examine all the earlier matters that led to it; for this reason, we will need to reveal all the secrets of a small family that my reader currently knows nothing about. The dynamics of this family were so unusual and extraordinary that I worry it will challenge the belief of many married people.
Chapter iii. — The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly contrary to those of Aristotle.
My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny Jones had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice to her genius, she had so improved herself, that she was become a better scholar than her master.
My reader may remember that Jenny Jones had lived for several years with a certain schoolmaster, who, at her strong request, taught her Latin. To give credit to her talent, she improved herself so much that she became a better scholar than her master.
Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows in the world, and was, at the same time, master of so much pleasantry and humour, that he was reputed the wit of the country; and all the neighbouring gentlemen were so desirous of his company, that as denying was not his talent, he spent much time at their houses, which he might, with more emolument, have spent in his school.
Indeed, although this poor man had chosen a profession that required a certain level of knowledge, that was the least of his praises. He was one of the kindest guys around and had such a great sense of humor that he was considered the funniest person in the area. All the local gentlemen wanted to hang out with him, and since he wasn’t good at saying no, he spent a lot of time at their homes, where he could have earned more by working at his school.
It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed, was in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of Eton or Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided into two classes: in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son of a neighbouring squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just entered into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was a second son of the same gentleman, who, together with seven parish-boys, was learning to read and write.
It can be assumed that a gentleman like him, well-qualified and inclined, posed no threat to the esteemed schools of Eton or Westminster. To be clear, his students were split into two groups: in the upper group was a young man, the son of a nearby landowner, who, at seventeen, had just started his Syntaxis; and in the lower group was the second son of the same landowner, who, along with seven local boys, was learning to read and write.
The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the schoolmaster in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this office those of clerk and barber, and had not Mr Allworthy added to the whole an annuity of ten pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas, and with which he was enabled to cheer his heart during that sacred festival.
The salary from this job wouldn't have allowed the schoolmaster to enjoy life's luxuries if he hadn't also taken on the roles of clerk and barber, and if Mr. Allworthy hadn't given him an annual payment of ten pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas and used to lift his spirits during that special holiday.
Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had married out of Mr Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty pounds, which she had there amassed.
Among his other treasures, the teacher had a wife, whom he had married from Mr. Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, specifically twenty pounds, which she had saved up there.
This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled the young woman who is pouring out her mistress's tea in the third picture of the Harlot's Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower of that noble sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she became more formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess the truth, he was never master there, or anywhere else, in her presence.
This woman was not very pleasant in her demeanor. Whether she posed for my friend Hogarth or not, I can’t say; but she looked just like the young woman pouring tea for her mistress in the third picture of the Harlot's Progress. Furthermore, she was a devoted follower of that esteemed group founded by Xantippe long ago, which made her more intimidating in the classroom than her husband. To be honest, he was never really in charge there, or anywhere else, when she was around.
Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly called the pledges of love; and her husband, though they had been married nine years, had given her no such pledges; a default for which he had no excuse, either from age or health, being not yet thirty years old, and what they call a jolly brisk young man.
Although her face didn't show much natural kindness, this was likely made worse by a situation that often ruins marital happiness; because children are rightly seen as signs of love. Her husband, despite them being married for nine years, had not given her any such signs. He had no excuse for this, either in terms of age or health, as he was still under thirty and what people would call a lively young man.
Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of civility, or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring his wife upon her back, and his own.
Hence arose another problem that caused considerable discomfort for the poor teacher, as she held such a constant jealousy that he could hardly speak to any woman in the community; the slightest act of politeness or even communication with any female was sure to attract his wife's wrath, and his own as well.
In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her out of that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of security for their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the reader hath been before informed, was one.
To protect herself from the risks of marriage in her own home, she made sure to hire a maid from that group of women whose appearances are often seen as a guarantee of their virtue; among them, Jenny Jones, as the reader has been told before, was one.
As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always extremely modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in women; she had passed above four years at Mr Partridge's (for that was the schoolmaster's name) without creating the least suspicion in her mistress. Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her mistress had permitted Mr Partridge to give her those instructions which have been before commemorated.
As the face of this young woman could be considered a pretty good security of the previously mentioned kind, and since her behavior had always been extremely modest—something that's often a sign of intelligence in women—she had spent over four years at Mr. Partridge's (that was the schoolmaster's name) without raising the slightest suspicion from her mistress. In fact, she had been treated with exceptional kindness, and her mistress had allowed Mr. Partridge to give her the instructions that have been mentioned before.
But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.
But jealousy is like gout: when these troubles are in your system, there's never any guarantee they'll stay hidden; and they can flare up over the smallest things, often when you least expect it.
Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress. This did not, however, at that time discover itself, but lay lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares himself and proceeds upon hostile operations: and such additional strength soon arrived to corroborate her suspicion; for not long after, the husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to his maid, Da mihi aliquid potum: upon which the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the badness of the Latin, and, when her mistress cast her eyes on her, blushed, possibly with a consciousness of having laughed at her master. Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of poor Jenny, crying out, “You impudent whore, do you play tricks with my husband before my face?” and at the same instant rose from her chair with a knife in her hand, with which, most probably, she would have executed very tragical vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage of being nearer the door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by running away: for, as to the poor husband, whether surprize had rendered him motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had restrained him from venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and trembling in his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till his wife, returning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive measures necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was obliged to retreat, after the example of the maid.
So it happened to Mrs. Partridge, who had put up with her husband teaching this young woman for four years and had often let her neglect her work to focus on her studies. One day, as she walked by, she saw the girl reading with her teacher leaning over her. For some reason, the girl suddenly jumped up from her chair, and this was the first time suspicion crossed her mistress's mind. However, it didn’t show right away but lingered in her thoughts like a hidden enemy waiting for reinforcements before acting out. Those reinforcements soon arrived to support her suspicion. Not long after, during dinner, the master said to his maid, Da mihi aliquid potum: which made the poor girl smile, maybe at the awful Latin. When her mistress looked at her, she blushed, likely realizing she had laughed at her master. This made Mrs. Partridge furious; she immediately threw the plate she was eating from at poor Jenny’s head, shouting, “You cheeky whore, are you making fun of my husband in front of me?” At that moment, she also jumped up with a knife in her hand, probably intending to take serious revenge. But the girl managed to escape because she was closer to the door, running away from her rage. As for the poor husband, whether he was frozen in shock or scared (which seems just as likely), he sat there staring and shaking in his chair, not moving or saying anything until his wife came back from chasing Jenny, which made it necessary for him to defend himself. He also had to retreat, just like the maid.
This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition
This good woman was, just like Othello, of a character
To make a life of jealousy
And follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions—
To live a life full of jealousy
And constantly track the phases of the moon
With new doubts—With her, as well as him,
With her, as well as him,
—To be once in doubt,
Was once to be resolvd—
—To have doubts at one point,
Was once to be determined—she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep that night within her walls.
She then told Jenny to pack her things right away and leave, because she was determined that she wouldn't let her sleep in her house that night.
Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in a matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual receipt of patience, for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he remembered, and well understood, the advice contained in these words
Mr. Partridge had learned too much from experience to get involved in a matter like this. So, he relied on his usual approach of patience, because even though he wasn't very skilled in Latin, he remembered and understood the advice in those words.
—Leve fit quod bene fertur onus
—Carry what is worth it
in English:
in English:
A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne—
A burden feels easiest when it's carried well—
which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he had often occasion to experience the truth.
which he always had in his mouth; and honestly, he often had reason to experience the truth of it.
Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the tempest was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to the business of packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper sufficed, and, having received her small pittance of wages, she returned home.
Jenny wanted to argue her innocence, but the storm was too loud for anyone to hear her. So, she got to work packing, needing just a little bit of brown paper, and after getting her small paycheck, she went back home.
The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly enough that evening, but something or other happened before the next morning, which a little abated the fury of Mrs Partridge; and she at length admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she gave the readier belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny, professed a satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown of little use as a servant, spending all her time in reading, and was become, moreover, very pert and obstinate; for, indeed, she and her master had lately had frequent disputes in literature; in which, as hath been said, she was become greatly his superior. This, however, he would by no means allow; and as he called her persisting in the right, obstinacy, he began to hate her with no small inveteracy.
The schoolmaster and his partner had a pretty rough time that evening, but something happened before the next morning that calmed Mrs. Partridge down a bit. Eventually, she let her husband come in to apologize, and she was more willing to believe him since, instead of asking her to bring Jenny back, he expressed relief that she was gone. He said Jenny was not very useful as a servant anymore because she spent all her time reading and had become quite cheeky and stubborn. In fact, he and Jenny had recently had a lot of arguments about literature, where she had, as mentioned, become much better than him. However, he would not admit that at all; he called her sticking to her perspective stubbornness and began to really dislike her.
Chapter iv. — Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.
For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some other matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which, like the secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are not members of that honourable fraternity, Mrs Partridge was pretty well satisfied that she had condemned her husband without cause, and endeavoured by acts of kindness to make him amends for her false suspicion. Her passions were indeed equally violent, whichever way they inclined; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be altogether as fond.
For the reasons stated in the previous chapter, along with some other common marital concessions known to most husbands, and which, like the secrets of a secret society, should be shared only with those who are part of that respectable group, Mrs. Partridge was quite convinced that she had wrongfully judged her husband. She tried to make it up to him through acts of kindness for her unfounded suspicion. Her emotions were indeed just as intense, no matter which way they leaned; she could be extremely angry, but she could also be just as affectionate.
But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not, in some degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions, when the passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was usually longer: and so was the case at present; for she continued longer in a state of affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her husband had ever known before: and, had it not been for some little exercises, which all the followers of Xantippe are obliged to perform daily, Mr Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several months.
But even though these emotions typically follow one another, and hardly a day goes by without the teacher being affected by both in some way; on special occasions, when the anger ran especially high, the calm that followed usually lasted longer. That’s what happened this time; she remained pleasant for a longer period after her fit of jealousy ended than her husband had ever seen before. If it weren't for some minor tasks that all the followers of Xantippe must do daily, Mr. Partridge would have enjoyed several months of perfect peace.
Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner to be the forerunners of a storm, and I know some persons, who, without being generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to apprehend that great and unusual peace or tranquillity will be attended with its opposite. For which reason the antients used, on such occasions, to sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity who was thought by them to look with an invidious eye on human felicity, and to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.
Experienced sailors often suspect that perfectly calm seas are a sign of an approaching storm, and I know some people who, even if they don’t usually believe in superstitions, tend to worry that a period of great peace or tranquility will be followed by its opposite. This is why ancient cultures would sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity they believed looked with envy at human happiness and took a particular pleasure in undermining it.
As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or from encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr John Fr——, or some other such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find out the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad fortune, which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall proceed to give an instance; for it is our province to relate facts, and we shall leave causes to persons of much higher genius.
As we are far from believing in any heathen goddess or promoting any superstition, we hope Mr. John Fr—— or another philosopher like him will take some action to discover the real reason behind this sudden shift from good to bad luck, which has been noted many times. We will provide an example of this, as our role is to present facts, while we leave the explanations to those with much greater insight.
Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on the actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations, certain places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious might meet and satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the barbers' shops have justly borne the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks, barbers' news was a proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his epistles, makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same light.
People have always enjoyed learning about and discussing the actions of others. Because of this, throughout history and across the world, there have been specific places designated for public gatherings where the inquisitive can come together and satisfy their curiosity. Among these, barbershops have rightly held a prominent position. In ancient Greece, the phrase "barbers' news" was a common saying; and Horace, in one of his letters, gives a respectful nod to Roman barbers in the same context.
Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a manner little inferior to that with which they are handled in the coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are much more largely and freely treated in the former than in the latter. But this serves only for the men. Now, whereas the females of this country, especially those of the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those of other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their curiosity, seeing they are in this no way inferior to the other half of the species.
The people of England are considered to be just as capable as their Greek and Roman predecessors. You can see foreign affairs discussed here in a way that’s almost as good as in coffeehouses; and local events are covered much more openly and extensively in the former than in the latter. However, this applies only to men. Now, while the women in this country, especially those from the lower class, socialize far more than women from other countries, our society would be lacking if they didn’t have their own space to satisfy their curiosity, as they are in no way less capable than men.
In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign sisters; as I do not remember either to have read in history, or to have seen in my travels, anything of the like kind.
In enjoying such a meeting place, British women should consider themselves luckier than their foreign counterparts; I don't recall reading in history or seeing in my travels anything quite like it.
This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every parish in England.
This place is none other than the candle shop, the well-known spot for all the news; or, as it's commonly referred to, gossiping, in every parish in England.
Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones? To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied, with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having turned Jenny away as she did.
Mrs. Partridge was at a gathering of women one day when one of her neighbors asked if she had heard any news about Jenny Jones recently. She replied that she hadn’t. The other woman then smiled and said that the parish was very grateful to her for having sent Jenny away the way she did.
Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on that account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.
Mrs. Partridge, whose jealousy, as you know, was long ago resolved, and who had no other issues with her maid, replied confidently that she didn’t see why the parish owed her anything for that reason; she believed Jenny had hardly left anyone her equal.
“No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I fancy we have sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath been brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep them.”
“No, really,” said the gossip, “I hope not, but I imagine we have enough troublemakers already. So you haven't heard, it seems, that she’s given birth to two illegitimate children? But since they weren’t born here, my husband and the other overseer say we won’t have to take care of them.”
“Two bastards!” answered Mrs Partridge hastily: “you surprize me! I don't know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone away.”
“Two bastards!” Mrs. Partridge replied quickly. “You surprise me! I’m not sure if we should keep them, but I’m certain they must have been conceived here, since the girl hasn’t been gone for nine months.”
Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind, especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin, the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's guilt, and immediately left the assembly in confusion.
Nothing can be as quick and sudden as the workings of the mind, especially when hope, fear, or jealousy—basically the helpers of the others—set it in motion. It struck her right away that Jenny had hardly ever left her house while living with her. The way she leaned over the chair, the sudden stand-up, the Latin, the smile, and many other memories flooded her all at once. The satisfaction her husband showed at Jenny's departure now seemed like a facade; in that same moment, it also felt genuine, yet it only fueled her jealousy, which stemmed from boredom and countless other negative reasons. In short, she was convinced of her husband's infidelity and immediately left the gathering in distress.
As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family, degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport, escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears; but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.
As pretty Grimalkin, who, despite being the youngest in the cat family, doesn't back down in ferocity from the older members of her lineage, and although she may not be as strong, is just as fierce as the noble tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom she has long tormented for fun, manages to slip from her grasp for a bit, she frets, scolds, growls, and curses; but if the trunk or box where the mouse was hiding is removed again, she darts like lightning toward her prey and, filled with furious rage, bites, scratches, gnaws, and tears at the little creature.
Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.
Mrs. Partridge attacked the poor teacher with just as much anger. Her tongue, teeth, and hands came at him all at once. In an instant, his wig was ripped off his head, his shirt was torn from his back, and five streams of blood flowed from his face, marking the number of claws that nature had unfortunately given his attacker.
Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom, burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, such as sparkles from a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So that, altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.
Mr. Partridge stayed on the defensive for a while, only trying to protect his face with his hands. But as he saw that his opponent showed no sign of calming down, he thought he might at least try to disarm her or, more accurately, restrain her arms. In the scuffle, her cap fell off, and since her hair was too short to reach her shoulders, it stuck straight up on her head. Her corset also popped open at the bottom, and her breasts, which were much fuller than her hair, hung down below her waist. Her face was smeared with her husband’s blood, her teeth were clenched in rage, and sparks like those from a blacksmith’s forge flashed from her eyes. Overall, this fierce fighter could have intimidated a much braver man than Mr. Partridge.
He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears, which soon after concluded in a fit.
He finally got lucky by grabbing her arms, making the sharp things she had on her fingertips useless. As soon as she realized this, her feminine softness took over her anger, and she immediately broke down in tears, which soon turned into a fit.
That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto preserved through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street, hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and beseeching the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her assistance. Several good women obeyed his summons, who entering his house, and applying the usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs Partridge was at length, to the great joy of her husband, brought to herself.
That bit of sanity that Mr. Partridge had managed to hold onto during this chaotic scene, the cause of which he still didn’t understand, completely left him. He immediately ran out into the street, shouting that his wife was dying and begging the neighbors to rush over to help her. Several kind women responded to his call, and after entering his house and using the usual remedies for such situations, Mrs. Partridge finally came to, much to her husband’s great relief.
As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of the manifold injuries she had received from her husband; who, she said, was not contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her upbraiding him with it, had treated her in the cruelest manner imaginable; had tore her cap and hair from her head, and her stays from her body, giving her, at the same time, several blows, the marks of which she should carry to the grave.
As soon as she had gathered her thoughts and calmed herself with a drink, she started to tell the group about the many ways her husband had hurt her. She claimed he wasn't satisfied with just hurting her in bed; when she confronted him about it, he had treated her in the most brutal way possible. He had ripped her cap and hair from her head and her corset from her body, while also giving her several blows that would leave marks she would carry for life.
The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this accusation; which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him, had greatly exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once; and this silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by the whole court, they all began at once, una voce, to rebuke and revile him, repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a woman.
The poor man, who had many visible signs of his wife's fury on his face, stood in shocked silence at this accusation; which, I believe the reader will agree, was far from the truth. He had not hit her even once; yet, his silence was taken by everyone in the court as an admission of guilt, and they all began to scold and insult him, frequently saying that only a coward would ever hit a woman.
Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are taught that of a murdered person often doth) in vengeance against him.
Mr. Partridge put up with all this patiently, but when his wife pointed to the blood on her face as proof of his cruelty, he couldn't help but assert his own blood, because it really was his. He thought it was very unnatural that this should come back (as we often hear happens with the blood of a murdered person) in vengeance against him.
To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it had not come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that, if their husbands should lift their hands against them, they would have their hearts' bloods out of their bodies.
To this, the women had no other response than to say it was a shame it hadn't come from his heart instead of his face; all of them declared that if their husbands raised their hands against them, they would take their hearts' blood from their bodies.
After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed, and left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in which Mr Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.
After a lot of talking about the past and giving Mr. Partridge some solid advice for how to behave in the future, the group finally left, leaving the husband and wife to have a private conversation. During this talk, Mr. Partridge quickly found out the reason for all his troubles.
Chapter v. — Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of the reader.
I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to one person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a fact of this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire any farther.
I think it’s a valid point that not many secrets are shared with just one person; however, it would almost be miraculous for such a fact to be known by an entire community and not get out any further.
And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use a common phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who was said to have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in some places it was reported he had murdered her; in others, that he had broke her arms; in others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an injury which can be done to a human creature, but what Mrs Partridge was somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her husband.
And, indeed, just a few days later, the news about the schoolmaster of Little Baddington spread across the country; he was said to have brutally beaten his wife. In some places, it was rumored that he had killed her; in others, that he had broken her arms; in others, her legs. In short, there was hardly any injury that could be inflicted on a person that Mrs. Partridge wasn't reported to have suffered at her husband's hands.
The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as some people said that Mrs Partridge had caught her husband in bed with his maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went abroad. Nay, some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the jealousy to the husband.
The reason for this argument was reported in different ways; while some people claimed that Mrs. Partridge caught her husband in bed with the maid, many other explanations of a very different nature circulated. In fact, some blamed the wife and shifted the jealousy onto the husband.
Mrs Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different cause from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to conceal it; and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid on Mr Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr Allworthy, had in something offended Mrs Wilkins, who was not of a very forgiving temper.
Mrs. Wilkins had heard about this argument a long time ago; however, since she had only heard a different reason for it, she decided to keep it to herself. Perhaps, it was also because everyone blamed Mr. Partridge for it, and his wife, when she worked for Mr. Allworthy, had done something to upset Mrs. Wilkins, who wasn't very forgiving.
But Mrs Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and who could very well look forward a few years into futurity, had perceived a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being hereafter her master; and as she plainly discerned that the captain bore no great goodwill to the little foundling, she fancied it would be rendering him an agreeable service, if she could make any discoveries that might lessen the affection which Mr Allworthy seemed to have contracted for this child, and which gave visible uneasiness to the captain, who could not entirely conceal it even before Allworthy himself; though his wife, who acted her part much better in public, frequently recommended to him her own example, of conniving at the folly of her brother, which, she said, she at least as well perceived, and as much resented, as any other possibly could.
But Mrs. Wilkins, who had sharp eyesight and the ability to see a few years into the future, noticed a strong possibility that Captain Blifil would eventually become her boss. She clearly observed that the captain had little affection for the small foundling, so she thought it would be helpful to him if she could uncover anything that might lessen the fondness Mr. Allworthy seemed to have for the child, which clearly bothered the captain. He couldn’t fully hide his discomfort, even in front of Allworthy himself. Meanwhile, his wife, who played her role in public much better, often advised him to take a cue from her own example of overlooking her brother's foolishness, claiming that she noticed it just as well and resented it just as much as anyone else could.
Mrs Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of the above story,—though long after it had happened, failed not to satisfy herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted the captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the little bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master lose his reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.
Mrs. Wilkins, by chance, caught wind of the story mentioned above—though it was long after the events occurred—made sure to find out all the details; and then informed the captain that she had finally identified the real father of the little illegitimate child. She expressed her regret that her master was losing his reputation in the community by paying so much attention to it.
The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an improper assurance in judging of her master's actions: for if his honour, or his understanding, would have suffered the captain to make an alliance with Mrs Wilkins, his pride would by no means have admitted it. And to say the truth, there is no conduct less politic, than to enter into any confederacy with your friend's servants against their master: for by these means you afterwards become the slave of these very servants; by whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this consideration, perhaps it was, which prevented Captain Blifil from being more explicit with Mrs Wilkins, or from encouraging the abuse which she had bestowed on Allworthy.
The captain scolded her for the way she ended her speech, seeing it as an inappropriate way to judge her master's actions. If his honor or understanding allowed the captain to form an alliance with Mrs. Wilkins, his pride definitely wouldn't let it happen. To be honest, there's nothing less sensible than teaming up with your friend's servants against their master because, in doing so, you make yourself a slave to those very servants, who can easily betray you. This might be why Captain Blifil didn't feel he could be more straightforward with Mrs. Wilkins or encourage the criticism she directed at Allworthy.
But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs Wilkins at this discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and resolved to make the best use of it he was able.
But even though he didn't show any satisfaction to Mrs. Wilkins about this discovery, he derived quite a bit of enjoyment from it in his own mind and decided to make the most of it.
He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast, in hopes that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some other person; but Mrs Wilkins, whether she resented the captain's behaviour, or whether his cunning was beyond her, and she feared the discovery might displease him, never afterwards opened her lips about the matter.
He kept this issue to himself for a long time, hoping that Mr. Allworthy would hear about it from someone else. But Mrs. Wilkins, whether she was upset with the captain's behavior or realized his cleverness and worried the truth might upset him, never mentioned it again.
I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the housekeeper never acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their own sex, than to ours. The only way, as it appears to me, of solving this difficulty, is, by imputing it to that distance which was now grown between the lady and the housekeeper: whether this arose from a jealousy in Mrs Blifil, that Wilkins showed too great a respect to the foundling; for while she was endeavouring to ruin the little infant, in order to ingratiate herself with the captain, she was every day more and more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness for it every day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she took at other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs Blifil, perhaps offended that delicate lady, who certainly now hated Mrs Wilkins; and though she did not, or possibly could not, absolutely remove her from her place, she found, however, the means of making her life very uneasy. This Mrs Wilkins, at length, so resented, that she very openly showed all manner of respect and fondness to little Tommy, in opposition to Mrs Blifil.
I've found it a bit odd, upon thinking it over, that the housekeeper never told Mrs. Blifil this news, since women usually share information with their own gender more than with men. The only way I can explain this issue is by attributing it to the growing distance between the lady and the housekeeper. This might have been caused by Mrs. Blifil's jealousy that Wilkins showed too much respect to the foundling. While she was trying to sabotage the little infant to win the captain's favor, she was also praising it more and more in front of Allworthy, whose fondness for the child grew daily. This, despite all her efforts to show the opposite to Mrs. Blifil, likely offended that sensitive lady, who certainly now disliked Mrs. Wilkins. Although she didn’t, or perhaps couldn't, fully get rid of her, she found a way to make Wilkins's life quite uncomfortable. Eventually, Mrs. Wilkins resented this so much that she openly displayed all kinds of respect and affection for little Tommy, in defiance of Mrs. Blifil.
The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at last took an opportunity to reveal it himself.
The captain, realizing the story might be lost, finally took the chance to share it himself.
He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse on charity: in which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr Allworthy, that the word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or generosity.
He was one day having a conversation with Mr. Allworthy about charity, in which the captain, with great knowledge, demonstrated to Mr. Allworthy that the word "charity" in Scripture never means kindness or generosity.
“The Christian religion,” he said, “was instituted for much nobler purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen philosophers had taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps be called a moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime, Christian-like disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity approaching to angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt only by grace. Those,” he said, “came nearer to the Scripture meaning, who understood by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of our brethren, and passing a favourable judgment on their actions; a virtue much higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a pitiful distribution of alms, which, though we would never so much prejudice, or even ruin our families, could never reach many; whereas charity, in the other and truer sense, might be extended to all mankind.”
“The Christian religion,” he said, “was established for much greater purposes than just to teach a lesson that many non-religious philosophers had already shared long ago. While it might be labeled as a moral virtue, it lacks the profound, Christ-like spirit that embodies a higher level of thought, purity approaching angelic perfection, which can only be achieved, expressed, and felt through grace. Those,” he said, “come closer to the true meaning of Scripture who interpret it as openness or forming a kind opinion of others, passing a favorable judgment on their actions; a virtue that is much more significant and broader in its essence than merely giving alms. Even if we were to jeopardize or even destroy our families, that would never affect many people; whereas charity, in this deeper and more accurate sense, could be extended to all humanity.”
He said, “Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd to conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been preached to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine should be preached by its Divine Author to men who could not practise it, much less should we think it understood so by those who can practise it, and do not.
He said, “Given who the disciples were, it would be ridiculous to think that the idea of generosity or giving to charity was preached to them. And, since we can't really imagine this idea being shared by its Divine Author with people who couldn't practice it, we should be even less inclined to believe that those who can practice it but choose not to would understand it that way.”
“But though,” continued he, “there is, I am afraid, little merit in these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much pleasure in them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one consideration. I mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to confer our choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was your case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction which a good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even make him timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice, and encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for which it will by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not actually intended such an encouragement; unless we have used the utmost caution in chusing the objects of our beneficence. A consideration which, I make no doubt, hath greatly checked the liberality of many a worthy and pious man.”
“But still,” he continued, “I’m afraid there’s not much value in these acts of kindness, but I have to admit, they would bring a lot of joy to a good person, if it weren't for one issue. I mean, we can easily be tricked and often end up giving our best support to those who don’t deserve it, as you must recognize was the case when you helped that worthless guy Partridge. A few examples like that can really diminish the inner satisfaction a good person would usually get from being generous; in fact, it might even make him hesitant to give, for fear of supporting bad behavior and encouraging the wicked, which is a serious offense. It won’t be enough to say we didn’t mean to promote such behavior unless we’ve taken the greatest care in choosing who we help. I’m sure this concern has held back the generosity of many good and righteous individuals.”
Mr Allworthy answered, “He could not dispute with the captain in the Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true sense of the word which is translated charity; but that he had always thought it was interpreted to consist in action, and that giving alms constituted at least one branch of that virtue.
Mr. Allworthy replied, “He couldn’t argue with the captain in Greek, so he couldn’t say anything about the true meaning of the word that's translated as charity; but he had always believed it was understood to be about action, and that giving to the poor was at least one part of that virtue."
“As to the meritorious part,” he said, “he readily agreed with the captain; for where could be the merit of barely discharging a duty? which,” he said, “let the word charity have what construction it would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the whole tenor of the New Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined both by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was it withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
“As for the part about doing good,” he said, “he completely agreed with the captain; after all, where’s the merit in just doing what you’re supposed to do? Which,” he added, “no matter how you interpret the word charity, it clearly comes through in the whole message of the New Testament. He believed it was an essential obligation, required by both Christian teachings and natural law itself; and on top of that, it was so enjoyable that if any duty could be considered its own reward, or could give us satisfaction while we’re doing it, it was this one.”
“To confess the truth,” said he, “there is one degree of generosity (of charity I would have called it), which seems to have some show of merit, and that is, where, from a principle of benevolence and Christian love, we bestow on another what we really want ourselves; where, in order to lessen the distresses of another, we condescend to share some part of them, by giving what even our own necessities cannot well spare. This is, I think, meritorious; but to relieve our brethren only with our superfluities; to be charitable (I must use the word) rather at the expense of our coffers than ourselves; to save several families from misery rather than hang up an extraordinary picture in our houses or gratify any other idle ridiculous vanity—this seems to be only being human creatures. Nay, I will venture to go farther, it is being in some degree epicures: for what could the greatest epicure wish rather than to eat with many mouths instead of one? which I think may be predicated of any one who knows that the bread of many is owing to his own largesses.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “there is a kind of generosity (or charity, as I would call it) that seems genuinely commendable, and that is when we give to others what we truly desire for ourselves out of a sense of kindness and Christian love; when, to ease someone else’s suffering, we choose to share in some of it by giving what even we can hardly spare ourselves. I think this is praiseworthy; but merely relieving others with our excess—being charitable (I have to use the word) at the cost of our finances rather than ourselves; saving several families from hardship so that we can avoid spending money on an extravagant piece of art for our homes or pleasing some other trivial vanity—this seems just to be the bare minimum of being human. In fact, I dare say it borders on being somewhat indulgent: for what could the biggest hedonist desire more than to eat with many instead of just one? This could be said of anyone who understands that the food of many is thanks to their generosity.”
“As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can never deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many examples of ingratitude can justify a man's hardening his heart against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less than a persuasion of universal depravity can lock up the charity of a good man; and this persuasion must lead him, I think, either into atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is unfair to argue such universal depravity from a few vicious individuals; nor was this, I believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own mind, found one certain exception to the general rule.” He then concluded by asking, “who that Partridge was, whom he had called a worthless fellow?”
“As for the worry about giving to those who might turn out to be unworthy in the future, simply because some have been unworthy in the past; that should never stop a good person from being generous. I don't believe that a few examples of ingratitude can justify someone hardening their heart against the suffering of others, nor do I think it would ever affect a truly kind-hearted person. Only a belief in universal wrongdoing can shut down the kindness of a good person, and that belief might lead them either to atheism or extreme zealotry; but it's definitely unfair to judge all of humanity based on a few bad individuals; besides, I believe no one who truly examined their own thoughts would find an exception to this general principle.” He then finished by asking, “who was that Partridge, whom he had referred to as a worthless fellow?”
“I mean,” said the captain, “Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster, what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child which you found in your bed.”
“I mean,” said the captain, “Partridge the barber, the schoolteacher, what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child you found in your bed.”
Mr Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the captain as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it above a month: and at length recollected with much difficulty that he was told it by Mrs Wilkins.
Mr. Allworthy expressed great surprise at this information, and the captain was equally surprised at his lack of knowledge about it; he mentioned that he had known for over a month. After a while, he managed to remember, with considerable effort, that he had heard it from Mrs. Wilkins.
Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed what the captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, by and with the captain's advice, dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself of the truth of the fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all hasty proceedings in criminal matters, and said he would by no means have Mr Allworthy take any resolution either to the prejudice of the child or its father, before he was satisfied that the latter was guilty; for though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one of Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such evidence to Mr Allworthy.
After this, Wilkins was called in right away; he confirmed what the captain had said. Mr. Allworthy, with the captain's advice, sent him off to Little Baddington to find out the truth. The captain expressed a strong disapproval of acting hastily in criminal matters and insisted that Mr. Allworthy should not make any decisions that could harm the child or its father until he was sure of the father's guilt. Even though he had privately gathered information from one of Partridge's neighbors that convinced him, he was too honorable to share that evidence with Mr. Allworthy.
Chapter vi. — The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for incontinency; the evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom of our law; with other grave matters, which those will like best who understand them most.
It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had furnished so much matter of conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in that country who had never heard of it.
One might wonder how a story so well known, and which had given rise to so much discussion, had never been brought up to Mr. Allworthy himself, who was probably the only person in that area who had never heard of it.
To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity, which hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man. Indeed, he was equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as no man was ever more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve the distresses of others, so none could be more tender of their characters, or slower to believe anything to their disadvantage.
To clarify this for the reader, I should mention that no one in the kingdom was less interested in opposing the idea of charity discussed in the previous chapter than our good man. In fact, he was equally deserving of this virtue in both senses; for while no one was more aware of the needs or quicker to help those in distress, no one was more careful about their reputations or slower to accept anything that would reflect badly on them.
Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it hath been long since observed that you may know a man by his companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending to the conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy yourself of his religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of his entire disposition: for though a few odd fellows will utter their own sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part of mankind have enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation to the taste and inclination of their superiors.
Scandal, therefore, never found its way to his table; because it has long been noted that you can judge a man by the company he keeps, so I’ll say that by listening to the discussions at a prominent person’s table, you can learn about his beliefs, his politics, his preferences, and essentially his entire character: for while a few unconventional individuals will express their true opinions anywhere, most people have enough of a flair for diplomacy to tailor their conversations to the tastes and interests of those above them.
But to return to Mrs Wilkins, who, having executed her commission with great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back such a confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined to send for the criminal, and examine him viva voce. Mr Partridge, therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his defence (if he could make any) against this accusation.
But to get back to Mrs. Wilkins, who, after completing her task quickly, even from fifteen miles away, returned with such proof of the schoolmaster's guilt that Mr. Allworthy decided to summon the culprit and question him in person. Mr. Partridge was then called to attend to defend himself (if he was able to) against this accusation.
At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at Paradise-hall, came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife, as Mrs Wilkins his accuser.
At the scheduled time, in front of Mr. Allworthy himself, at Paradise Hall, both Partridge, along with his wife Anne, and Mrs. Wilkins, his accuser, arrived.
And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the mouth of Mrs Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement protestations of his innocence.
And now Mr. Allworthy was seated in the justice chair, and Mr. Partridge was brought in front of him. After hearing his accusation from Mrs. Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many strong claims of his innocence.
Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for being obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all the circumstances with which the reader hath already been acquainted; and at last concluded with her husband's confession of his guilt.
Mrs. Partridge was then questioned. After a humble apology for needing to speak the truth about her husband, she shared all the details that the reader is already familiar with, and finally wrapped up by mentioning her husband's admission of guilt.
Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine; but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it is probable from certain other reasons, would never have been brought to depose as she did, had not Mrs Wilkins, with great art, fished all out of her at her own house, and had she not indeed made promises, in Mr Allworthy's name, that the punishment of her husband should not be such as might anywise affect his family.
Whether she had forgiven him or not, I won’t try to say; but it’s clear she was an unwilling participant in this matter; and it’s likely for other reasons that she would never have been brought to testify as she did, if Mrs. Wilkins hadn’t skillfully gotten everything out of her at her own home, and if she hadn’t really made promises, in Mr. Allworthy’s name, that the punishment of her husband wouldn’t in any way impact his family.
Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he however endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he was forced into it by the continued importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she was sure of his guilt, she would never leave tormenting him till he had owned it; and faithfully promised, that, in such case, she would never mention it to him more. Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to confess himself guilty, though he was innocent; and that he believed he should have confest a murder from the same motive.
Partridge kept insisting that he was innocent, even though he acknowledged he had made the confession mentioned earlier. He tried to explain this by claiming he was pressured into it by her persistent nagging, as she insisted that, since she was sure he was guilty, she wouldn’t stop bothering him until he admitted it. She also promised that if he confessed, she would never bring it up again. Because of this, he said he had been led to falsely admit his guilt, even though he was innocent, and he believed he would have confessed to a murder for the same reason.
Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and having no other remedy in the present place but tears, she called forth a plentiful assistance from them, and then addressing herself to Mr Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), “May it please your worship, there never was any poor woman so injured as I am by that base man; for this is not the only instance of his falsehood to me. No, may it please your worship, he hath injured my bed many's the good time and often. I could have put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his business, if he had not broke one of the sacred commandments. Besides, if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much; but with my own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to defile my own chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his beastly stinking whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the truth. It is very likely, an't please your worship, that I should bullock him? I have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. Nor have you been half a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I'm sure—And since he provokes me, I am ready, an't please your worship, to take my bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you have forgot, I suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and made the blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with adultery! but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have almost broke my heart, you have, you have.”
Mrs. Partridge could hardly tolerate this accusation; lacking any other way to cope in the moment, she broke down in tears. Then, turning to Mr. Allworthy, she said (or rather shouted), “Please, sir, no poor woman has been as wronged as I have been by that horrible man; this isn't the only time he's lied to me. No, please, sir, he has betrayed my home too many times to count. I could have put up with his drunkenness and carelessness if he hadn't broken one of the sacred commandments. Besides, if it had happened outside, I wouldn’t have been so upset; but with my own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to desecrate my own pure bed—that he certainly has, with his disgusting, stinking whores. Yes, you scoundrel, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and then you accused me of forcing you to admit the truth. It's hardly likely, if I may say so, that I would have done that? I have more than enough marks on my body to prove his cruelty to me. If you were a real man, you would have been ashamed to treat a woman like this. But you are not even half a man, you know it. And you haven't been half a husband to me either. You wouldn't need to chase after whores when I'm sure—And since you're provoking me, I’m ready, if it pleases you, to swear that I found them in bed together. What? I suppose you've forgotten when you beat me into a fit and made blood run down my forehead just because I mildly accused you of adultery! But I can prove it with the testimony of all my neighbors. You have nearly broken my heart, you have, you have.”
Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified, promising her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge, who stood aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by surprize and the other half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there was so wicked a man in the world. He assured him that his prevaricating and lying backward and forward was a great aggravation of his guilt; for which the only atonement he could make was by confession and repentance. He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately confessing the fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly proved against him even by his own wife.
Here Mr. Allworthy interrupted and asked her to calm down, assuring her that she would get justice. Then, turning to Partridge, who stood there shocked—half his mind confused by surprise and the other half by fear—he expressed his regret that such a wicked man existed in the world. He told him that his back-and-forth lying only made his guilt worse, and that the only way to make amends was through confession and repentance. He urged him to start by confessing the truth right away and not to keep denying what was so clearly proven against him, even by his own wife.
Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which refuses to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her husband. This, says a certain learned author, who, I believe, was never quoted before in any but a law-book, would be the means of creating an eternal dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of much perjury, and of much whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and hanging.
Here, reader, please bear with me for a moment as I acknowledge the great wisdom and insight of our law, which does not allow a wife to testify for or against her husband. According to a certain knowledgeable author, who I believe has only ever been referenced in legal texts, this rule would lead to endless conflict between them. It would certainly result in a lot of perjury, as well as a great deal of whipping, fines, imprisonment, exile, and executions.
Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship immediately to send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to be so, that she had left that part of the country.
Partridge stood there silently for a moment, and when he was asked to speak, he said he had already told the truth and called upon Heaven to attest to his innocence. Finally, he asked the worshipful person to send for the girl right away, claiming he didn’t know—or at least pretended not to know—that she had left the area.
Mr Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness of temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all the witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence, agreed to defer his final determination of this matter till the arrival of Jenny, for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger; and then having recommended peace between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed himself chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend again the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day's journey from his own house.
Mr. Allworthy, whose natural sense of justice, combined with his calm demeanor, made him a very patient judge when listening to all the witnesses that an accused person could bring forward in their defense, agreed to postpone his final decision on this matter until Jenny arrived, for whom he immediately sent a messenger. Then, having advised Partridge and his wife to make peace (though he mainly spoke to the wrong person), he scheduled them to return in three days since he had sent Jenny a full day’s journey away from his own home.
At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the messenger returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found; for that she had left her habitation a few days before, in company with a recruiting officer.
At the scheduled time, everyone gathered, and the messenger came back with the news that Jenny was missing; she had left her home a few days earlier with a recruiting officer.
Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as she appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could not help thinking that, had she been present, and would have declared the truth, she must have confirmed what so many circumstances, together with his own confession, and the declaration of his wife that she had caught her husband in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore once more exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his innocence, Mr Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and that he was too bad a man to receive any encouragement from him. He therefore deprived him of his annuity, and recommended repentance to him on account of another world, and industry to maintain himself and his wife in this.
Mr. Allworthy then stated that the testimony of someone like her, who seemed to be such a promiscuous person, would not have been credible. However, he couldn't shake the thought that if she had been there and spoken the truth, she would have confirmed what numerous circumstances, along with his own confession and his wife's claim that she had caught him in the act, clearly indicated. He once again urged Partridge to confess; yet, still insisting on his innocence, Mr. Allworthy declared himself convinced of his guilt and deemed him too immoral to deserve any support from him. Consequently, he took away Partridge's annuity and advised him to seek repentance for the next life and to work hard to support himself and his wife in this one.
There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by the evidence of his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her for having, among other things, been the occasion of depriving her of that benefit; but such was his fortune, and he was obliged to submit to it.
There weren't many people more unhappy than poor Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income because of his wife's testimony, and yet she reminded him daily that he was partly responsible for her losing that benefit. That was just his luck, and he had to accept it.
Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would have the reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my temper than conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence. Whether he was innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if the historic muse hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty of discovering them till she shall give me leave.
Though I referred to him as poor Partridge in the previous paragraph, I hope readers understand that the title reflects my sympathetic nature rather than a statement about his innocence. Whether he was innocent or not will likely become clear later; but if history has shared any secrets with me, I definitely won’t reveal them until I'm allowed to.
Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it is that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more than sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less would have satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy; and yet, notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs Partridge, who would have taken the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility that the schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared clear on comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington with that of her delivery that she had there conceived this infant, yet it by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must have been its father; for, to omit other particulars, there was in the same house a lad near eighteen, between whom and Jenny there had subsisted sufficient intimacy to found a reasonable suspicion; and yet, so blind is jealousy, this circumstance never once entered into the head of the enraged wife.
Here, the reader must put their curiosity on hold. It's clear that, no matter the actual truth, there was more than enough evidence to convict him in front of Allworthy; in fact, much less would have sufficed for a magistrate's court on a paternity claim. However, despite Mrs. Partridge's strong certainty—she would have taken an oath on it—there's a chance the schoolmaster was completely innocent. Although it seemed clear when comparing the time Jenny left Little Baddington to when she gave birth that she must have conceived the child there, that doesn't necessarily mean Partridge was its father. For instance, there was also a young man in the same house who was nearly eighteen, and he and Jenny had enough of a relationship to raise reasonable suspicion. Yet, blinded by jealousy, that possibility never crossed the mind of the furious wife.
Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr Allworthy's advice, is not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented heartily of the evidence she had given against him: especially when she found Mrs Deborah had deceived her, and refused to make any application to Mr Allworthy on her behalf. She had, however, somewhat better success with Mrs Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much better-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her brother to restore the annuity; in which, though good-nature might have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive will appear in the next chapter.
Whether Partridge regretted his actions or not, based on Mr. Allworthy's advice, isn't very clear. What is certain is that his wife deeply regretted the testimony she had given against him, especially after she realized Mrs. Deborah had misled her and refused to ask Mr. Allworthy for help on her behalf. However, she had a bit more luck with Mrs. Blifil, who, as the reader may have noticed, was a much kinder person and generously offered to ask her brother to restore the annuity. While natural goodness may have played a role in this, a stronger and more obvious motive will be revealed in the next chapter.
These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists only in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it is proper to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact, or any circumstance of mitigation, was never disregarded: but the petitions of an offender, or the intercessions of others, did not in the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned because the offender himself, or his friends, were unwilling that he should be punished.
These pleas were nonetheless unsuccessful: while Mr. Allworthy didn’t believe, like some recent writers, that mercy is simply about punishing wrongdoers; he also didn’t think it was appropriate to carelessly pardon serious criminals without any justification. Any uncertainty about the facts or any mitigating circumstances were always taken into account: however, the requests from an offender or the pleas from others had no influence on him. In short, he never granted forgiveness simply because the offender or their friends wanted him to avoid punishment.
Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from doubling his industry on the account of his lessened income, that he did in a manner abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature indolent, that vice now increased upon him, by which means he lost the little school he had; so that neither his wife nor himself would have had any bread to eat, had not the charity of some good Christian interposed, and provided them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance.
Partridge and his wife had no choice but to accept their situation, which was truly harsh. Instead of working harder because of his reduced income, he pretty much fell into despair. Being naturally lazy, his lack of motivation grew, and as a result, he lost the small school he had. Without the help of some kind-hearted individuals who stepped in to provide for them, they wouldn't have had enough food to eat.
As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr Allworthy himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the distresses of the vicious themselves, when these became too exquisite and disproportionate to their demerit. In which light their wretchedness appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on this miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched state of Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon after caught the small-pox, and died.
Since this help came to them from an unknown source, they guessed, and I’m sure the reader will as well, that Mr. Allworthy was their secret benefactor. He wouldn’t openly support wrongdoing, but he could still quietly ease the suffering of the wrongdoers when it became too severe and disproportionate to their faults. In this way, their misery was now visible even to Fortune herself; eventually, she took pity on this unfortunate couple and significantly improved Partridge's miserable situation by ending his wife's suffering, as she soon contracted smallpox and died.
The justice which Mr Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met with universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to compassionate his case; and presently after, to blame that as rigour and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy and forgiveness.
The justice that Mr. Allworthy had handed down to Partridge was initially met with widespread approval; however, as soon as he experienced the consequences, his neighbors began to soften and feel sympathy for his situation. Shortly after, they criticized what they previously deemed justice, calling it harshness and severity instead. They now protested against punishing someone without emotion and praised mercy and forgiveness instead.
These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs Partridge, which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which is no consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to impute to Mr Allworthy's severity, or, as they now termed it, cruelty.
These cries were greatly amplified by the death of Mrs. Partridge, which, although caused by the previously mentioned illness that is not a result of poverty or hardship, many were not embarrassed to blame on Mr. Allworthy's strictness, or, as they now called it, cruelty.
Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and the unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity, resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in danger of starving, with the universal compassion of all his neighbours.
Partridge, having lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and with the unknown person having stopped that last bit of support, decided to change his surroundings. He left the country, where he risked starving, despite the sympathy from all his neighbors.
Chapter vii. — A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from hatred: with a short apology for those people who overlook imperfections in their friends.
Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had he not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the foundling out of Mr Allworthy's house.
Though the captain had effectively taken down poor Partridge, he still hadn’t achieved the result he wanted, which was to throw the foundling out of Mr. Allworthy's house.
On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little Tommy, as if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the father with extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.
On the contrary, that gentleman became more and more fond of little Tommy every day, as if he meant to make up for how harsh he was with the father by showing extraordinary affection and care for the son.
This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as did all the other daily instances of Mr Allworthy's generosity; for he looked on all such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.
This really soured the captain's mood, just like all the other daily acts of Mr. Allworthy's generosity; he saw all those gifts as a decrease in his own wealth.
In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, indeed, in anything else: for though an affection placed on the understanding is, by many wise persons, thought more durable than that which is founded on beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present case. Nay, the understandings of this couple were their principal bone of contention, and one great cause of many quarrels, which from time to time arose between them; and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a sovereign contempt for her husband; and on the husband's, in an utter abhorrence of his wife.
In this situation, we mentioned, he didn't see eye to eye with his wife; nor did he in anything else. Although many wise people believe that affection based on intellect lasts longer than that based on physical beauty, the opposite turned out to be true here. In fact, their differing views were a major source of conflict, leading to numerous arguments between them. Ultimately, this resulted in the lady developing a deep contempt for her husband, while the husband felt complete disgust for his wife.
As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common topic of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man, had, before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady; and this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead, who, while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous of being still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on the contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who had not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the dispute with an admiration of her own understanding and a love for his.
Since both had primarily focused on studying theology, this became their main topic of conversation from the beginning of their acquaintance. The captain, being well-mannered, always deferred to the lady's opinion before they got married, but not in the awkward way of a conceited fool who, while politely conceding to a superior in an argument, still wants to be seen as right. On the contrary, the captain, despite being one of the proudest men around, completely conceded victory to her, so that she, having no doubts about his sincerity, always left the discussion feeling proud of her own intelligence and fond of his.
But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes of preferment made it necessary to show the same submission to a Hoadley, or to some other of great reputation in the science, yet even this cost him too much to be endured without some motive. Matrimony, therefore, having removed all such motives, he grew weary of this condescension, and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that haughtiness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve no contempt can bear.
But even though this submission to someone the captain really despised didn’t bother him as much as it would have if he had to show the same deference to a Hoadley or another highly regarded figure in the field, it still cost him too much to endure without a reason. Once he got married, all those reasons disappeared, and he grew tired of this condescension. He started to treat his wife's opinions with the kind of arrogance and disrespect that only those who truly deserve some contempt can show, and only those who merit no contempt can tolerate.
When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm and long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of the lady, and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who at length answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was far from enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at first so highly provoked her, that it might have produced some tragical event, had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her with the utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which somewhat qualified her hatred towards him; though of this likewise she had a pretty moderate share.
When the initial wave of affection passed and during the calm, lengthy pause between outbursts, the lady started to see things clearly. She noticed the change in the captain's behavior, who eventually responded to all her points with dismissive sounds like pish and pshaw. Instead of accepting this disrespect quietly, she was actually quite infuriated at first. It could have led to a dramatic situation, but instead, it took a less severe turn by filling her with intense disdain for her husband's intelligence, which somewhat eased her hatred toward him, though she still held a fairly moderate amount of that as well.
The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised her for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion of the female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he looked on a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher consideration than a cat, since her offices were of rather more importance; but the difference between these two was, in his estimation, so small, that, in his marriage contracted with Mr Allworthy's lands and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which of them he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was his pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to express towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before taken of her love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence, perhaps hardly to be exceeded.
The captain's hatred for her was of a purer kind: he didn't look down on her for any flaws in her knowledge or understanding any more than he would for her not being six feet tall. In his view of women, he surpassed even Aristotle's bitterness; he regarded a woman as a domestic creature, slightly better than a cat, since her roles were a bit more important. However, he saw the difference between the two as so minor that, in his marriage to Mr. Allworthy's property, it would have been pretty much the same which one he had bargained for. Yet, his pride was so sensitive that he felt the contempt his wife was starting to show him; this, combined with the overload of her love he had already experienced, created in him a level of disgust and loathing that was hard to surpass.
One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure: and that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I hope, know what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to a beloved object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the satisfaction of tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at this latter pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease in marriage which they might otherwise possess, though their mate was never so disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of love and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to disturb and prevent those of her husband; and he again, in return, puts frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in company which he dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she equally detests. Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow sometimes so plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she led a life of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never hope to torment any more.
One aspect of being married is all about losing pleasure: and that’s being indifferent. However, I believe many of you understand the joy that comes from bringing pleasure to someone you love, while a few might have felt the satisfaction that comes from tormenting someone you hate. I think it’s for this latter satisfaction that both men and women often sacrifice the comfort of marriage they could have, even if their partner isn’t that bothersome. This is why a wife might act jealous or even deny herself pleasure just to upset her husband’s happiness; and in turn, he often restricts himself and stays home with people he doesn’t like to limit his wife to what she hates just as much. This also explains those tears a widow sometimes sheds over the memory of a husband with whom she had a tumultuous life, knowing she’ll never be able to torment him again.
But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient reason to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the other had previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any amusement, the other constantly objected to it: they never loved or hated, commended or abused, the same person. And for this reason, as the captain looked with an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife began now to caress it almost equally with her own child.
But if any couple ever enjoyed this pleasure, it was definitely the captain and his wife at that moment. For either of them, it was always enough reason to be stubborn about any opinion simply because the other had previously disagreed. If one suggested any activity, the other always opposed it: they never loved or hated, praised or criticized, the same person. And because of this, as the captain glared at the little foundling, his wife began to dote on it almost as much as on her own child.
The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between the husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr Allworthy's repose, as it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had designed for all three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he might be a little disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he was far from being acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the captain was, from certain obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady was obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to pursue the same conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to be very intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a married couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not even guess at the sour sentiments which they bear to each other: for though the whole day may be sometimes too short for hatred, as well as for love; yet the many hours which they naturally spend together, apart from all observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation with such ample opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if they love, they can support being a few hours in company without toying, or if they hate, without spitting in each other's faces.
The reader might think that the way the husband and wife acted didn't help Mr. Allworthy relax, as it didn’t contribute much to the happy life he hoped for all three of them from their union. But the truth is, while he might have been a bit let down by his high hopes, he wasn't fully aware of the whole situation. The captain was understandably cautious around him, and the lady had to act the same way to avoid upsetting her brother. In reality, it's possible for a third person to be very close, even live with a married couple for a long time, and not have a clue about the negative feelings they might have for each other. Although there are times when a day can feel too short for both love and hatred, the hours they spend together without anyone watching give people with decent self-control plenty of opportunities to express either feeling. So, if they love each other, they can manage a few hours in each other’s presence without being overly affectionate, and if they hate each other, they can avoid physical confrontations.
It is possible, however, that Mr Allworthy saw enough to render him a little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those of a childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might see some faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for men of true wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and things as they are, without complaining of their imperfections, or attempting to amend them. They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or to any others; and this often without lessening their affection. Indeed, unless great discernment be tempered with this overlooking disposition, we ought never to contract friendship but with a degree of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my friends will pardon me when I declare, I know none of them without a fault; and I should be sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could not see mine. Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn. It is an exercise of friendship, and perhaps none of the least pleasant. And this forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of amendment. There is, perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the natural infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human nature, as well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it; and this, I am afraid, in either case, is equally incurable; though, nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest value.
It’s possible that Mr. Allworthy noticed enough to feel a bit uneasy; after all, we shouldn't assume that a wise person isn't bothered just because they don’t complain and lament like someone who is childish or overly sensitive. However, he might have seen some faults in the captain without feeling uneasy at all; because truly wise and good people are okay with accepting others and situations as they are, without whining about imperfections or trying to fix them. They can notice a flaw in a friend, family member, or acquaintance without ever bringing it up with them or anyone else, and often this doesn’t even reduce their affection. In fact, unless someone’s great insight is balanced with the ability to overlook flaws, we should probably only form friendships with a level of foolishness that we can manipulate; because I hope my friends will forgive me when I say that I know none of them are without fault, and I’d be disappointed if I thought I had a friend who couldn’t see mine. This kind of forgiveness is something we give and receive in turn. It’s part of friendship and perhaps one of the most enjoyable aspects. We must grant this forgiveness without wanting to change the other person. There’s probably no clearer sign of foolishness than trying to fix the natural shortcomings of those we care about. The best blend of human nature, like the finest china, can have a flaw; and unfortunately, in either case, that flaw is likely unfixable, although the overall pattern can still hold great value.
Upon the whole, then, Mr Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections in the captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally upon his guard before him, these appeared to him no more than blemishes in a good character, which his goodness made him overlook, and his wisdom prevented him from discovering to the captain himself. Very different would have been his sentiments had he discovered the whole; which perhaps would in time have been the case, had the husband and wife long continued this kind of behaviour to each other; but this kind Fortune took effectual means to prevent, by forcing the captain to do that which rendered him again dear to his wife, and restored all her tenderness and affection towards him.
Overall, Mr. Allworthy definitely noticed some flaws in the captain. However, since the captain was very cunning and always careful around him, these flaws seemed to him like minor issues in an otherwise good character, which his kindness made him overlook, and his intelligence kept him from revealing to the captain himself. His feelings would have been very different if he had seen the whole truth; this might have eventually happened if the husband and wife had continued treating each other this way for a long time. Luckily, fate stepped in and forced the captain to do something that made him beloved again by his wife, rekindling all her tenderness and affection for him.
Chapter viii. — A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife, which hath never been known to fail in the most desperate cases.
The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed when alone.
The captain was compensated greatly for the uncomfortable moments he spent talking with his wife (which were as few as he could manage) by the enjoyable thoughts he had when he was alone.
These meditations were entirely employed on Mr Allworthy's fortune; for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he could, the exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw occasion to alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens, and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of the estate as of the grandeur of the place: for this purpose he applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read over many books on both these subjects; for these sciences, indeed, employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last completed a most excellent plan: and very sorry we are, that it is not in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a superlative degree, the two principal ingredients which serve to recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it required an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to bring it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense wealth of which the captain supposed Mr Allworthy possessed, and which he thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effectually to supply; and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his time of life, which was only what is called middle-age, removed all apprehension of his not living to accomplish.
These thoughts were entirely focused on Mr. Allworthy's fortune; first, he spent a lot of time trying to figure out the exact value of everything, often changing his calculations to benefit himself. Secondly, and most importantly, he enjoyed planning changes for the house and gardens and came up with many other ideas to improve the estate and enhance its grandeur. To do this, he dedicated himself to studying architecture and gardening, reading many books on both topics; these subjects occupied all his time and were his only source of enjoyment. Eventually, he developed an excellent plan, and we regret that we cannot share it with our readers, as even the luxury of today’s world would likely struggle to compare. It had, in fact, the two main ingredients that make great and noble designs stand out: it required an extravagant amount of money to execute and a significant amount of time to reach any level of perfection. The first factor, the immense wealth that the captain believed Mr. Allworthy had and which he thought he would inherit, seemed to promise adequate funding; and the second factor, his good health and his being in what is considered middle age, alleviated any concerns about him not living long enough to see it through.
Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate execution of this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy; in calculating which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c. From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening within a few years.
Nothing was stopping him from immediately putting this plan into action except for the death of Mr. Allworthy; in figuring this out, he had spent a lot of time on his own calculations and also bought every book available that discusses the value of lives, inheritances, etc. From all this, he convinced himself that while he had a daily chance of this happening, he had more than a 50/50 chance of it happening within a few years.
But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense, just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr Allworthy's death, he himself—died of an apoplexy.
But while the captain was deep in thought one day, one of the unluckiest and most ill-timed incidents happened to him. The worst that Fate could create would have been nothing as cruel, as poorly timed, or as completely devastating to all his plans. In short, to avoid keeping the reader in suspense, just when his heart was filled with joy thinking about the happiness that would come from Mr. Allworthy's death, he himself—died of a stroke.
This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening walk by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if indeed, any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore, measure of that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great (though not a living) example of the truth of that observation of Horace:
This unfortunate event happened to the captain while he was out for an evening walk by himself, leaving him without anyone to help him, even if help could have saved him. He then took stock of the amount of land that was now suitable for all his future needs, and he lay dead on the ground, a great (though not a living) example of the truth of Horace's observation:
Tu secanda marmora
Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
Immemor, struis domos.
You lay the marble underneath the very grave; and forgetful of the tomb, you build houses.
Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: “You provide the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet, forgetting that of six by two.”
Which sentiment I want to share with the English reader: “You have the best materials for building, when only a pickaxe and a shovel are needed: and construct houses that are five hundred by a hundred feet, forgetting about one that's six by two.”
Chapter ix. — A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt, in the lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of death, such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.
Mr Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a considerable time longer than usual, Mr Allworthy first declared he began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most punctual at his meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the captain was wont to use.
Mr. Allworthy, his sister, and another lady were gathered at the usual time in the dining room. After waiting much longer than usual, Mr. Allworthy mentioned that he was starting to feel uneasy about the captain's absence (as he was always very prompt for meals). He then instructed that the bell be rung outside, particularly in the areas where the captain usually walked.
All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs Blifil declared she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify her, telling her—To be sure she could not help being uneasy; but that she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening had inticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk: or he might be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs Blifil answered, No; she was sure some accident had befallen him; for that he would never stay out without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would make her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook herself to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her not to frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to her own health; and, filling out a very large glass of wine, advised, and at last prevailed with her to drink it.
All these calls proving useless (since the captain had, by some strange chance, taken a different route that evening), Mrs. Blifil said she was genuinely scared. Her friend, who was one of her closest acquaintances and knew the true nature of her feelings, did her best to reassure her, saying that of course she couldn’t help but feel anxious, but that she should stay hopeful. Perhaps the nice evening had tempted the captain to wander farther than usual, or he might be held up at a neighbor’s place. Mrs. Blifil replied, No; she was certain something bad had happened to him because he would never stay out without letting her know, as he must understand how worried it would make her. With no other arguments left to make, the friend resorted to the usual pleas in such situations and urged her not to alarm herself, as it could be very harmful to her own health. She poured a large glass of wine and recommended, finally convincing her to drink it.
Mr Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived him of speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and floods of tears accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her companion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time dissuaded her from indulging; attempting to moderate the grief of her friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a sufficient consideration to fortify our minds against any accidents, how sudden or terrible soever. She said her brother's example ought to teach her patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as much concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief within due bounds.
Mr. Allworthy returned to the living room because he had been looking for the captain. His face clearly showed his distress, which had left him somewhat speechless. However, while grief affects people differently, the same anxiety that silenced him seemed to lift Mrs. Blifil’s spirits. She began to express her sorrow in very harsh terms, accompanied by torrents of tears, which her companion said she couldn’t blame, but at the same time urged her to avoid indulging. She tried to help her friend manage her grief with philosophical reflections on the many disappointments that life throws at us daily, suggesting that such thoughts should help us strengthen our minds against sudden or terrible events. She remarked that her brother's example should teach her patience; although he presumably wasn't as affected as she was, he was undoubtedly quite troubled, even though his acceptance of the Divine will had kept his sorrow in check.
“Mention not my brother,” said Mrs Blifil; “I alone am the object of your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife feels on these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him—I shall never see him more!”—Here a torrent of tears had the same consequence with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr Allworthy, and she remained silent.
“Don’t mention my brother,” Mrs. Blifil said. “I’m the only one who deserves your pity. What can the fears of friendship compare to what a wife feels in times like these? Oh, he’s gone! Someone has murdered him—I will never see him again!”—At this, a flood of tears had the same effect on her as the silence had on Mr. Allworthy, and she fell quiet.
At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried out, The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.
At that moment, a servant burst in, panting, and shouted, The captain has been found; and before he could say anything else, he was followed by two others carrying the dead body between them.
Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the operations of grief: for as Mr Allworthy had been before silent, from the same cause which had made his sister vociferous; so did the present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop to those of the lady; who first gave a violent scream, and presently after fell into a fit.
Here, the curious reader can notice another difference in how people experience grief: just as Mr. Allworthy had been quiet earlier, for the same reason that had made his sister loud, the current scene, which brought tears to him, completely stopped her from crying. She first let out a loud scream and then quickly fell into a fit.
The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady visitant, were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where every method was tried, in order to restore him to life.
The room quickly filled with servants, some of whom, along with the lady visitor, were tending to the wife, while others were helping Mr. Allworthy carry the captain to a warm bed, where every possible method was attempted to bring him back to life.
And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these bodies had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great satisfaction: but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding, chafing, dropping, &c., proved ineffectual. Death, that inexorable judge, had passed sentence on him, and refused to grant him a reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and the same instant, were his counsel.
And we would be happy to inform the reader that both of these situations had equally positive outcomes; the people who took care of the lady were so successful that, after the episode lasted a reasonable amount of time, she recovered, much to their relief. However, regarding the captain, all attempts at bleeding, rubbing, dropping, etc., were ineffective. Death, that relentless judge, had already decided his fate and refused to give him a break, even though two doctors who arrived simultaneously were his advocates.
These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall distinguish by the names of Dr Y. and Dr Z., having felt his pulse; to wit, Dr Y. his right arm, and Dr Z. his left; both agreed that he was absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they differed; Dr Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr Z. of an epilepsy.
These two doctors, whom we’ll call Dr. Y. and Dr. Z. to avoid any negative implications, felt his pulse; that is, Dr. Y. checked his right arm, and Dr. Z. checked his left. They both agreed that he was definitely dead, but they disagreed on the cause of death. Dr. Y. believed he died from a stroke, while Dr. Z. thought it was due to epilepsy.
Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force, that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments, and made not the least impression on his adversary.
Thus, a debate broke out among the scholars, each presenting the reasons for their different views. The arguments were so equally compelling that they both reinforced each scholar's own beliefs and had no impact on their opponent at all.
To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease, to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have all their several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account for those disagreements in opinion, concerning the cause of a patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of the college; and which have greatly surprized that part of the world who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted.
To be honest, every doctor almost has their preferred disease, which they attribute all the victories over human ailments. Gout, rheumatism, kidney stones, gravel, and tuberculosis all have their champions among physicians; but none more so than nervous fever, or fever of the spirits. This explains the disagreements regarding the cause of a patient's death that can sometimes arise between even the most knowledgeable members of the medical community, surprising those who are unaware of the fact we've just mentioned.
The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring to revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately into a dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such experiments had been made before their arrival: for the captain was put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils.
The reader might be surprised that instead of trying to revive the patient, the scholars started arguing about his death right away. But the truth is, all those methods had been tried before they got there: the captain was placed in a warm bed, had his veins cut, his forehead rubbed, and all kinds of strong liquids were applied to his lips and nostrils.
The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in everything they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse; and what could more naturally present itself than that before mentioned?
The doctors, finding that everything they requested was already taken care of, didn't know how to spend the time they usually set aside for their fee. As a result, they felt pressured to come up with something to talk about; and what could be more obvious than the topic they had already discussed?
Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr Allworthy, having given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will, began to enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their departure.
Our doctors were getting ready to leave when Mr. Allworthy, having taken care of the captain and accepted what was meant to be, started asking about his sister, whom he wanted them to see before they left.
This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase, as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors, therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as this was a new patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.
This lady had now recovered from her episode and, to put it in common terms, was as well as could be expected given her condition. The doctors, having followed all the necessary protocols since she was a new patient, attended to her as requested and took hold of each of her hands, just as they had previously done with the corpse.
The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her husband: for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in reality she required none.
The situation with the lady was completely different from that of her husband: while he was beyond any medical help, she actually didn't need any.
There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which physicians are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim, “That Nature should be left to do her own work, while the physician stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and encourage her when she doth well.”
There’s nothing more unfair than the common belief that doctors are friends of death. On the contrary, I think if we compared the number of people who recover due to treatment with those who suffer from it, the recoveries would definitely outnumber the latter. In fact, some doctors are so cautious about this that, to avoid even the slightest chance of harming a patient, they refrain from all treatments and only recommend things that neither help nor hurt. I've heard some of them seriously claim that “Nature should be allowed to do her own work, while the doctor stands by to give her a little encouragement when she’s doing well.”
So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged the corpse after a single fee; but they were not so disgusted with their living patient; concerning whose case they immediately agreed, and fell to prescribing with great diligence.
So little did our doctors enjoy death that they released the body after just one payment; however, they weren't as bothered by their living patient. They quickly came to a consensus about the case and started prescribing with great enthusiasm.
Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to believe her ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so, I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by physicians, attended by nurses, and received constant messages from her acquaintance to enquire after her health.
Whether the lady initially convinced her doctors that she was sick and they, in return, convinced her to believe it herself, I won’t say; but she continued to put on all the signs of illness for a whole month. During this time, she was seen by doctors, looked after by nurses, and received constant messages from her friends checking in on her health.
At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see company; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance.
At last, the appropriate time for illness and excessive sorrow had passed, the doctors were sent away, and the lady started to receive visitors; she had only changed from who she was before by the expression of sadness that she had donned in her appearance and demeanor.
The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph, which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one who perfectly well knew the captain.
The captain was now buried and might have already been forgotten if it weren't for Mr. Allworthy's friendship, which made sure his memory was kept alive with the following epitaph, written by a person who had as much talent as integrity, and who knew the captain very well.
HERE LIES,
IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
THE BODY OF
CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
LONDON
HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
OXFORD
OF HIS EDUCATION.
HIS PARTS
WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
AND HUMAN NATURE.
HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
A TENDER HUSBAND,
AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
A MOST KIND BROTHER,
A SINCERE FRIEND,
A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
AND A GOOD MAN.
HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
THE MONUMENT OF
HIS VIRTUES
AND OF HER AFFECTION.
HERE LIES,
IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
THE BODY OF
CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
LONDON
HAD THE HONOR OF HIS BIRTH,
OXFORD
OF HIS EDUCATION.
HIS QUALITIES
WERE AN HONOR TO HIS PROFESSION
AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
HIS LIFE, TO HIS FAITH
AND HUMANITY.
HE WAS A DEVOTED SON,
A LOVING HUSBAND,
A CARING FATHER,
A KIND BROTHER,
A TRUE FRIEND,
A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
AND A GOOD MAN.
HIS HEARTBROKEN WIDOW
HAS ERECTED THIS STONE,
A MONUMENT TO
HIS VIRTUES
AND TO HER LOVE.
BOOK III. — CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE FAMILY OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK
THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN.
Chapter i. — Containing little or nothing.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of the second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention to pass over several large periods of time, in which nothing happened worthy of being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.
The reader will be pleased to recall that at the start of the second book of this history, we mentioned our plan to skip over several long stretches of time during which nothing significant occurred that would be worth including in a chronicle like this.
In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but the good and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these means we prevent him from throwing away his time, in reading without either pleasure or emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an opportunity of employing that wonderful sagacity, of which he is master, by filling up these vacant spaces of time with his own conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in the preceding pages.
By doing this, we consider not just our own comfort and dignity but also the benefit of the reader. This way, we help them avoid wasting their time on reading that offers no enjoyment or reward. We provide them, at all times, a chance to use their impressive insight, filling in these gaps of time with their own ideas; to this end, we have prepared them in the previous pages.
For instance, what reader but knows that Mr Allworthy felt, at first, for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on such occasions enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of flint, or their heads of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth not know that philosophy and religion in time moderated, and at last extinguished, this grief? The former of these teaching the folly and vanity of it, and the latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the same time assuaging it, by raising future hopes and assurances, which enable a strong and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on his deathbed, with little less indifference than if he was preparing for a long journey; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him again.
For example, what reader doesn’t know that Mr. Allworthy initially felt the profound grief that everyone experiences when they lose a friend, as long as they’re not completely heartless or unfeeling? Moreover, what reader is unaware that over time, philosophy and religion helped lessen and eventually erase that grief? Philosophy teaches us how foolish and vain it is, while religion corrects our feelings as inappropriate, easing the pain by offering future hopes and reassurances. These insights enable a strong and faithful person to say goodbye to a friend on their deathbed with almost the same level of indifference as if the friend were simply going on a long trip, and indeed, with just as much hope of seeing them again.
Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the outside of the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of custom and decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to the several alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds to black, from black to grey, from grey to white, so did her countenance change from dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, and from sad to serious, till the day came in which she was allowed to return to her former serenity.
Nor can the thoughtful reader be more confused about Mrs. Bridget Blifil, who, rest assured, behaved throughout the entire season when grief is expected to show itself outwardly, with the utmost respect for all customs and propriety, adjusting her expression to match the changes in her attire: as her clothing shifted from mourning black to dark gray, then to light gray, and finally to white, her facial expression transitioned from gloomy to mournful, from mournful to sad, and from sad to serious, until the day arrived when she was allowed to regain her previous calmness.
We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which may be imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and harder exercises of judgment and penetration may reasonably be expected from the upper graduates in criticism. Many notable discoveries will, I doubt not, be made by such, of the transactions which happened in the family of our worthy man, during all the years which we have thought proper to pass over: for though nothing worthy of a place in this history occurred within that period, yet did several incidents happen of equal importance with those reported by the daily and weekly historians of the age; in reading which great numbers of persons consume a considerable part of their time, very little, I am afraid, to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures here proposed, some of the most excellent faculties of the mind may be employed to much advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be able to foretel the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their characters, than to judge of their characters from their actions. The former, I own, requires the greater penetration; but may be accomplished by true sagacity with no less certainty than the latter.
We've mentioned these two as examples of the tasks that might be given to readers of the lowest class. We can reasonably expect much higher and more challenging exercises of judgment and insight from advanced critics. I have no doubt that many significant discoveries will be made by them regarding the events that took place in the life of our esteemed subject during the years we've chosen to overlook. While nothing noteworthy enough to include in this history occurred during that time, several incidents of equal importance to those reported by the daily and weekly chroniclers of the time did happen; many people spend a considerable amount of their time reading those, which I fear benefits them very little. In the conjectures proposed here, some of the finest mental faculties can be put to great use, since it's more valuable to predict people's actions in any situation based on their characters than to evaluate their characters based on their actions. Admittedly, the former requires deeper insight, but true wisdom can achieve it just as certainly as the latter.
As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are very eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of twelve years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at about fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been long impatient to be introduced to his acquaintance.
Since we know that most of our readers really have this quality, we’ve given them a span of twelve years to show it off; and now we’ll introduce our hero, who is about fourteen years old, knowing that many have been eager to meet him for quite some time.
Chapter ii. — The heroe of this great history appears with very bad omens. A little tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to a gamekeeper and a schoolmaster.
As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly, even at his first appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all Mr Allworthy's family that he was certainly born to be hanged.
As we decided when we first sat down to write this history, to flatter no one but to let our writing be guided by the truth, we have to present our hero in a much less favorable light than we would prefer; and to honestly state, even at his first introduction, that it was the shared belief of everyone in Mr. Allworthy's family that he was destined to be hanged.
Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now observed to have been prophetically denounced against him: he had been already convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master Blifil's pocket of a ball.
I'm truly sorry to say that there was a lot of justification for this assumption; the boy had shown a tendency towards many bad behaviors from a young age, especially one that directly leads to the fate we've just talked about being predicted for him: he had already been found guilty of three thefts, namely, stealing fruit from an orchard, taking a duck from a farmer's yard, and pickpocketing a ball from Master Blifil.
The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all the neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age; qualities which gained him the love of every one who knew him: while Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many expressed their wonder that Mr Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be educated with his nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his example.
The flaws of this young man were made even worse by the unflattering contrast to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion. Blifil was such a different character from little Jones that not only the family but the whole neighborhood praised him. He was truly a remarkable young man; responsible, discreet, and more religious than one would expect at his age—qualities that earned him the affection of everyone who knew him. In contrast, Tom Jones was widely disliked, and many people were surprised that Mr. Allworthy would allow such a boy to be educated alongside his nephew, fearing that the latter's morals might be tainted by his example.
An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is in the power of the longest dissertation.
An incident that happened around this time will present the personalities of these two boys more clearly to the observant reader than the longest essay ever could.
Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for as to Mrs Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain much stricter notions concerning the difference of meum and tuum than the young gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and, indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in that short Latin proverb, “Noscitur a socio;” which, I think, is thus expressed in English, “You may know him by the company he keeps.”
Tom Jones, who, as bad as he is, serves as the hero of this story, had only one friend among all the household staff; as for Mrs. Wilkins, she had long since given up on him and was completely reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a guy with a pretty loose attitude, who was thought to have no stricter views on the difference between what’s mine and what’s yours than the young gentleman himself. Because of this friendship, there were many sarcastic comments among the staff, most of which were either proverbs before or at least have become so now; in fact, all their wit can be summed up by that short Latin saying, “Noscitur a socio;” which, I believe, translates to English as “You can tell a person by the company they keep.”
To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of which we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be derived from the encouragement he had received from this fellow, who, in two or three instances, had been what the law calls an accessary after the fact: for the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were converted to the use of the gamekeeper and his family; though, as Jones alone was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the whole blame; both which fell again to his lot on the following occasion.
To be honest, some of the terrible wrongs in Jones, of which we just mentioned three examples, might come from the support he received from this guy, who, in a couple of cases, was what the law calls an accessory after the fact: because the entire duck and a good portion of the apples were used by the gamekeeper and his family; yet, since only Jones was caught, the poor kid took not just all the punishment but all the blame as well; both of which he faced again on the next occasion.
Contiguous to Mr Allworthy's estate was the manor of one of those gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of men, from the great severity with which they revenge the death of a hare or partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition with the Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives to the preservation and protection of certain animals; was it not that our English Bannians, while they preserve them from other enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such heathenish superstition.
Next to Mr. Allworthy's estate was the property of one of those gentlemen known as gamekeepers. These men, due to their extreme zeal in avenging the death of a hare or partridge, might seem to share the same superstitions as the Bannians in India, many of whom, we are told, dedicate their entire lives to protecting certain animals. However, our English gamekeepers, while they protect these animals from other threats, will mercilessly slaughter entire loads of them themselves, making it clear that they are not guilty of any such pagan superstition.
I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and the good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner than many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of human beings
I have, in fact, a much better view of this type of person than some do, since I believe they fulfill the order of Nature and the good purposes for which they were created more effectively than many others. Now, as Horace tells us, there are a group of human beings
Fruges consumere nati,
Born to consume resources,
“Born to consume the fruits of the earth;” so I make no manner of doubt but that there are others
“Born to enjoy the fruits of the earth;” so I have no doubt that there are others
Feras consumere nati,
Feras consume children,
“Born to consume the beasts of the field;” or, as it is commonly called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those squires fulfil this end of their creation.
“Born to eat the animals of the field;” or, as it is often referred to, the game; and I don’t think anyone can deny that those squires accomplish this purpose of their existence.
Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of Nature, had planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew into it, and were marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces beyond Mr Allworthy's dominions.
Little Jones went out shooting with the gamekeeper one day. While they were out, they startled a group of partridges near the edge of the manor where Fortune, following Nature's wise plan, had placed one of the game keepers. The birds flew into the area and were marked by the two hunters in some gorse bushes, about two or three hundred paces beyond Mr. Allworthy's land.
Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on the lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders had not been always very scrupulously kept; but as the disposition of the gentleman with whom the partridges had taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being very importunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one of the partridges.
Mr. Allworthy had given the guy strict orders, with the warning that he’d lose his job, never to trespass on any of his neighbors, including those who were less strict about it than the lord of the manor. In fact, he hadn’t always followed these orders with others, but since everyone knew how the gentleman whose land the partridges had taken refuge on felt about it, the gamekeeper had never tried to venture onto his land. He wouldn’t have done it this time either if the younger hunter, who was really eager to chase after the flying game, hadn’t convinced him otherwise. However, Jones was very persistent, and the other guy, who was also enthusiastic about the sport, gave in to his requests, entered the manor, and shot one of the partridges.
The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a little distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he immediately made towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; for the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of the furze-brake, where he had happily concealed himself.
The gentleman was riding a horse at that moment, a little ways off from them. When he heard the gunfire, he quickly made his way to the spot and found poor Tom, as the gamekeeper had jumped into the thickest part of the gorse, where he had fortunately hidden himself.
The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the partridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would acquaint Mr Allworthy. He was as good as his word: for he rode immediately to his house, and complained of the trespass on his manor in as high terms and as bitter language as if his house had been broken open, and the most valuable furniture stole out of it. He added, that some other person was in his company, though he could not discover him; for that two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. And, says he, “We have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what mischief they have done.”
The man searched the boy and found a partridge on him, and he threatened severe consequences, vowing he would inform Mr. Allworthy. He kept his promise and rode straight to his house to report the violation of his land in the most intense and harsh language, as if his home had been broken into and valuable belongings stolen. He added that someone else was with him, even though he couldn’t identify them, since two guns had been fired nearly simultaneously. And he said, “We only found this partridge, but who knows what trouble they’ve caused.”
At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse but what was really true, viz., that the covey was originally sprung in Mr Allworthy's own manor.
Upon returning home, Tom was quickly brought before Mr. Allworthy. He admitted the truth and offered no other excuse than what was actually true, which was that the group had originally come from Mr. Allworthy's own estate.
Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been deposed by the squire and both his servants; but Tom stoutly persisted in asserting that he was alone; yet, to say the truth, he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr Allworthy's belief, had what the squire and his servants said wanted any further confirmation.
Tom was then questioned about who was with him, and Mr. Allworthy stated that he was determined to find out, informing the accused about the two guns, which had been mentioned by the squire and both of his servants. However, Tom firmly insisted that he was alone; still, to be honest, he wavered a bit at first, which would have reinforced Mr. Allworthy's suspicion, had the statements from the squire and his servants needed any more proof.
The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, and the question put to him; but he, relying on the promise which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very resolutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, or indeed having seen him the whole afternoon.
The gamekeeper, who was a suspicious individual, was called in, and they questioned him; however, he, trusting in Tom's promise to take full responsibility, firmly denied being with the young man or even having seen him all afternoon.
Mr Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who was with him; repeating, that he was resolved to know. The lad, however, still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed with much wrath by Mr Allworthy, who told him he should have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should be questioned by another person, and in another manner.
Mr. Allworthy then turned to Tom, visibly angrier than usual, and urged him to admit who had been with him, insisting that he was determined to find out. However, the boy stuck to his decision, and Mr. Allworthy dismissed him in great anger, telling him he would have until the next morning to think it over, when he would be questioned by someone else and in a different way.
Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night; and the more so, as he was without his usual companion; for Master Blifil was gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil; his chief anxiety being, lest his constancy should fail him, and he should be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must now be the consequence.
Poor Jones had a very sad night, especially since he was without his usual companion; Master Blifil had gone out visiting with his mother. The fear of the punishment that awaited him was the least of his worries; his main concern was that he might lose his resolve and end up betraying the gamekeeper, knowing that it would lead to the gamekeeper's downfall.
Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same apprehensions with the youth; for whose honour he had likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin.
Nor did the gamekeeper spend his time much better. He had the same worries about the young man, for whom he actually cared more about his reputation than his safety.
In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr Thwackum, the person to whom Mr Allworthy had committed the instruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening before, to which he returned the same answers. The consequence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little short of the torture with which confessions are in some countries extorted from criminals.
In the morning, when Tom met with Reverend Mr. Thwackum, the person Mr. Allworthy had entrusted with teaching the two boys, he faced the same questions from that gentleman that he had been asked the night before, and he gave the same answers. As a result, he received such a harsh whipping that it was probably only a step away from the torture used in some countries to force confessions from criminals.
Tom bore his punishment with great resolution; and though his master asked him, between every stroke, whether he would not confess, he was contented to be flead rather than betray his friend, or break the promise he had made.
Tom accepted his punishment with strong determination; and although his master asked him, after each hit, whether he would confess, he preferred to be hurt than to betray his friend or break his promise.
The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for besides that Mr Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had carried his severity much beyond the good man's intention, this latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken; which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable; and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr Allworthy could by no means support the consciousness a single moment, he sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations, said, “I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so severely punished on this account.” And at last gave him a little horse to make him amends; again repeating his sorrow for what had past.
The gamekeeper was finally relieved from his worries, and Mr. Allworthy himself started to feel concerned about Tom's suffering. Mr. Thwackum, extremely angry that he couldn’t get the boy to say what he wanted, had gone way beyond what the good man intended in his punishment. Now, Mr. Allworthy began to suspect that the squire might have been mistaken, which his intense eagerness and anger seemed to support. He didn’t put much weight on what the servants had said to back up their master's story. Since Mr. Allworthy couldn’t bear the thought of cruelty and injustice for even a moment, he called for Tom and, after offering many kind and friendly words, said, “I believe, my dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you; I regret that you have been so harshly punished for this.” In the end, he gave Tom a little horse to make up for it, once again expressing his regret for what had happened.
Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than the generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell upon his knees, crying, “Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you are. Indeed I don't deserve it.” And at that very instant, from the fulness of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret; but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him what might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips.
Tom's guilt now showed on his face more than any punishment could. He could handle Thwackum's lashings better than Allworthy's kindness. Tears streamed down his face as he dropped to his knees, crying, “Oh, sir, you’re too good to me. You really are. I don't deserve this.” In that moment, his overflowing heart nearly revealed the secret; but the gamekeeper’s good sense reminded him of what could happen to the poor guy, and that thought kept him silent.
Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, “He had persisted in an untruth;” and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably bring the matter to light.
Thwackum did everything he could to convince Allworthy not to show any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, “He has stuck to a lie;” and suggested that a second punishment might likely reveal the truth.
But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment. He said, the boy had suffered enough already for concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a mistaken point of honour for so doing.
But Mr. Allworthy completely refused to agree to the experiment. He said that the boy had already suffered enough for hiding the truth, even if he was guilty, since he could have had no motive other than a misguided sense of honor for doing so.
“Honour!” cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, “mere stubbornness and obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can any honour exist independent of religion?”
“Honor!” cried Thwackum, with some passion, “just stubbornness and obstinacy! Can honor teach anyone to lie, or can any honor exist separate from religion?”
This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and there were present Mr Allworthy, Mr Thwackum, and a third gentleman, who now entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any further, we shall briefly introduce to our reader's acquaintance.
This conversation took place at the table right after dinner was finished; and present were Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a third gentleman who just joined the discussion, and whom we will briefly introduce to the reader before we go any further.
Chapter iii. — The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr Thwackum the divine; with a dispute concerning——
The name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr Allworthy's house, was Mr Square. His natural parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education. He was deeply read in the antients, and a profest master of all the works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had principally formed himself; sometimes according with the opinion of the one, and sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a profest Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
The name of this gentleman, who had been living for some time at Mr. Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural abilities weren't top-notch, but he had significantly improved them through a solid education. He was well-read in ancient texts and was a dedicated expert on all the works of Plato and Aristotle. He mainly shaped his views based on these great thinkers, sometimes aligning with one and sometimes with the other. In terms of morals, he was a self-proclaimed Platonist, and regarding religion, he leaned towards being an Aristotelian.
But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on the Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great way; indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the least attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character.
But even though he shaped his morals based on the Platonic model, he fully agreed with Aristotle's view of that great man as more of a philosopher or thinker than a lawmaker. He took this sentiment quite far, to the point of seeing all virtue as just a theoretical concept. It's true that he never explicitly stated this to anyone, at least as far as I've heard, but with a little attention to his actions, I can't help but believe it was his true opinion, as it would perfectly explain some contradictions that might otherwise seem puzzling in his character.
This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary, maintained that the human mind, since the fall, was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their discourses on morality never to mention the word goodness. The favourite phrase of the former, was the natural beauty of virtue; that of the latter, was the divine power of grace. The former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters by authority; but in doing this, he always used the scriptures and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the comment is of equal authority with the text.
This guy and Mr. Thwackum rarely met without arguing; their beliefs were completely opposite. Square believed that human nature was the ultimate expression of virtue and that vice was just a deviation from that nature, similar to how physical deformity is. Thwackum, on the other hand, argued that the human mind, since the fall, was just a pit of wickedness, only to be cleansed and saved by grace. They only agreed on one point: in all their discussions about morality, they never used the word goodness. The favorite phrase of the former was the natural beauty of virtue, while the latter preferred the divine power of grace. The former judged all actions by an unchanging standard of right and the eternal appropriateness of things; the latter evaluated everything by authority, but he always referenced the scriptures and their commentators, similar to how a lawyer relies on his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the commentary holds the same weight as the text.
After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to remember, that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer; viz., Can any honour exist independent on religion?
After this brief introduction, the reader will be pleased to recall that the parson ended his speech with a triumphant question, to which he expected no answer; namely, Can any honor exist independently of religion?
To this Square answered; that it was impossible to discourse philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first established: that there were scarce any two words of a more vague and uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned; for that there were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as concerning religion. “But,” says he, “if by honour you mean the true natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of any religion whatever. Nay,” added he, “you yourself will allow it may exist independent of all but one: so will a Mahometan, a Jew, and all the maintainers of all the different sects in the world.”
To this, Square replied that it was impossible to discuss words philosophically until their meaning was established first. He pointed out that there were hardly any two words with a vaguer or more uncertain meaning than the two he had mentioned; there were almost as many different opinions about honor as there were about religion. "But," he said, "if by honor you mean the true natural beauty of virtue, I will argue that it can exist independently of any religion at all. In fact," he added, "you yourself will agree that it can exist independent of all but one: so will a Muslim, a Jew, and all the followers of the various sects in the world."
Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all the enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not but that all the infidels and hereticks in the world would, if they could, confine honour to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions; “but honour,” says he, “is not therefore manifold, because there are many absurd opinions about it; nor is religion manifold, because there are various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion; and not only the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant religion, but the Church of England. And when I mention honour, I mean that mode of Divine grace which is not only consistent with, but dependent upon, this religion; and is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now to say that the honour I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the honour I could be supposed to mean, will uphold, much less dictate an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be conceived.”
Thwackum replied, arguing with the typical malice of all the enemies of the true Church. He said he had no doubt that all the infidels and heretics in the world would, if they could, restrict honor to their own ridiculous errors and damaging deceptions; “but honor,” he said, “is not diverse just because there are many silly opinions about it; nor is religion diverse because there are various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion; and not just the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion; and not just the Protestant religion, but the Church of England. And when I mention honor, I mean that form of Divine grace which is not only consistent with but also dependent on this religion; and is neither consistent with nor dependent on any other. Now to say that the honor I am referring to, which I thought was all the honor I could possibly mean, will support, let alone dictate, a falsehood, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to imagine.”
“I purposely avoided,” says Square, “drawing a conclusion which I thought evident from what I have said; but if you perceived it, I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have said, that we have different ideas of honour; or why do we not agree in the same terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and true virtue are almost synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which an untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think we are agreed; but that this honour can be said to be founded on religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any positive law—”
“I intentionally avoided,” says Square, “drawing a conclusion that I thought was obvious from what I’ve said; but if you noticed it, I’m sure you haven't tried to respond to it. However, putting aside the topic of religion, I think it's clear from what you’ve said that we have different views on honor; otherwise, why don’t we agree on the same definitions? I’ve claimed that true honor and true virtue are almost interchangeable terms, and both are based on the unchanging principle of right and the eternal nature of things; since a lie is completely opposed to this, it’s clear that true honor cannot support a lie. So I believe we’re on the same page here; however, for this honor to be considered based on religion, which comes before it, if by religion we mean any positive law—”
“I agree,” answered Thwackum, with great warmth, “with a man who asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr Allworthy, did I agree—?”
“I agree,” answered Thwackum, with great enthusiasm, “with a man who claims that honor comes before religion! Mr. Allworthy, did I agree—?”
He was proceeding when Mr Allworthy interposed, telling them very coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said nothing of true honour.—It is possible, however, he would not have easily quieted the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had not another matter now fallen out, which put a final end to the conversation at present.
He was moving forward when Mr. Allworthy interrupted, telling them rather coldly that they had both misunderstood his meaning because he hadn’t mentioned true honor. However, it’s possible he wouldn’t have easily calmed the arguing parties, who were getting just as heated, if another issue hadn’t come up that brought the conversation to a close for the time being.
Chapter iv. — Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise.
Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead them; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion.
Before I go any further, I want to clarify some misunderstandings that might arise from the enthusiasm of a few readers; I certainly don't want to offend anyone, especially those who are passionate about virtue or religion.
I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding or perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to cast any ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and which do, indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise him above the brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and by how much the better man you are yourself, by so much the more will you be inclined to believe me), that I would rather have buried the sentiments of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have done any injury to either of these glorious causes.
I hope no one will completely misunderstand or twist my words to misrepresent me as trying to mock the greatest virtues of humanity. These virtues truly purify and elevate the human heart, lifting us above the animal kingdom. I will boldly say this, reader: the better person you are, the more you will agree with me. I would rather have forgotten the feelings of these two individuals forever than harm either of these noble causes.
On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have taken upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false and pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous enemy; and I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have received more real discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest profligates or infidels could ever cast upon them: nay, farther, as these two, in their purity, are rightly called the bands of civil society, and are indeed the greatest of blessings; so when poisoned and corrupted with fraud, pretence, and affectation, they have become the worst of civil curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate the most cruel mischiefs to their own species.
Actually, I’ve decided to document the lives and actions of two of their false and pretended champions out of a sense of service. A traitorous friend is the most dangerous enemy; and I’ll say it clearly—both religion and virtue have endured more genuine discredit from hypocrites than the cleverest corrupt individuals or skeptics could ever inflict. Furthermore, since these two are rightly regarded, in their pure form, as the foundations of civil society and are indeed the greatest blessings, when they are tainted and corrupted by deceit, pretense, and insincerity, they can become the worst civil curses and enable people to commit the most vicious acts against their own kind.
Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed: my chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken together, and I should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the reader will be pleased to consider, that, as neither of these men were fools, they could not be supposed to have holden none but wrong principles, and to have uttered nothing but absurdities; what injustice, therefore, must I have done to their characters, had I selected only what was bad! And how horribly wretched and maimed must their arguments have appeared!
I don't doubt that this mockery will generally be accepted: my main concern is that, since these individuals often expressed true and valid ideas, the overall impression might lead to the assumption that I’m mocking them all equally. Now, I ask the reader to consider that since neither of these men were foolish, we can't assume they held only wrong beliefs or spoke only nonsense; how unfair would it be to their reputations if I only highlighted their flaws? And just imagine how distorted and incomplete their arguments would seem!
Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of them, which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected virtue, and Square, religion, in the composition of their several systems, and had not both utterly discarded all natural goodness of heart, they had never been represented as the objects of derision in this history; in which we will now proceed.
Overall, it's not about religion or virtue, but the lack of them, that is highlighted here. If Thwackum hadn’t ignored virtue so much, and Square hadn’t dismissed religion in their respective beliefs, and if both had valued genuine goodness of heart, they would never have been portrayed as objects of mockery in this story; which we will now continue.
This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the last chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom Jones, the consequence of which had been a bloody nose to the former; for though Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in size above the other's match, yet Tom was much his superior at the noble art of boxing.
This issue, which ended the debate mentioned in the last chapter, was simply a fight between Master Blifil and Tom Jones, resulting in a bloody nose for the former; because even though Master Blifil was younger, he was bigger than Tom, yet Tom was far better at boxing.
Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth; for besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum being always the second of the latter, would have been sufficient to deter him.
Tom, however, carefully steered clear of any interactions with that kid; because, even though Tommy Jones was a harmless guy despite his mischief, and genuinely liked Blifil, Mr. Thwackum, being always on the side of Blifil, would have been enough to keep him away.
But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard. Upon which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition, immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we have above remembered.
But as a certain author wisely says, no one is wise all the time; so it’s not surprising that a boy isn't either. During a disagreement at play between the two boys, Master Blifil called Tom a worthless bastard. In response, Tom, who had a bit of a temper, immediately caused the reaction in Master Blifil’s face that we mentioned earlier.
Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the tears galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle and the tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery, and wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom; who in his excuse only pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that Master Blifil had omitted.
Master Blifil, with blood streaming from his nose and tears rushing from his eyes, stood before his uncle and the imposing Thwackum. In this court, an indictment of assault, battery, and wounding was immediately brought against Tom, who in his defense only mentioned the provocation, which was actually the only thing Master Blifil had left out.
It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped his memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had made use of no such appellation; adding, “Heaven forbid such naughty words should ever come out of his mouth!”
It’s definitely possible that he might have forgotten about this situation; because in his response, he strongly insisted that he had never used such a term, adding, “God forbid such bad words ever come out of my mouth!”
Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the words. Upon which Master Blifil said, “It is no wonder. Those who will tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master such a wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my face.”
Tom, despite going against all rules, confirmed what he said. To this, Master Blifil replied, “It’s no surprise. Those who will tell one lie won’t hesitate to tell another. If I had lied to my master as badly as you have, I would be embarrassed to show my face.”
“What fib, child?” cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.
“What lie, kid?” asks Thwackum with interest.
“Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed the partridge; but he knows” (here he burst into a flood of tears), “yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said—yes you did—deny it if you can, that you would not have confest the truth, though master had cut you to pieces.”
“Why, he told you that nobody was with him when he shot the partridge; but he knows” (here he burst into tears), “yes, he knows, because he admitted it to me, that Black George the gamekeeper was there. No, he said—yes you did—deny it if you can, that you wouldn’t have confessed the truth, even if the master had cut you to pieces.”
At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out in triumph—“Oh! ho! this is your mistaken notion of honour! This is the boy who was not to be whipped again!” But Mr Allworthy, with a more gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, and said, “Is this true, child? How came you to persist so obstinately in a falsehood?”
At this, fire flashed in Thwackum's eyes, and he shouted in triumph—“Oh! So this is your misguided idea of honor! This is the boy who was never supposed to be whipped again!” But Mr. Allworthy, with a gentler expression, turned to the boy and said, “Is this true, child? Why did you insist so stubbornly on a lie?”
Tom said, “He scorned a lie as much as any one: but he thought his honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had promised the poor fellow to conceal him: which,” he said, “he thought himself farther obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the gentleman's manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with his persuasions.” He said, “This was the whole truth of the matter, and he would take his oath of it;” and concluded with very passionately begging Mr Allworthy “to have compassion on the poor fellow's family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and the other had been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did. Indeed, sir,” said he, “it could hardly be called a lie that I told; for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I should have gone alone after the birds; nay, I did go at first, and he only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be punished; take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor George.”
Tom said, “He hated lying as much as anyone, but he thought his honor required him to act this way because he promised the poor guy to keep him hidden. Plus,” he said, “he felt even more obligated since the gamekeeper asked him not to go onto the gentleman's land, and eventually he went himself after being persuaded.” He stated, “This is the whole truth, and I’d swear to it;” and ended by passionately asking Mr. Allworthy “to have mercy on the poor guy’s family, especially since he alone was at fault, while the other had a hard time being convinced to do what he did. Honestly, sir,” he added, “what I said could hardly be considered a lie; the poor guy was completely innocent of everything. I would have gone alone after the birds; in fact, I did at first, and he just followed me to prevent further trouble. Please, sir, let me be the one punished; take my little horse away again; but please, sir, forgive poor George.”
Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.
Mr. Allworthy paused for a moment and then sent the boys away, urging them to get along better and live peacefully together.
Chapter v. — The opinions of the divine and the philosopher concerning the two boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and other matters.
It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil preserved his companion from a good lashing; for the offence of the bloody nose would have been of itself sufficient cause for Thwackum to have proceeded to correction; but now this was totally absorbed in the consideration of the other matter; and with regard to this, Mr Allworthy declared privately, he thought the boy deserved reward rather than punishment, so that Thwackum's hand was withheld by a general pardon.
It's likely that by revealing this secret, which was shared with him in complete confidence, young Blifil saved his friend from getting a serious beating; the offense of the bloody nose alone would have been enough for Thwackum to take action. However, Thwackum was completely focused on the other issue, and in relation to that, Mr. Allworthy privately stated that he believed the boy deserved a reward rather than punishment, so Thwackum's hand was held back by a general pardon.
Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed against this weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked lenity. To remit the punishment of such crimes was, he said, to encourage them. He enlarged much on the correction of children, and quoted many texts from Solomon, and others; which being to be found in so many other books, shall not be found here. He then applied himself to the vice of lying, on which head he was altogether as learned as he had been on the other.
Thwackum, whose thoughts were full of punishment, shouted against what he called this weak and, as he dared to label it, wicked leniency. To lessen the punishment for such crimes was, he argued, to encourage them. He went on extensively about the discipline of children, quoting many passages from Solomon and others; since these can be found in many other sources, I won't include them here. He then turned his attention to the issue of lying, on which he was just as knowledgeable as he had been on the previous topic.
Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the behaviour of Tom with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. He owned there was something which at first sight appeared like fortitude in the action; but as fortitude was a virtue, and falsehood a vice, they could by no means agree or unite together. He added, that as this was in some measure to confound virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr Thwackum's consideration, whether a larger castigation might not be laid on upon the account.
Square said he had been trying to make sense of Tom's behavior in relation to his idea of perfect virtue, but he couldn’t. He admitted there was something that at first seemed like courage in the action, but since courage is a virtue and dishonesty is a vice, they could not possibly go together. He added that as this somewhat blurred the lines between virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr. Thwackum's consideration whether a stronger punishment should be applied because of it.
As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so were they no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To bring truth to light, was by the parson asserted to be the duty of every religious man; and by the philosopher this was declared to be highly conformable with the rule of right, and the eternal and unalterable fitness of things.
As both of these educated men agreed in criticizing Jones, they were equally united in praising Master Blifil. The pastor claimed that bringing the truth to light was the responsibility of every religious person, and the philosopher stated that this was in perfect alignment with the principles of what is right and the eternal and unchanging nature of things.
All this, however, weighed very little with Mr Allworthy. He could not be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of Jones. There was something within his own breast with which the invincible fidelity which that youth had preserved, corresponded much better than it had done with the religion of Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. He therefore strictly ordered the former of these gentlemen to abstain from laying violent hands on Tom for what had past. The pedagogue was obliged to obey those orders; but not without great reluctance, and frequent mutterings that the boy would be certainly spoiled.
All of this, however, didn’t weigh much on Mr. Allworthy. He couldn’t be convinced to sign the warrant for Jones’s execution. There was something inside him that resonated more with the unwavering loyalty that the young man had shown than with Thwackum’s religious views or Square’s sense of virtue. He therefore ordered the former to stay away from Tom and not to take any harsh actions against him for what had happened. The teacher had to follow these orders, but not without a lot of reluctance and frequent grumblings that the boy would definitely end up spoiled.
Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more severity. He presently summoned that poor fellow before him, and after many bitter remonstrances, paid him his wages, and dismist him from his service; for Mr Allworthy rightly observed, that there was a great difference between being guilty of a falsehood to excuse yourself, and to excuse another. He likewise urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible severity against this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to undergo so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have prevented it by making the discovery himself.
Towards the gamekeeper, the good man was harsher. He soon called that poor guy in front of him and after a lot of angry complaints, paid him his wages and let him go; Mr. Allworthy rightly pointed out that there’s a big difference between lying to defend yourself and lying to defend someone else. He also emphasized that the main reason for his strictness towards this man was that he had shamefully allowed Tom Jones to face such a severe punishment for his sake, when he should have stopped it by coming forward with the truth himself.
When this story became public, many people differed from Square and Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads on the occasion. Master Blifil was generally called a sneaking rascal, a poor-spirited wretch, with other epithets of the like kind; whilst Tom was honoured with the appellations of a brave lad, a jolly dog, and an honest fellow. Indeed, his behaviour to Black George much ingratiated him with all the servants; for though that fellow was before universally disliked, yet he was no sooner turned away than he was as universally pitied; and the friendship and gallantry of Tom Jones was celebrated by them all with the highest applause; and they condemned Master Blifil as openly as they durst, without incurring the danger of offending his mother. For all this, however, poor Tom smarted in the flesh; for though Thwackum had been inhibited to exercise his arm on the foregoing account, yet, as the proverb says, It is easy to find a stick, &c. So was it easy to find a rod; and, indeed, the not being able to find one was the only thing which could have kept Thwackum any long time from chastising poor Jones.
When this story came out, a lot of people disagreed with Square and Thwackum about how the two boys acted during the incident. Master Blifil was mostly called a sneaky coward, a spineless wretch, and other similar names, while Tom was praised as a brave kid, a fun-loving guy, and a good person. In fact, his kindness towards Black George earned him the respect of all the servants; even though everyone had disliked Black George before, as soon as he was let go, they all felt sorry for him. Tom Jones's friendship and bravery were praised by everyone, and they criticized Master Blifil as much as they could without risking offense to his mother. Despite all this support, poor Tom still suffered; although Thwackum had been told not to hit him for that reason, it was, as the saying goes, easy to find a stick. And indeed, the only thing that stopped Thwackum from punishing poor Jones for a long time was the fact that he couldn't find a rod.
Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to the pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have had his share; but though Mr Allworthy had given him frequent orders to make no difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as kind and gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, nay even barbarous, to the other. To say the truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master's affections; partly by the profound respect he always showed his person, but much more by the decent reverence with which he received his doctrine; for he had got by heart, and frequently repeated, his phrases, and maintained all his master's religious principles with a zeal which was surprizing in one so young, and which greatly endeared him to the worthy preceptor.
If the simple joy of the sport had been the only motivation for the teacher, it's likely that Master Blifil would have received his fair share as well. However, even though Mr. Allworthy had repeatedly instructed him to treat the boys the same, Thwackum was entirely kind and gentle to this student, while being harsh, even cruel, to the other. To be honest, Blifil had earned his master's affection greatly; partly because of the deep respect he always showed him, but even more because of the proper reverence with which he accepted his lessons. He had memorized and often recited his phrases and passionately supported all his master's religious principles, which was surprising for someone so young and endeared him greatly to the dedicated teacher.
Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward tokens of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to bow at his master's approach; but was altogether as unmindful both of his master's precepts and example. He was indeed a thoughtless, giddy youth, with little sobriety in his manners, and less in his countenance; and would often very impudently and indecently laugh at his companion for his serious behaviour.
Tom Jones, on the other hand, not only lacked the usual signs of respect, often forgetting to take off his hat or bow when his master approached, but he was also completely oblivious to his master's teachings and example. He was truly a careless, playful young man, with little seriousness in his behavior and even less in his expression; he would often rudely and inappropriately laugh at his friend for his serious demeanor.
Mr Square had the same reason for his preference of the former lad; for Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned discourses which this gentleman would sometimes throw away upon him, than to those of Thwackum. He once ventured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at another time said, he believed there was no rule in the world capable of making such a man as his father (for so Mr Allworthy suffered himself to be called).
Mr. Square had the same reason for his preference for the former boy; Tom Jones paid no more attention to the learned talks that this gentleman would sometimes share with him than he did to those of Thwackum. He once dared to make a joke about the rule of right; and another time, he said he believed there was no rule in the world that could turn someone like his father (as Mr. Allworthy allowed himself to be called) into anything else.
Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen to recommend himself at one and the same time to both these opposites. With one he was all religion, with the other he was all virtue. And when both were present, he was profoundly silent, which both interpreted in his favour and in their own.
Master Blifil, on the other hand, was clever enough at sixteen to win over both of these opposites at the same time. With one group, he was all about religion, and with the other, he was all about virtue. And when they were both around, he stayed completely silent, which both imagined was a good thing for him and for themselves.
Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to their faces; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind their backs to Allworthy; before whom, when they two were alone, and his uncle commended any religious or virtuous sentiment (for many such came constantly from him) he seldom failed to ascribe it to the good instructions he had received from either Thwackum or Square; for he knew his uncle repeated all such compliments to the persons for whose use they were meant; and he found by experience the great impressions which they made on the philosopher, as well as on the divine: for, to say the truth, there is no kind of flattery so irresistible as this, at second hand.
Blifil was not satisfied with just flattering both gentlemen to their faces; he often took the opportunity to praise them behind their backs to Allworthy. Whenever the two were alone and his uncle praised any religious or virtuous sentiment (since he frequently did), Blifil rarely missed the chance to credit it to the teachings he received from either Thwackum or Square. He knew his uncle would pass on all those compliments to the people they were aimed at, and he had learned from experience how much they impressed both the philosopher and the clergyman. The truth is, there's no kind of flattery more powerful than this, coming from a second source.
The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely grateful all those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr Allworthy himself, as they so loudly resounded the praise of that singular plan of education which he had laid down; for this worthy man having observed the imperfect institution of our public schools, and the many vices which boys were there liable to learn, had resolved to educate his nephew, as well as the other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in his own house; where he thought their morals would escape all that danger of being corrupted to which they would be unavoidably exposed in any public school or university.
The young man quickly realized how grateful all the praise for his teachers was to Mr. Allworthy himself, as it loudly celebrated the unique education plan he had created. This decent man had noticed the flaws in our public schools and the many bad habits boys could pick up there, so he decided to educate his nephew and the other boy he had essentially taken in at his own home. He believed their morals would be protected from the corruption they would inevitably face in any public school or university.
Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the tuition of a private tutor, Mr Thwackum was recommended to him for that office, by a very particular friend, of whose understanding Mr Allworthy had a great opinion, and in whose integrity he placed much confidence. This Thwackum was fellow of a college, where he almost entirely resided; and had a great reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of manners. And these were doubtless the qualifications by which Mr Allworthy's friend had been induced to recommend him; though indeed this friend had some obligations to Thwackum's family, who were the most considerable persons in a borough which that gentleman represented in parliament.
Having decided to hire a private tutor for these boys, Mr. Thwackum was recommended for the position by a very close friend, whom Mr. Allworthy greatly respected for his intelligence and trusted for his integrity. Thwackum was a fellow at a college where he mostly lived and had a strong reputation for his knowledge, piety, and good behavior. These were undoubtedly the traits that led Mr. Allworthy's friend to suggest him; however, it's worth noting that this friend had some ties to Thwackum’s family, who were prominent figures in a borough that the gentleman represented in parliament.
Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to Allworthy; and indeed he perfectly answered the character which had been given of him. Upon longer acquaintance, however, and more intimate conversation, this worthy man saw infirmities in the tutor, which he could have wished him to have been without; though as those seemed greatly overbalanced by his good qualities, they did not incline Mr Allworthy to part with him: nor would they indeed have justified such a proceeding; for the reader is greatly mistaken, if he conceives that Thwackum appeared to Mr Allworthy in the same light as he doth to him in this history; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines that the most intimate acquaintance which he himself could have had with that divine, would have informed him of those things which we, from our inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of readers who, from such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom or penetration of Mr Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they make a very bad and ungrateful use of that knowledge which we have communicated to them.
Thwackum, upon his arrival, was very likable to Allworthy, and he really matched the description that had been given of him. However, as their relationship grew and they had more in-depth conversations, this good man noticed some flaws in the tutor that he wished weren’t there. Still, since those flaws were greatly outweighed by his good qualities, Mr. Allworthy was not inclined to let him go; nor would it have been justified to do so. The reader is very mistaken if they think Thwackum appeared to Mr. Allworthy in the same way he does in this story; and they are equally misled if they believe that even the closest acquaintance Mr. Allworthy could have had with that divine would have revealed the truths that we, through our insights, are able to uncover and explain. Regarding readers who condemn Mr. Allworthy's wisdom or insight based on such misconceptions, I will not hesitate to say that they are misusing the knowledge we have shared with them in a very unfair and ungrateful manner.
These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served greatly to palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our good man no less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, that the different exuberancies of these gentlemen would correct their different imperfections; and that from both, especially with his assistance, the two lads would derive sufficient precepts of true religion and virtue. If the event happened contrary to his expectations, this possibly proceeded from some fault in the plan itself; which the reader hath my leave to discover, if he can: for we do not pretend to introduce any infallible characters into this history; where we hope nothing will be found which hath never yet been seen in human nature.
These apparent mistakes in Thwackum's beliefs helped to lessen the opposing mistakes in Square's, which our good man also recognized and criticized. He believed that the unique strengths of these two would balance out their individual flaws, and that, with his guidance, the two boys would gain enough lessons in true faith and virtue. If things didn’t turn out as he hoped, it might be due to some flaw in the plan itself; readers are welcome to figure that out if they can, because we don’t claim to introduce any flawless characters into this story; we hope nothing will be found here that hasn’t already been seen in human nature.
To return therefore: the reader will not, I think, wonder that the different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, produced the different effects of which he hath already seen some instance; and besides this, there was another reason for the conduct of the philosopher and the pedagogue; but this being matter of great importance, we shall reveal it in the next chapter.
To return to the point: I don’t think the reader will be surprised that the different behaviors of the two boys mentioned earlier led to the different outcomes that you’ve already seen some examples of. Besides this, there was another reason for the actions of the philosopher and the teacher; since this is a matter of great significance, we will explain it in the next chapter.
Chapter vi. — Containing a better reason still for the before-mentioned opinions.
It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, who have lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of this history, had, from their first arrival at Mr Allworthy's house, taken so great an affection, the one to his virtue, the other to his religion, that they had meditated the closest alliance with him.
It should be noted that those two knowledgeable individuals, who have recently played a significant role in this story, had developed a strong affection—one for his character and the other for his beliefs—since their arrival at Mr. Allworthy's house, and they had considered forming a close bond with him.
For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, whom, though we have not for some time made any mention of her, the reader, we trust, hath not forgot. Mrs Blifil was indeed the object to which they both aspired.
For this reason, they had fixated on that attractive widow, whom, although we haven't mentioned in a while, we trust the reader hasn't forgotten. Mrs. Blifil was indeed the goal they both aimed for.
It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have commemorated at Mr Allworthy's house, three of them should fix their inclinations on a lady who was never greatly celebrated for her beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little descended into the vale of years; but in reality bosom friends, and intimate acquaintance, have a kind of natural propensity to particular females at the house of a friend—viz., to his grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin, when they are rich; and to his wife, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, or servant-maid, if they should be handsome.
It might seem surprising that, out of the four people we’ve talked about at Mr. Allworthy’s house, three of them would be drawn to a woman who was never particularly known for her beauty and who was, on top of that, a bit older now. However, in reality, close friends and familiar acquaintances tend to have a natural attraction to certain women at a friend’s home—specifically, his grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin if they’re wealthy; and to his wife, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, or maid if they happen to be attractive.
We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons of such characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, would undertake a matter of this kind, which hath been a little censured by some rigid moralists, before they had thoroughly examined it, and considered whether it was (as Shakespear phrases it) “Stuff o' th' conscience,” or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that to covet your neighbour's sister is nowhere forbidden: and he knew it was a rule in the construction of all laws, that “Expressum facit cessare tacitum.” The sense of which is, “When a lawgiver sets down plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him mean what we please ourselves.” As some instances of women, therefore, are mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our neighbour's goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be lawful. And as to Square, who was in his person what is called a jolly fellow, or a widow's man, he easily reconciled his choice to the eternal fitness of things.
We wouldn’t want our readers to think that people like Thwackum and Square would take on a matter like this, which has been critiqued by some strict moralists, without thoroughly examining it first and considering if it was, as Shakespeare puts it, “Stuff o' th' conscience,” or not. Thwackum felt encouraged to pursue this after reflecting that desiring your neighbor's sister isn’t explicitly forbidden; plus, he knew it’s a legal principle that “Expressum facit cessare tacitum.” This means, “When a lawmaker clearly states their full intent, we can’t interpret their words in a way that suits us.” Since there are examples of women mentioned in the divine law that prohibits coveting your neighbor's goods, but a sister is not mentioned, he concluded it was acceptable. As for Square, who was what you’d call a fun-loving guy or a widow’s man, he easily justified his choice as fitting with the eternal nature of things.
Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking every opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, they apprehended one certain method was, by giving her son the constant preference to the other lad; and as they conceived the kindness and affection which Mr Allworthy showed the latter, must be highly disagreeable to her, they doubted not but the laying hold on all occasions to degrade and vilify him, would be highly pleasing to her; who, as she hated the boy, must love all those who did him any hurt. In this Thwackum had the advantage; for while Square could only scarify the poor lad's reputation, he could flea his skin; and, indeed, he considered every lash he gave him as a compliment paid to his mistress; so that he could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old flogging line, “Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod AMEM. I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love.” And this, indeed, he often had in his mouth, or rather, according to the old phrase, never more properly applied, at his fingers' ends.
Now, as both of these men were eager to impress the widow, they figured out one sure way was to constantly favor her son over the other boy. They believed that the kindness and affection Mr. Allworthy showed to the latter must annoy her, so they had no doubt that taking every chance to put him down would be very pleasing to her since she hated the boy and would appreciate anyone who hurt him. In this, Thwackum had the upper hand; while Square could only damage the poor kid's reputation, Thwackum could really hurt him. In fact, he thought every lash he gave him was a compliment to his mistress, so he could quite appropriately quote this old saying: “Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod AMEM. I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love.” And he often had this saying at the tip of his tongue, or, more accurately, at his fingertips.
For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as we have seen above, in their opinion concerning the two lads; this being, indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring on any point; for, beside the difference of their principles, they had both long ago strongly suspected each other's design, and hated one another with no little degree of inveteracy.
For this reason, mainly, the two gentlemen agreed, as we noted earlier, about the two boys; this was actually nearly the only time they agreed on anything. Aside from their differing beliefs, they had both long suspected each other's intentions and harbored a considerable amount of deep-seated hatred for one another.
This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate successes; for Mrs Blifil knew what they would be at long before they imagined it; or, indeed, intended she should: for they proceeded with great caution, lest she should be offended, and acquaint Mr Allworthy. But they had no reason for any such fear; she was well enough pleased with a passion, of which she intended none should have any fruits but herself. And the only fruits she designed for herself were, flattery and courtship; for which purpose she soothed them by turns, and a long time equally. She was, indeed, rather inclined to favour the parson's principles; but Square's person was more agreeable to her eye, for he was a comely man; whereas the pedagogue did in countenance very nearly resemble that gentleman, who, in the Harlot's Progress, is seen correcting the ladies in Bridewell.
This mutual animosity was heightened by their alternating successes; Mrs. Blifil knew their intentions long before they realized it or intended for her to know. They approached with caution, worried she might get upset and tell Mr. Allworthy. But they had no reason to fear; she was quite happy to have a passion that she intended to keep for herself. The only benefits she sought were flattery and courtship, so she flattered them in turn for a long time. She was somewhat inclined to favor the parson's beliefs, but Square's appearance was more appealing to her, as he was a handsome man; whereas the pedagogue's face closely resembled that gentleman in the Harlot's Progress seen correcting the ladies in Bridewell.
Whether Mrs Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of marriage, or disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it proceeded, I will not determine; but she could never be brought to listen to any second proposals. However, she at last conversed with Square with such a degree of intimacy that malicious tongues began to whisper things of her, to which, as well for the sake of the lady, as that they were highly disagreeable to the rule of right and the fitness of things, we will give no credit, and therefore shall not blot our paper with them. The pedagogue, 'tis certain, whipped on, without getting a step nearer to his journey's end.
Whether Mrs. Blifil was tired of the delights of marriage, put off by its downsides, or for some other reason, I won't say; but she could never be persuaded to consider any further proposals. Eventually, she did talk to Square with such familiarity that gossipers started to spread rumors about her. For the sake of the lady and because these rumors were highly inappropriate and unjust, we won’t give them any credibility and won’t dirty our writing with them. It’s clear that the teacher kept pushing forward without getting any closer to his destination.
Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square discovered much sooner than himself. Mrs Blifil (as, perhaps, the reader may have formerly guessed) was not over and above pleased with the behaviour of her husband; nay, to be honest, she absolutely hated him, till his death at last a little reconciled him to her affections. It will not be therefore greatly wondered at, if she had not the most violent regard to the offspring she had by him. And, in fact, she had so little of this regard, that in his infancy she seldom saw her son, or took any notice of him; and hence she acquiesced, after a little reluctance, in all the favours which Mr Allworthy showered on the foundling; whom the good man called his own boy, and in all things put on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This acquiescence in Mrs Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the family, as a mark of her condescension to her brother's humour, and she was imagined by all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate the foundling in her heart; nay, the more civility she showed him, the more they conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes she was laying for his ruin: for as they thought it her interest to hate him, it was very difficult for her to persuade them she did not.
He had indeed made a big mistake, and Square realized it much earlier than he did. Mrs. Blifil (as the reader might have guessed) was not particularly happy with her husband's behavior; in fact, to be honest, she absolutely loathed him, although his death eventually softened her feelings a bit. It’s not surprising, then, that she didn’t have much love for the child he fathered. In reality, she cared so little for her son that during his infancy, she rarely saw him or paid him any attention; thus, she ended up accepting, after some reluctance, all the favors that Mr. Allworthy lavished on the foundling, whom the good man referred to as his own son and treated equally to Master Blifil. This acceptance by Mrs. Blifil was viewed by the neighbors and the family as a sign of her yielding to her brother's whims, and everyone, including Thwackum and Square, assumed she secretly despised the foundling; indeed, the more courteous she was to him, the more they believed she detested him and was plotting his downfall. They thought it was in her best interest to hate him, making it very hard for her to convince them otherwise.
Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had more than once slily caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr Allworthy, who was an enemy to this exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any such orders concerning young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed upon Square. In reality, though she certainly hated her own son—of which, however monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a singular instance—she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward compliance, to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the favour shown by Mr Allworthy to the foundling. She frequently complained of this behind her brother's back, and very sharply censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square; nay, she would throw it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a little quarrel, or miff, as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.
Thwackum was even more convinced of his opinion because she had more than once secretly encouraged him to whip Tom Jones while Mr. Allworthy, who was against such punishment, was away; yet she had never given any similar orders regarding young Blifil. This also fooled Square. In truth, although she really hated her own son—which, as strange as it seems, I’m told isn’t an uncommon case—she seemed, despite her outward compliance, to be quite unhappy about all the attention Mr. Allworthy gave to the foundling. She often complained about this behind her brother’s back and criticized him sharply for it, both to Thwackum and Square; in fact, she would even confront Allworthy about it during any little conflict, or argument, as it’s commonly called, that arose between them.
However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry of temper which greatly recommends men to women, this disinclination which she had discovered to him when a child, by degrees abated, and at last she so evidently demonstrated her affection to him to be much stronger than what she bore her own son, that it was impossible to mistake her any longer. She was so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered such satisfaction and delight in his company, that before he was eighteen years old he was become a rival to both Square and Thwackum; and what is worse, the whole country began to talk as loudly of her inclination to Tom, as they had before done of that which she had shown to Square: on which account the philosopher conceived the most implacable hatred for our poor heroe.
However, when Tom grew up and showed signs of that charm and good nature that appeal to women, the reluctance she had felt towards him as a child gradually faded. Eventually, she made it clear that her feelings for him were much stronger than those for her own son, making it impossible to overlook. She was so eager to see him often and showed such joy and pleasure in his company that by the time he turned eighteen, he had become a rival to both Square and Thwackum. What made it worse was that the entire town began to gossip about her feelings for Tom, just as they had previously done about her affection for Square. As a result, the philosopher developed an intense hatred for our poor hero.
Chapter vii. — In which the author himself makes his appearance on the stage.
Though Mr Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things in a disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public voice, which seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it rings in the ears of all the neighbourhood; yet was this affection of Mrs Blifil to Tom, and the preference which she too visibly gave him to her own son, of the utmost disadvantage to that youth.
Though Mr. Allworthy wasn’t quick to judge things negatively on his own and was unaware of the public opinion that rarely affects a brother or a husband, even as it echoes through the neighborhood, Mrs. Blifil’s affection for Tom and the obvious preference she showed him over her own son were very harmful to that young man.
For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr Allworthy's mind, that nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. To be unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if there was no demerit to counterpoise it, to turn the scale of that good man's pity, and to engage his friendship and his benefaction.
Mr. Allworthy had such a compassionate nature that only the hard edge of justice could ever temper it. Being unfortunate in any way was enough, as long as there was no wrongdoing to balance it out, to sway that good man's sympathy and win his friendship and support.
When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely detested (for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that account only, to look with an eye of compassion upon him; and what the effects of compassion are, in good and benevolent minds, I need not here explain to most of my readers.
When he clearly noticed that Master Blifil was completely disliked (because he was) by his own mother, he started to feel compassion for him, and we all know how compassion affects kind-hearted people.
Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth through the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the glass inverted, so that they became scarce perceptible. And this perhaps the amiable temper of pity may make commendable; but the next step the weakness of human nature alone must excuse; for he no sooner perceived that preference which Mrs Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however innocent) began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers. This, it is true, would of itself alone never have been able to eradicate Jones from his bosom; but it was greatly injurious to him, and prepared Mr Allworthy's mind for those impressions which afterwards produced the mighty events that will be contained hereafter in this history; and to which, it must be confest, the unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness, wildness, and want of caution, too much contributed.
From then on, he saw every sign of virtue in the youth through a magnified lens and viewed all his faults through a reversed glass, making them barely noticeable. This might, perhaps, be deemed commendable due to the kind nature of pity; however, the next step can only be excused by the frailty of human nature. As soon as he noticed the preference Mrs. Blifil showed for Tom, that poor youth (innocent as he was) began to lose favor in his eyes as he rose in hers. True, this alone would not have been enough to erase Jones from his heart; but it was quite damaging to him and prepared Mr. Allworthy's mind for the impressions that eventually led to the significant events that will unfold later in this story. It must be acknowledged that the unfortunate lad, through his own impulsiveness, recklessness, and lack of caution, contributed too much to this situation.
In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly understood, afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed youths who shall hereafter be our readers; for they may here find, that goodness of heart, and openness of temper, though these may give them great comfort within, and administer to an honest pride in their own minds, will by no means, alas! do their business in the world. Prudence and circumspection are necessary even to the best of men. They are indeed, as it were, a guard to Virtue, without which she can never be safe. It is not enough that your designs, nay, that your actions, are intrinsically good; you must take care they shall appear so. If your inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care to blacken it so, that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it, and to discern the beauties within. Let this, my young readers, be your constant maxim, that no man can be good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of prudence; nor will Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the outward ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, my worthy disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I hope, find sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages.
In sharing some examples of these, we will, if understood correctly, offer a very useful lesson to the well-meaning young people who will read this in the future. They will see that having a good heart and an open nature may provide them great inner comfort and foster a sense of pride, but unfortunately, these qualities alone won’t be enough to succeed in the world. Even the best of us need to be wise and careful. They are, in a sense, protectors of Virtue, without which she can never be truly safe. It’s not enough for your intentions or actions to be good; you must also ensure that they seem good. Even if your inner self is beautiful, you need to maintain a good external appearance. This must always be a priority, or spite and jealousy will make it look bad, to the point where even someone as wise and good as Allworthy won’t be able to see the beauty within. Let this be your guiding principle, young readers: no one is good enough to ignore the rules of prudence; Virtue won’t appear beautiful unless she is adorned with the outward signs of decency and respectability. Pay close attention to this lesson, my worthy students, and I hope you will find it strongly supported by examples in the chapters that follow.
I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am discovering the rocks on which innocence and goodness often split, I may not be misunderstood to recommend the very means to my worthy readers, by which I intend to show them they will be undone. And this, as I could not prevail on any of my actors to speak, I myself was obliged to declare.
I apologize for this brief appearance, almost like a chorus, on stage. Honestly, it's mainly for my own benefit, so that while I'm identifying the pitfalls that innocence and goodness often fall into, I won’t be misunderstood as suggesting the very methods I'm highlighting to my valued readers, which actually lead to their downfall. Since I couldn't convince any of my actors to speak, I had to say it myself.
Chapter viii. — A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a good-natured disposition in Tom Jones.
The reader may remember that Mr Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which he imagined he had suffered innocently.
The reader may remember that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom Jones a small horse as a sort of reward for the unfair punishment he believed he had endured.
This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a neighbouring fair, and sold him.
This horse Tom had for over six months, and then he rode him to a nearby fair and sold him.
At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had done with the money for which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would not tell him.
Upon his return, when Thwackum asked him what he had done with the money from the horse sale, he openly stated that he wouldn't tell him.
“Oho!” says Thwackum, “you will not! then I will have it out of your br—h;” that being the place to which he always applied for information on every doubtful occasion.
“Oho!” says Thwackum, “you won't! Then I will get it out of your br—h;” that being the place he always turned to for information in every uncertain situation.
Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and everything prepared for execution, when Mr Allworthy, entering the room, gave the criminal a reprieve, and took him with him into another apartment; where, being alone with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum had before asked him.
Tom was now riding on the back of a footman, and everything was set for the execution when Mr. Allworthy walked into the room, granted the criminal a reprieve, and took him into another room. Once they were alone, he asked Tom the same question that Thwackum had asked him before.
Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other answer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able to pay him for all his barbarities.
Tom replied that he could not deny him anything out of duty; but as for that tyrannical jerk, he would only respond with a club, which he hoped to use soon to get back at him for all his brutalities.
Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his indecent and disrespectful expressions concerning his master; but much more for his avowing an intention of revenge. He threatened him with the entire loss of his favour, if he ever heard such another word from his mouth; for, he said, he would never support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the like declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in which that youth was not over-sincere; for he really meditated some return for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands of the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr Allworthy to express a concern for his resentment against Thwackum; and then the good man, after some wholesome admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows:—
Mr. Allworthy firmly reprimanded the boy for his inappropriate and disrespectful comments about his master, but even more so for expressing a desire for revenge. He warned him that he would completely lose his support if he ever heard anything like that again; because, he said, he would never help or associate with someone who behaved so badly. Through these statements and others like them, he got Tom to feel a bit guilty, though that feeling wasn't completely genuine; he was actually plotting some sort of payback for all the punishments he had suffered at the hands of the teacher. However, Mr. Allworthy insisted that he show concern for his anger towards Thwackum; after a few wise words, he let him continue, which he did as follows:—
“Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all the world: I know the great obligations I have to you, and should detest myself if I thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am sure he could tell you how fond I was of your present; for I had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, sir, it went to my heart to part with him; nor would I have sold him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the same: for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. What would you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the occasion of them? Indeed, sir, there never was any misery like theirs.”
"Honestly, my dear sir, I love and respect you more than anyone else in the world. I understand the immense debt of gratitude I owe you, and I would hate myself if I believed I could ever be ungrateful. If the little horse you gave me could talk, I’m sure he’d tell you how much I appreciated your gift; I derived more joy from feeding him than from riding him. It truly broke my heart to part with him; I wouldn’t have sold him for any reason other than what I did. I’m sure you, sir, would have done the same in my situation because no one has ever felt the hardships of others so deeply. How would you feel, dear sir, if you thought you were the cause of their suffering? Truly, sir, there has never been misery like theirs."
“Like whose, child?” says Allworthy: “What do you mean?”
“Whose are you talking about, kid?” says Allworthy. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, sir!” answered Tom, “your poor gamekeeper, with all his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been perishing with all the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not bear to see these poor wretches naked and starving, and at the same time know myself to have been the occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it, sir; upon my soul, I could not.” [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thus proceeded.] “It was to save them from absolute destruction I parted with your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for it: I sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the money.”
“Oh, sir!” Tom replied, “your unfortunate gamekeeper and his large family have been suffering since you let him go, enduring the hardships of cold and hunger. I couldn’t bear to see those poor people naked and starving while knowing that I was the cause of their misery. I just couldn’t take it, sir; honestly, I couldn’t.” [At this point, tears streamed down his cheeks as he continued.] “I sold your precious gift to save them from total ruin, despite how much I valued it: I sold the horse for them, and they received every penny of the money.”
Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him for the future to apply to him in cases of distress, rather than to use extraordinary means of relieving them himself.
Mr. Allworthy stood quiet for a few moments, and before he said anything, tears filled his eyes. Finally, he let Tom go with a gentle reprimand, suggesting that in the future, he should come to him in times of trouble instead of trying to handle things in unusual ways on his own.
This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between Thwackum and Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr Allworthy's face, who had intended to punish the fellow for his disobedience. He said, in some instances, what the world called charity appeared to him to be opposing the will of the Almighty, which had marked some particular persons for destruction; and that this was in like manner acting in opposition to Mr Allworthy; concluding, as usual, with a hearty recommendation of birch.
This incident later sparked a lot of debate between Thwackum and Square. Thwackum argued that this was disrespecting Mr. Allworthy, who intended to punish the guy for his disobedience. He claimed that, in some cases, what people called charity seemed to him to be going against the will of the Almighty, who had marked certain individuals for destruction; and that this was similar to acting against Mr. Allworthy. He ended, as always, with a strong suggestion of using birch.
Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps to Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr Allworthy, who seemed very much to approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged on this occasion, as I am convinced most of my readers will be much abler advocates for poor Jones, it would be impertinent to relate it. Indeed it was not difficult to reconcile to the rule of right an action which it would have been impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong.
Square argued strongly on the other side, possibly against Thwackum, or in agreement with Mr. Allworthy, who appeared to really support what Jones had done. Regarding what he argued this time, since I believe most of my readers will be much better advocates for poor Jones, it would be pointless to mention it. In fact, it wasn't hard to align an action with the rule of right that would have been impossible to justify with the rule of wrong.
Chapter ix. — Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the comments of Thwackum and Square.
It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation for wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have the misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected; for here discovery seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus it happened to poor Tom; who was no sooner pardoned for selling the horse, than he was discovered to have some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr Allworthy gave him, the money arising from which sale he had disposed of in the same manner. This Bible Master Blifil had purchased, though he had already such another of his own, partly out of respect for the book, and partly out of friendship to Tom, being unwilling that the Bible should be sold out of the family at half-price. He therefore deposited the said half-price himself; for he was a very prudent lad, and so careful of his money, that he had laid up almost every penny which he had received from Mr Allworthy.
It has been noted by someone much wiser than I that misfortunes rarely come alone. A good example of this can be seen with those guys who are unfortunate enough to have their wrongdoings uncovered; once a secret is revealed, it often leads to more. Poor Tom experienced this firsthand; as soon as he was forgiven for selling the horse, it was found out that he had previously sold a nice Bible that Mr. Allworthy had given him, and he had spent the money from that sale in the same way. Master Blifil bought that Bible, even though he already had one, partly out of respect for the book and partly out of friendship for Tom, wanting to ensure that the Bible stayed in the family instead of being sold for a low price. So he paid that half-price himself; he was a very sensible young man and was so careful with his money that he had saved nearly every penny he had received from Mr. Allworthy.
Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but their own. On the contrary, from the time when Master Blifil was first possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, he was seen reading in it much oftener than he had before been in his own. Now, as he frequently asked Thwackum to explain difficult passages to him, that gentleman unfortunately took notice of Tom's name, which was written in many parts of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which obliged Master Blifil to discover the whole matter.
Some people have been known to read only their own books. On the other hand, ever since Master Blifil got this Bible, he never used any other. In fact, he was seen reading it much more often than he had read his own. Since he often asked Thwackum to explain difficult passages, that gentleman unfortunately noticed Tom's name, which was written in many parts of the book. This led to an inquiry that forced Master Blifil to reveal the whole situation.
Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded immediately to castigation: and not contented with that he acquainted Mr Allworthy, at their next meeting, with this monstrous crime, as it appeared to him: inveighing against Tom in the most bitter terms, and likening him to the buyers and sellers who were driven out of the temple.
Thwackum was determined that a crime like this, which he referred to as sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He immediately took action and, not satisfied with that, informed Mr. Allworthy at their next meeting about this terrible crime, as he saw it. He criticized Tom in the harshest terms, comparing him to the merchants who were expelled from the temple.
Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, he could not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than in selling another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by all laws both Divine and human, and consequently there was no unfitness in it. He told Thwackum, that his great concern on this occasion brought to his mind the story of a very devout woman, who, out of pure regard to religion, stole Tillotson's Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance.
Square viewed this situation very differently. He said he couldn’t see any greater wrongdoing in selling one book over another. Selling Bibles was completely legal by all Divine and human laws, so there was nothing inappropriate about it. He told Thwackum that his strong feelings about this reminded him of a story about a very devout woman who, out of pure religious respect, stole Tillotson's Sermons from a friend.
This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the parson's face, which of itself was none of the palest; and he was going to reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs Blifil, who was present at this debate, interposed. That lady declared herself absolutely of Mr Square's side. She argued, indeed, very learnedly in support of his opinion; and concluded with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any fault, she must confess her own son appeared to be equally culpable; for that she could see no difference between the buyer and the seller; both of whom were alike to be driven out of the temple.
This story made the parson's face turn bright red, which wasn’t exactly pale to begin with, and he was about to respond with intense anger when Mrs. Blifil, who was there for the discussion, stepped in. She stated that she was completely on Mr. Square's side. She argued convincingly in support of his view and concluded by saying that if Tom had done anything wrong, she had to admit her own son seemed equally at fault because she didn’t see any difference between the buyer and the seller; both should be kicked out of the temple.
Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the debate. Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed them; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not venture at disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation. As to Mr Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been already punished he would not deliver his sentiments on the occasion; and whether he was or was not angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader's own conjecture.
Mrs. Blifil expressed her opinion, ending the debate. Square's victory would have left him speechless if he had needed to say anything; and Thwackum, who, for previously mentioned reasons, dared not upset the lady, was nearly choked with anger. As for Mr. Allworthy, he stated that since the boy had already been punished, he wouldn't share his thoughts on the matter; whether he was angry with the boy or not is up to the reader to figure out.
Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper by Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge was killed), for depredations of the like kind. This was a most unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr Allworthy from restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking out one evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter slily drew him to the habitation of Black George; where the family of that poor wretch, namely, his wife and children, were found in all the misery with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, can affect human creatures: for as to the money they had received from Jones, former debts had consumed almost the whole.
Soon after this, Squire Western (the gentleman whose manor the partridge was killed in) brought an action against the gamekeeper for similar offenses. This was a very unfortunate situation for the man, as it not only threatened his ruin, but also kept Mr. Allworthy from restoring him to his good graces. While Mr. Allworthy was out one evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter slyly led him to Black George’s home, where the family of that poor man—his wife and children—were found suffering from the misery that cold, hunger, and lack of clothing can bring to people. As for the money they had received from Jones, previous debts had eaten up almost all of it.
Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, with which he bid her cloath her children. The poor woman burst into tears at this goodness, and while she was thanking him, could not refrain from expressing her gratitude to Tom; who had, she said, long preserved both her and hers from starving. “We have not,” says she, “had a morsel to eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put on, but what his goodness hath bestowed on us.” For, indeed, besides the horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and other things, to the use of this distressed family.
Such a scene as this couldn’t help but touch Mr. Allworthy’s heart. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, telling her to buy clothes for her children. The poor woman broke down in tears at this kindness, and while she was thanking him, she couldn’t help but express her gratitude to Tom, who had, she said, been keeping her and her family from starving for a while. “We haven’t,” she said, “had a bite to eat, nor have these poor kids had anything to wear, except what his kindness has provided for us.” Indeed, besides the horse and the Bible, Tom had given up a nightgown and other items to help this struggling family.
On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to display the wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of Black George himself; and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr Allworthy said, he thought the man had suffered enough for what was past; that he would forgive him, and think of some means of providing for him and his family.
On their way back home, Tom used all his persuasive skills to show just how miserable these people were, as well as Black George's remorse. He was so convincing that Mr. Allworthy said he believed the man had already suffered enough for what he had done; that he would forgive him and find a way to help him and his family.
Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was dark when they returned home, he could not help going back a mile, in a shower of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the glad tidings; but, like other hasty divulgers of news, he only brought on himself the trouble of contradicting it: for the ill fortune of Black George made use of the very opportunity of his friend's absence to overturn all again.
Jones was so thrilled by this news that, even though it was dark when they got home, he couldn't resist going back a mile, in the pouring rain, to tell the poor woman the good news. However, like many others who rush to share news, he ended up causing more trouble for himself by having to contradict it: because Black George's bad luck took advantage of his friend's absence to ruin everything again.
Chapter x. — In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different lights.
Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable quality of mercy; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much higher kind, namely, in justice: in which he followed both the precepts and example of Thwackum and Square; for though they would both make frequent use of the word mercy, yet it was plain that in reality Square held it to be inconsistent with the rule of right; and Thwackum was for doing justice, and leaving mercy to heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed somewhat differ in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime virtue; by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half of mankind, and Square the other half.
Master Blifil was much less merciful than his friend, but he was far superior in a more important quality: justice. He adhered to the teachings and examples of Thwackum and Square; although they frequently used the term mercy, it was clear that Square believed it conflicted with the rule of what is right, while Thwackum advocated for justice and left mercy to divine judgment. The two gentlemen did have some differences in opinion regarding the targets of this noble virtue, which likely meant that Thwackum would have wiped out half of humanity, and Square the other half.
Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence of Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by no means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer favours on the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately to acquaint him with the fact which we have above slightly hinted to the readers. The truth of which was as follows:
Master Blifil, although he had remained quiet in front of Jones, couldn't stand the idea of letting his uncle do favors for someone who didn’t deserve them. So, he decided right away to inform him about the matter we’ve briefly mentioned to the readers. The truth was as follows:
The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from Mr Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selling the horse, being in want of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his family, as he passed through a field belonging to Mr Western espied a hare sitting in her form. This hare he had basely and barbarously knocked on the head, against the laws of the land, and no less against the laws of sportsmen.
The gamekeeper, about a year after he was let go from Mr. Allworthy's service and before Tom sold the horse, was desperate for food, whether for himself or his family. As he walked through a field owned by Mr. Western, he spotted a hare sitting in its nest. He shamefully and cruelly killed this hare, breaking both the laws of the land and the rules of hunting.
The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately taken many months after with a quantity of game upon him, was obliged to make his peace with the squire, by becoming evidence against some poacher. And now Black George was pitched upon by him, as being a person already obnoxious to Mr Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He was, besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had supplied him with no game since; and by this means the witness had an opportunity of screening his better customers: for the squire, being charmed with the power of punishing Black George, whom a single transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further enquiry.
The higgler who sold the hare, unfortunately caught months later with a stash of game, had to strike a deal with the squire by agreeing to testify against a poacher. He decided to throw Black George under the bus since George was already on Mr. Western's bad side and had a bad reputation in the area. Plus, George was the best scapegoat the higgler could find, as he hadn't supplied him with any game since then. This way, the witness could protect his better customers; the squire, pleased with the chance to punish Black George—who could be ruined by a single misstep—didn't look any further into the matter.
Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might probably have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But there is no zeal blinder than that which is inspired with the love of justice against offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the distance of the time. He varied likewise in the manner of the fact: and by the hasty addition of the single letter S he considerably altered the story; for he said that George had wired hares. These alterations might probably have been set right, had not Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise of secrecy from Mr Allworthy before he revealed the matter to him; but by that means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without having an opportunity to defend himself: for as the fact of killing the hare, and of the action brought, were certainly true, Mr Allworthy had no doubt concerning the rest.
If Mr. Allworthy had been made fully aware of the facts, it likely wouldn’t have caused much trouble for the gamekeeper. However, there’s no zeal more blinding than that which comes from a desire for justice against wrongdoers. Master Blifil had forgotten how much time had passed. He also changed the details of the incident, and by hastily adding a single letter, S, he significantly altered the story; he claimed that George had snared hares. These changes might have been corrected, if only Master Blifil hadn’t foolishly insisted on Mr. Allworthy keeping it a secret before revealing the matter to him. Because of this, the poor gamekeeper was condemned without a chance to defend himself: since the fact of the hare being killed and the legal action taken were certainly true, Mr. Allworthy had no doubt about the rest.
Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people; for Mr Allworthy the next morning declared he had fresh reason, without assigning it, for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention George any more: though as for his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from starving; but as to the fellow himself, he would leave him to the laws, which nothing could keep him from breaking.
The joy of these poor people was short-lived; the next morning, Mr. Allworthy announced he had new reasons for his anger, without explaining why, and strictly prohibited Tom from mentioning George again. However, he said he would try to help George's family from starving, but when it came to George himself, he would leave him to face the law, which nothing could stop him from breaking.
Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr Allworthy, for of Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. However, as his friendship was to be tired out by no disappointments, he now determined to try another method of preserving the poor gamekeeper from ruin.
Tom could not figure out what had upset Mr. Allworthy, as he had no suspicions about Master Blifil at all. However, since his friendship wouldn’t be worn down by any setbacks, he decided to try another way to save the poor gamekeeper from disaster.
Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He had so greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by leaping over five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsmanship, that the squire had declared Tom would certainly make a great man if he had but sufficient encouragement. He often wished he had himself a son with such parts; and one day very solemnly asserted at a drinking bout, that Tom should hunt a pack of hounds for a thousand pound of his money, with any huntsman in the whole country.
Jones had recently become very close with Mr. Western. He had impressed that gentleman so much by jumping over five-barred gates and through other sporting feats that the squire had declared Tom would definitely become a great man if he just had enough support. He often wished he had a son with those skills; and one day, very seriously during a drinking session, he claimed that Tom could lead a pack of hounds for a thousand pounds of his money, alongside any huntsman in the whole country.
By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with the squire, that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite companion in his sport: everything which the squire held most dear, to wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of Jones, as if they had been his own. He resolved therefore to make use of this favour on behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped to introduce into Mr Western's family, in the same capacity in which he had before served Mr Allworthy.
With his impressive talents, he had become such a favorite with the squire that he was a most welcome guest at the dinner table and a preferred companion in his sports. Everything the squire valued most, namely his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as accessible to Jones as if they belonged to him. He decided to take advantage of this favor to help his friend Black George, whom he hoped to bring into Mr. Western's household in the same role he had previously filled for Mr. Allworthy.
The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already obnoxious to Mr Western, and if he considers farther the weighty business by which that gentleman's displeasure had been incurred, will perhaps condemn this as a foolish and desperate undertaking; but if he should totally condemn young Jones on that account, he will greatly applaud him for strengthening himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an occasion.
The reader, if he thinks about how this guy was already disliked by Mr. Western, and if he further considers the serious issue that had caused that gentleman's anger, might see this as a foolish and risky move. However, if he completely criticizes young Jones for that, he will definitely admire him for gathering all possible support in such a challenging situation.
For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western's daughter, a young lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, next after those necessary implements of sport just before mentioned, loved and esteemed above all the world. Now, as she had some influence on the squire, so Tom had some little influence on her. But this being the intended heroine of this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are greatly in love, and with whom many of our readers will probably be in love too, before we part, it is by no means proper she should make her appearance at the end of a book.
For this reason, Tom turned to Mr. Western's daughter, a young woman around seventeen years old, whom her father valued and cherished more than anything else in the world, right after his beloved sporting equipment. Since she had some sway over the squire, Tom had a bit of influence over her as well. However, since she is the intended heroine of this story—a lady that we all admire and many of our readers will likely fall for too—it’s certainly not appropriate for her to make her appearance at the end of the book.
BOOK IV. — CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
Chapter i. — Containing five pages of paper.
As truth distinguishes our writings from those idle romances which are filled with monsters, the productions, not of nature, but of distempered brains; and which have been therefore recommended by an eminent critic to the sole use of the pastry-cook; so, on the other hand, we would avoid any resemblance to that kind of history which a celebrated poet seems to think is no less calculated for the emolument of the brewer, as the reading it should be always attended with a tankard of good ale—
As truth sets our writings apart from those pointless stories full of monsters, created not by nature but by disturbed minds; and which, as suggested by a well-known critic, are only useful for the pastry chef; we also want to steer clear of any similarity to that type of history which a famous poet seems to believe is just as beneficial for the brewer, as reading it should always be accompanied by a tankard of good ale—
While—history with her comrade ale,
Soothes the sad series of her serious tale
While—history with her companion beer,
Soothes the sorrowful sequence of her serious storyFor as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps their muse, if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who attributes inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of their readers, since every book ought to be read with the same spirit and in the same manner as it is writ. Thus the famous author of Hurlothrumbo told a learned bishop, that the reason his lordship could not taste the excellence of his piece was, that he did not read it with a fiddle in his hand; which instrument he himself had always had in his own, when he composed it.
For this is the drink of modern historians, and maybe even their inspiration, if we take Butler's word for it, who claims that ale brings creativity. It should also be enjoyed by their readers, since every book should be read with the same energy and approach it was written with. This is what the famous author of Hurlothrumbo told a knowledgeable bishop, explaining that the reason his lordship couldn't appreciate the quality of his work was that he wasn't reading it with a fiddle in his hand; that instrument was always in his own hands while he was writing it.
That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being likened to the labours of these historians, we have taken every occasion of interspersing through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and other kind of poetical embellishments. These are, indeed, designed to supply the place of the said ale, and to refresh the mind, whenever those slumbers, which in a long work are apt to invade the reader as well as the writer, shall begin to creep upon him. Without interruptions of this kind, the best narrative of plain matter of fact must overpower every reader; for nothing but the ever lasting watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be proof against a newspaper of many volumes.
To ensure that our work isn’t compared to the efforts of those historians, we’ve made a point of including various similes, descriptions, and other poetic touches throughout. These are intended to take the place of the traditional ale and rejuvenate the mind when drowsiness, which can affect both the reader and the writer during lengthy works, starts to set in. Without these kinds of breaks, even the best straightforward accounts can overwhelm any reader; only the constant alertness that Homer attributed to Jove himself can withstand a lengthy newspaper.
We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment we have chosen the several occasions for inserting those ornamental parts of our work. Surely it will be allowed that none could be more proper than the present, where we are about to introduce a considerable character on the scene; no less, indeed, than the heroine of this heroic, historical, prosaic poem. Here, therefore, we have thought proper to prepare the mind of the reader for her reception, by filling it with every pleasing image which we can draw from the face of nature. And for this method we plead many precedents. First, this is an art well known to, and much practised by, our tragick poets, who seldom fail to prepare their audience for the reception of their principal characters.
We’ll leave it up to the reader to decide how well we’ve chosen the various moments to include those decorative elements in our work. Surely, it’s clear that there could be no better time than now, as we’re about to introduce an important character, none other than the heroine of this epic, historical, prose poem. Therefore, we’ve decided to set the reader’s mind up for her arrival by filling it with every beautiful image we can draw from nature. We have a lot of examples to support this approach. First, this is a well-known technique used by our tragic poets, who often prepare their audience for the introduction of their main characters.
Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums and trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, and to accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which Mr Locke's blind man would not have grossly erred in likening to the sound of a trumpet. Again, when lovers are coming forth, soft music often conducts them on the stage, either to soothe the audience with the softness of the tender passion, or to lull and prepare them for that gentle slumber in which they will most probably be composed by the ensuing scene.
So, the hero is always introduced with a fanfare of drums and trumpets to stir up a fighting spirit in the audience and to tune their ears to grand and inflated language, which Mr. Locke's blind man would not have greatly missed likening to the sound of a trumpet. Likewise, when lovers appear, gentle music often leads them onto the stage, either to calm the audience with the sweetness of their romance or to lull and ready them for the gentle sleep into which they will likely fall during the upcoming scene.
And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the managers of playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides the aforesaid kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe's approach, he is generally ushered on the stage by a large troop of half a dozen scene-shifters; and how necessary these are imagined to his appearance, may be concluded from the following theatrical story:—
And not just the poets, but their mentors, the theater managers, seem to know this secret too; because, in addition to the earlier mentioned drums, which signal the hero's arrival, he usually enters the stage with a large group of about six stagehands. You can tell how essential these are considered for his entrance from the following theater tale:—
King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the theatre, when he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, being unwilling to quit his shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling to draw on himself the indignation of Mr Wilks (his brother-manager) for making the audience wait, had bribed these his harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr Wilks, therefore, was thundering out, “Where are the carpenters to walk on before King Pyrrhus?” that monarch very quietly eat his mutton, and the audience, however impatient, were obliged to entertain themselves with music in his absence.
King Pyrrhus was having dinner at a pub near the theater when he was called to go on stage. The hero, not wanting to leave his plate of mutton and also not wanting to upset Mr. Wilks (his co-manager) by making the audience wait, had bribed his attendants to stay out of sight. While Mr. Wilks was loudly asking, “Where are the carpenters to walk in before King Pyrrhus?” the king calmly continued eating his mutton, and the audience, though impatient, had to keep themselves entertained with music while waiting for him.
To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the utility of this practice. I am convinced that awful magistrate my lord-mayor contracts a good deal of that reverence which attends him through the year, by the several pageants which precede his pomp. Nay, I must confess, that even I myself, who am not remarkably liable to be captivated with show, have yielded not a little to the impressions of much preceding state. When I have seen a man strutting in a procession, after others whose business was only to walk before him, I have conceived a higher notion of his dignity than I have felt on seeing him in a common situation. But there is one instance, which comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, and to strew the stage with flowers, before the great personages begin their procession. The antients would certainly have invoked the goddess Flora for this purpose, and it would have been no difficulty for their priests, or politicians to have persuaded the people of the real presence of the deity, though a plain mortal had personated her and performed her office. But we have no such design of imposing on our reader; and therefore those who object to the heathen theology, may, if they please, change our goddess into the above-mentioned basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine with the utmost solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile, and all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration of our reader.—Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of our male readers who have any hearts, to read no farther, were we not well assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able to raise.
To be straightforward, I really doubt that the politician, who usually has a good sense of what’s going on, hasn’t noticed some of the benefits of this practice. I’m convinced that the impressive presence of the lord mayor is largely due to the various displays that happen before his grand entrance. In fact, I must admit that even I, who am not easily swayed by pageantry, have been somewhat influenced by the grandeur leading up to it. When I see someone strutting in a procession after others whose only job is to walk in front of him, I tend to think more highly of his status than I do when I see him just hanging out in everyday situations. But there’s one example that really illustrates my point. This is the custom of sending out a basket woman who goes ahead of the procession at a coronation, scattering flowers on the stage before the important figures start their walk. The ancients would definitely have called upon the goddess Flora for this task, and it wouldn’t have been hard for their priests or politicians to convince the public of her real presence, even if a regular person was just acting as her stand-in. However, we don’t have any intention of deceiving our readers; therefore, those who have issues with pagan beliefs can simply think of our goddess as that basket woman. Our goal, in short, is to introduce our heroine with all the seriousness we can muster, using elevated language and all the right elements to enhance the admiration of our readers. Indeed, we would, for certain reasons, suggest that any of our male readers with feelings should not read any further, if we weren’t so confident that, no matter how charming our heroine may seem, as she is truly drawn from real life, many of our lovely countrywomen will prove themselves worthy of any affection and will meet any notion of female perfection that our portrayal can evoke.
And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next chapter.
And now, without any more introduction, we move on to our next chapter.
Chapter ii. — A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a description of Miss Sophia Western.
Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the 1st of June, her birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with sweets which shall ravish her most.
Hushed be every harsh breath. May the god of the winds keep the noisy Boreas and the sharp-nosed, biting Eurus in iron chains. You, sweet Zephyrus, rising from your fragrant bed, take to the western sky and bring those delightful breezes that call lovely Flora from her chamber, scented with morning dew. On June 1st, her birthday, the blooming maiden, dressed loosely, dances over the green meadow, where every flower rises to honor her, until the whole field is adorned, with colors competing to enchant her the most.
So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excell, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in every swain: for lo! adorned with all the charms in which nature can array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes!
How charming she looks now! And you, the singing birds of nature, whose sweetest songs can’t even be topped by Handel, warm up your beautiful voices to celebrate her arrival. Your music comes from love and returns to love. So, let’s stir that gentle feeling in every young man: for here comes the lovely Sophia, dressed in all the beauty that nature can provide; adorned with youth, liveliness, innocence, modesty, and tenderness, radiating sweetness from her rosy lips, and shining brightly from her sparkling eyes!
Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de Medicis. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court. Thou may'st remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would fill the whole volume.
Reader, maybe you've seen the statue of the Venus de Medicis. You might have also visited the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court. You may remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their time was before yours, at least you've seen their daughters, the equally stunning beauties of today; if we were to list their names here, we fear they would fill the entire volume.
Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things. No. If thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou hast no eyes; if without feeling its power, thou hast no heart.
Now, if you have seen all these things, don’t be afraid of the blunt response that Lord Rochester once gave to someone who had experienced many things. No. If you have seen all these without understanding what beauty is, you have no eyes; if you have seen them without feeling its power, you have no heart.
Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of Lady Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous dutchess of Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one whose image never can depart from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast then, my friend, an adequate idea of Sophia.
Yet is it possible, my friend, that you may have seen all these without being able to form a clear idea of Sophia? She didn’t truly resemble any of them. She was most similar to the picture of Lady Ranelagh; and, I’ve heard, even more so to the famous Duchess of Mazarine; but most of all, she resembled someone whose image I can never forget, and if you remember her, my friend, then you have a good idea of Sophia.
But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible that our highest abilities are very inadequate to the task.
But in case this hasn't been your luck, we'll do our best to describe this ideal, even though we know our greatest skills are quite insufficient for the job.
Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a middle-sized woman; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but extremely delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the truest symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached her middle, before she cut it to comply with the modern fashion; and it was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find any part of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest, it might possibly think her forehead might have been higher without prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre in them, which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckling's description in those lines:—
Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a medium-sized woman, leaning a bit towards tall. Her figure was not only well-defined but also extremely delicate, and the perfect proportion of her arms suggested true symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so thick that it reached her mid-back before she cut it to fit in with modern trends; now it curled so elegantly around her neck that few would believe it was real. If envy could find any part of her face that deserved less praise than the rest, it might think her forehead could have been a bit higher without any downside. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched in a way that no art could replicate. Her black eyes had a shine that all her gentleness couldn't dim. Her nose was perfectly shaped, and her mouth, with its two rows of pearly whites, precisely matched Sir John Suckling's description in those lines:—
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin.
Some bee had stung it newly.
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to the one next to her chin.
A bee must have just stung it.Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a dimple, which the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in forming the beauty of her face; but it was difficult to say it was either large or small, though perhaps it was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather more of the lily than of the rose; but when exercise or modesty increased her natural colour, no vermilion could equal it. Then one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr Donne:
Her cheeks were oval-shaped, and she had a dimple on her right cheek that appeared with the slightest smile. Her chin definitely contributed to her beauty, but it was hard to tell if it was large or small—probably more on the larger side. Her complexion was more like a lily than a rose, but when she exercised or felt modest, her natural blush was unmatched by any red dye. In that moment, one might truly exclaim with the famous Dr. Donne:
—Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say her body thought.
—Her clear and expressive blood
Showed in her cheeks, and it was crafted so well
That one might almost say her body was thinking.Her neck was long and finely turned: and here, if I was not afraid of offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest beauties of the famous Venus de Medicis were outdone. Here was whiteness which no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. The finest cambric might indeed be supposed from envy to cover that bosom which was much whiter than itself.—It was indeed,
Her neck was long and elegantly shaped: and here, if I wasn't worried about upsetting her sensitivity, I could honestly say that the greatest beauties of the famous Venus de Medicis were surpassed. There was a whiteness that no lilies, ivory, or alabaster could compete with. It could be imagined that the finest cambric, out of envy, tried to cover that bosom which was much whiter than itself.—It truly was,
Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius.
A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble.
Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius. A gloss that shines brighter than the purest Parian marble.
Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way equal to her person; nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the former; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no regularity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect intimacy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them here: nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's understanding, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in forming his own judgment of her character.
Sophia looked stunning on the outside, and her beauty was matched by her character. Her mind was just as impressive as her appearance; in fact, her thoughts added to her beauty. When she smiled, the kindness in her heart lit up her face in a way that no perfect features ever could. However, since there are no mental qualities that don’t reveal themselves in deep connections, we won’t list them here. Doing so would insult the reader’s intelligence and take away the joy of discovering her character on their own.
It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat improved and cultivated by art: for she had been educated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired some years since into the country. By her conversation and instructions, Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in her behaviour which is to be acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too dearly purchased; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that the French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when they declare they know not what it is; yet its absence is well compensated by innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility ever stand in need of it.
It might be right to say that any mental talents she had naturally were somewhat enhanced and cultivated through education. She was raised by her aunt, a wise woman who knew the world well, having spent her youth at court before retreating to the countryside years ago. Through her conversations and teachings, Sophia was very well-mannered, although she lacked a bit of the ease in her behavior that comes only from habit and being part of what is known as the polite society. But, to be honest, this ease can often come at a high price, and even though it has such indescribable charms that the French sometimes refer to it as something they can’t quite define, its absence is well made up for by innocence. Moreover, good judgment and natural grace don’t really need it.
Chapter iii. — Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling incident that happened some years since; but which, trifling as it was, had some future consequences.
The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was fonder of her than of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his friend the gamekeeper.
The friendly Sophia was now eighteen when she enters this story. As mentioned before, her father loved her more than anyone else. So, Tom Jones approached her to get her to help his friend, the gamekeeper.
But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of some previous matters may be necessary.
But before we move forward with this, a brief recap of some earlier points may be needed.
Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet they lived upon what is called a decent footing together; by which means the young people of both families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as they were all near of the same age, had been frequent playmates together.
Though Mr. Allworthy and Mr. Western had very different personalities that didn't allow for a close relationship, they maintained a respectful acquaintance. This allowed the young people from both families to know each other since childhood, and since they were all around the same age, they often played together.
The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she gave the former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of a more passionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure at it.
Tom's cheerful personality fit better with Sophia than the serious and somber nature of Master Blifil. Her preference for Tom was often so obvious that a more passionate person than Master Blifil might have felt some jealousy over it.
As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world.
As he didn’t openly show any disgust, it would be wrong for us to dig into the deepest parts of his thoughts, like some nosy people do when they snoop around their friends’ private matters, often peeking into their closets and cupboards just to reveal their struggles and shortcomings to the world.
However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from a much better principle.
However, just like people who think they’ve upset others often assume those others are actually offended, Sophia believed that Master Blifil's actions were due to his anger. But Thwackum and Square, with their greater insight, recognized that his behavior came from a much better motivation.
Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing.
Tom Jones, when he was very young, had given Sophia a little bird that he took from its nest, raised, and taught to sing.
Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame, that it would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon the finger, and lie contented in her bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its own happiness; though she always kept a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the liberty of flying away.
Sophia, who was around thirteen years old, was so incredibly fond of this bird that her main focus was to feed and care for it, and her greatest joy was playing with it. Because of this, the little bird named Tommy became so tame that it would eat from her hand, sit on her finger, and snuggle happily in her arms, as if it could truly feel its own happiness. However, she always kept a small string tied around its leg and never let it fly free.
One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for her little bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands. Sophia presently complied with the young gentleman's request, and after some previous caution, delivered him her bird; of which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into the air.
One day, when Mr. Allworthy and his whole family were having dinner at Mr. Western's house, Master Blifil was in the garden with little Sophia. Noticing how much she adored her little bird, he asked her to let him hold it for a moment. Sophia quickly agreed to the young gentleman's request, and after giving him some careful instructions, handed him her bird. As soon as he had it, he removed the string from its leg and threw it into the air.
The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance.
The foolish animal, as soon as it realized it was free, forgot all the kindness it had received from Sophia and flew away from her, landing on a branch some distance away.
Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her assistance.
Sophia, realizing her bird was missing, screamed so loudly that Tom Jones, who was a short distance away, quickly ran to help her.
He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal; and then immediately stripping off his coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to which the bird escaped.
He had barely heard what happened when he cursed Blifil for being a pathetic, malicious jerk; then, without hesitation, he took off his coat and began to climb the tree where the bird had fled.
Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the water.
Tom had nearly gotten his little namesake back when the branch it was sitting on, which hung over a canal, snapped, and the poor kid fell headfirst into the water.
Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than before; and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the vociferation in his power.
Sophia's worry shifted focus. Realizing the boy's life was at risk, she screamed ten times louder than before; and Master Blifil himself joined in, shouting with all his strength.
The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were instantly alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part) arrived safely on shore.
The group, who were in a room next to the garden, were immediately alarmed and rushed out; but just as they got to the canal, Tom (since the water was fortunately pretty shallow there) made it safely to the shore.
Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and shivering before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to have patience; and turning to Master Blifil, said, “Pray, child, what is the reason of all this disturbance?”
Thwackum lashed out at poor Tom, who was standing there, trembling and at a loss, when Mr. Allworthy asked him to be patient. Then he turned to Master Blifil and said, “Please, child, what’s causing all this commotion?”
Master Blifil answered, “Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired; for I always thought there was something very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty; nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be done by; but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it; nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird itself: for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty hawk carried it away.”
Master Blifil replied, “Yes, uncle, I regret what I did; I was unfortunately the cause of it all. I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor thing longed for freedom, I admit I couldn’t help giving it what it wanted. I’ve always felt that it’s cruel to confine anything. It seems to go against the law of nature, which gives everything the right to be free; it’s even unchristian, because it’s not treating others how we’d want to be treated. But if I had known Miss Sophia would be so upset by it, I definitely wouldn’t have done it; in fact, if I had known what would happen to the bird: when Master Jones climbed up that tree after it and fell into the water, the bird took off again, and then a nasty hawk swooped down and took it away.”
Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate (for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr Allworthy endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer bird: but she declared she would never have another. Her father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but could not help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his backside should be well flead.
Poor Sophia, hearing for the first time about her little Tommy's fate (since her worry for Jones had kept her from noticing it when it happened), burst into tears. Mr. Allworthy tried to comfort her, promising her a much nicer bird, but she insisted she would never accept another. Her father scolded her for crying over a silly bird, but he couldn't help telling young Blifil that if he were his son, he would get a good spanking.
Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were sent home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle; where a conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that we think it deserves a chapter by itself.
Sophia went back to her room, the two young men were sent home, and the rest of the group returned to their drinks; a conversation started about the bird, which was so interesting that we believe it deserves its own chapter.
Chapter iv. — Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some readers, perhaps, may not relish it.
Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to Allworthy, he thus began: “Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right from wrong. To confine anything, seems to me against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty. These were his words; and the impression they have made on me is never to be eradicated. Can any man have a higher notion of the rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things? I cannot help promising myself, from such a dawn, that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that of either the elder or the younger Brutus.”
Square had just lit his pipe when he turned to Allworthy and said, “Sir, I have to congratulate you on your nephew, who, at an age when most boys focus only on tangible things, has developed the ability to tell right from wrong. I believe that trying to restrict anything goes against the law of nature, which gives everything the right to freedom. These were his words, and they made an impression on me that I will never forget. Can anyone have a higher understanding of what is right and the inherent order of things? I can't help but expect, from such a promising start, that this young man will reach a level as high as either the elder or the younger Brutus.”
Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine, and swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, “From another expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better men. The law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I know not of any such law, nor of any right which can be derived from it. To do as we would be done by, is indeed a Christian motive, as the boy well expressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have borne such good fruit.”
Here Thwackum quickly interrupted, spilling some of his wine and gulping down the rest eagerly. He replied, “From another phrase he used, I hope he’ll turn out to be a lot like better people. The law of nature is just a bunch of words that don’t mean anything. I’m not aware of any such law or any rights that can come from it. Treating others as we’d like to be treated is indeed a Christian principle, as the boy put it well; and I’m pleased to see my teachings have had such a positive impact.”
“If vanity was a thing fit,” says Square, “I might indulge some on the same occasion; for whence only he can have learnt his notions of right or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law of nature, there is no right nor wrong.”
“If vanity were an appropriate thing,” says Square, “I might indulge in some on that occasion; because it’s pretty clear where he could have learned his ideas of right and wrong. If there’s no law of nature, then there’s no right or wrong.”
“How!” says the parson, “do you then banish revelation? Am I talking with a deist or an atheist?”
“How!” says the parson, “are you really rejecting revelation? Am I speaking with a deist or an atheist?”
“Drink about,” says Western. “Pox of your laws of nature! I don't know what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To take away my girl's bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour Allworthy may do as he pleases; but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed them up to the gallows.”
“Drink up,” says Western. “Curse your laws of nature! I don’t know what you both mean by right and wrong. In my opinion, taking my girl’s bird was wrong; and my neighbor Allworthy can do whatever he wants, but encouraging boys in such behavior is just raising them for the gallows.”
Allworthy answered, “That he was sorry for what his nephew had done, but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a generous than unworthy motive.” He said, “If the boy had stolen the bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe chastisement than himself; but it was plain that was not his design:” and, indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no other view but what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose which Sophia suspected, it never once entered into the head of Mr Allworthy.) He at length concluded with again blaming the action as inconsiderate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child.
Allworthy replied, “He was sorry for what his nephew had done, but he couldn’t agree to punish him since he acted out of a generous rather than a selfish motive.” He added, “If the boy had stolen the bird, no one would have been quicker to support a harsh punishment than I would; but it was clear that wasn’t his intention.” In fact, it was obvious to him that the boy had no other reason than what he had already stated. (As for the malicious intent that Sophia suspected, it never crossed Mr. Allworthy’s mind.) He finally concluded by again criticizing the act as thoughtless, which he said was only forgivable in a child.
Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was now silent, he must submit to have his judgment censured. He said, therefore, with some warmth, “That Mr Allworthy had too much respect to the dirty consideration of property. That in passing our judgments on great and mighty actions, all private regards should be laid aside; for by adhering to those narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned of ingratitude, and the elder of parricide.”
Square had expressed his opinion so openly that if he stayed quiet now, he would have to accept criticism of his judgment. So he said, a bit heatedly, “Mr. Allworthy cares too much about the nasty concern of property. When we judge significant actions, we should set aside all personal interests; because by sticking to those narrow standards, the younger Brutus was accused of ingratitude, and the older one of killing his father.”
“And if they had been hanged too for those crimes,” cried Thwackum, “they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple of heathenish villains! Heaven be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days! I wish, Mr Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my pupils with such antichristian stuff; for the consequence must be, while they are under my care, its being well scourged out of them again. There is your disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard him the other day disputing with Master Blifil that there was no merit in faith without works. I know that is one of your tenets, and I suppose he had it from you.”
“And if they had been hanged for those crimes too,” shouted Thwackum, “they would have gotten exactly what they deserved. Just a couple of wicked villains! Thank goodness we don’t have any Brutus types nowadays! I wish, Mr. Square, you would stop filling my students’ heads with such un-Christian ideas; because the result will be that, while they’re in my care, I’ll have to beat those thoughts out of them. Look at your student Tom; he’s almost ruined already. I overheard him the other day arguing with Master Blifil that faith without works has no value. I know that’s one of your beliefs, and I assume he got it from you.”
“Don't accuse me of spoiling him,” says Square. “Who taught him to laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right in the nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No, no, Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad's notions of moral rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate.”
“Don’t blame me for spoiling him,” says Square. “Who taught him to mock everything that’s virtuous and decent, and proper and right in the world? He is your own student, and I reject him. No, no, Master Blifil is my boy. As young as he is, I challenge you to ever change that kid’s ideas of what’s morally right.”
Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, “Ay, ay, I will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all your philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil such principles into him—”
Thwackum sneered disdainfully at this and replied, “Oh, I’ll take that bet with you. He’s too well-grounded for all your philosophical nonsense to affect him. No, no, I’ve made sure to instill such principles in him—”
“And I have instilled principles into him too,” cries Square. “What but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with the generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again, if it was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of having infused that idea.”—
“And I have taught him principles too,” Square shouts. “What other than the noble concept of virtue could inspire someone to generously think about granting freedom? And I tell you once more, if it were appropriate to be proud, I could take credit for introducing that idea.”
“And if pride was not forbidden,” said Thwackum, “I might boast of having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as his motive.”
“And if pride wasn’t forbidden,” said Thwackum, “I might brag about having taught him that duty which he himself claimed as his motive.”
“So between you both,” says the squire, “the young gentleman hath been taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must take care of my partridge-mew. I shall have some virtuous religious man or other set all my partridges at liberty.” Then slapping a gentleman of the law, who was present, on the back, he cried out, “What say you to this, Mr Counsellor? Is not this against law?”
“So between you two,” says the squire, “the young gentleman has been taught to steal my daughter’s bird. I realize I need to protect my partridge coop. I’ll have some virtuous religious man or someone free all my partridges.” Then, patting a lawyer who was there on the back, he exclaimed, “What do you think about this, Mr. Counselor? Isn’t this against the law?”
The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:—
The lawyer spoke seriously and said:—
“If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an action would lie; for though this be ferae naturae, yet being reclaimed, property vests: but being the case of a singing bird, though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be considered as nullius in bonis. In this case, therefore, I conceive the plaintiff must be non-suited; and I should disadvise the bringing any such action.”
“If we talk about a partridge, there’s no doubt that a legal action would be valid; because although it is a wild animal, once domesticated, it becomes property. However, when it comes to a singing bird, even if it is domesticated, since it is considered a creature of low value, it must be seen as belonging to no one. In this situation, I believe the plaintiff should not proceed, and I would advise against filing such a lawsuit.”
“Well,” says the squire, “if it be nullus bonus, let us drink about, and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some such discourse that we all understand; for I am sure I don't understand a word of this. It may be learning and sense for aught I know: but you shall never persuade me into it. Pox! you have neither of you mentioned a word of that poor lad who deserves to be commended: to venture breaking his neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action: I have learning enough to see that. D—n me, here's Tom's health! I shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to live.”
“Well,” says the squire, “if it’s nothing good, let’s have a drink and talk about the state of the nation or some other topic we can all understand; because I’m sure I don’t get a word of this. It might be smart and insightful for all I know, but you’ll never convince me of it. Damn it! Neither of you has mentioned that poor lad who deserves some praise: risking his neck to help my girl was a truly generous thing to do; I have enough sense to see that. Damn me, here’s to Tom’s health! I’ll appreciate the boy for it for as long as I live.”
Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon resumed, had not Mr Allworthy presently called for his coach, and carried off the two combatants.
Thus, the debate was interrupted; but it probably would have started up again soon, if Mr. Allworthy hadn't called for his coach and taken the two participants away.
Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the dialogue occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our reader, though it happened some years before that stage or period of time at which our history is now arrived.
Such was the conclusion of this bird's adventure and the conversation that came from it; we couldn't resist sharing it with our readers, even though it took place several years before the point in time where our story currently is.
Chapter v. — Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
“Parva leves capiunt animos—Small things affect light minds,” was the sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And certain it is, that from this day Sophia began to have some little kindness for Tom Jones, and no little aversion for his companion.
“Small things affect light minds,” was the sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And it’s clear that from this day, Sophia began to feel some affection for Tom Jones and a noticeable dislike for his companion.
Many accidents from time to time improved both these passions in her breast; which, without our recounting, the reader may well conclude, from what we have before hinted of the different tempers of these lads, and how much the one suited with her own inclinations more than the other. To say the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned that Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody's enemy but his own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached to the interest only of one single person; and who that single person was the reader will be able to divine without any assistance of ours.
Many accidents from time to time intensified both of these feelings in her heart; which, without us needing to explain further, the reader can easily understand, given what we've mentioned before about the different personalities of these guys, and how much one matched her own preferences more than the other. To be honest, Sophia, when she was very young, realized that Tom, though a lazy, careless, reckless troublemaker, was nobody's enemy except for himself; and that Master Blifil, while being a sensible, careful, and serious young man, was at the same time solely focused on his own interests; and who that singular person was, the reader can likely guess without any help from us.
These two characters are not always received in the world with the different regard which seems severally due to either; and which one would imagine mankind, from self-interest, should show towards them. But perhaps there may be a political reason for it: in finding one of a truly benevolent disposition, men may very reasonably suppose they have found a treasure, and be desirous of keeping it, like all other good things, to themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to trumpet forth the praises of such a person, would, in the vulgar phrase, be crying Roast-meat, and calling in partakers of what they intend to apply solely to their own use. If this reason does not satisfy the reader, I know no other means of accounting for the little respect which I have commonly seen paid to a character which really does great honour to human nature, and is productive of the highest good to society. But it was otherwise with Sophia. She honoured Tom Jones, and scorned Master Blifil, almost as soon as she knew the meaning of those two words.
These two characters are not always viewed in the world in the different ways that seem deserved by each of them; and one would think that people, out of self-interest, would show them that respect. But there might be a political reason for this: when someone has a genuinely kind nature, people might reasonably think they’ve found a treasure and want to keep it to themselves, like they do with all good things. Therefore, they might feel that singing the praises of such a person would be like shouting out about a feast and inviting others to share what they want to keep for themselves. If this explanation doesn’t satisfy the reader, I can't think of any other way to explain the lack of respect that I’ve often seen given to a character who truly brings honor to humanity and offers the greatest benefit to society. But that wasn’t the case with Sophia. She admired Tom Jones and looked down on Master Blifil almost as soon as she understood the meanings of those two names.
Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her aunt; during all which time she had seldom seen either of these young gentlemen. She dined, however, once, together with her aunt, at Mr Allworthy's. This was a few days after the adventure of the partridge, before commemorated. Sophia heard the whole story at table, where she said nothing: nor indeed could her aunt get many words from her as she returned home; but her maid, when undressing her, happening to say, “Well, miss, I suppose you have seen young Master Blifil to-day?” she answered with much passion, “I hate the name of Master Blifil, as I do whatever is base and treacherous: and I wonder Mr Allworthy would suffer that old barbarous schoolmaster to punish a poor boy so cruelly for what was only the effect of his good-nature.” She then recounted the story to her maid, and concluded with saying, “Don't you think he is a boy of noble spirit?”
Sophia had been away for more than three years with her aunt, during which time she had rarely seen either of these young men. However, she had dinner once, along with her aunt, at Mr. Allworthy's. This was a few days after the incident with the partridge that was mentioned earlier. Sophia heard the whole story at the table, but she didn't say anything; in fact, her aunt struggled to get much out of her on the way home. When her maid was undressing her and happened to say, “Well, miss, I suppose you saw young Master Blifil today?” she responded with a lot of emotion, “I hate the name Master Blifil, just like I despise anything that is low and treacherous. And I can't believe Mr. Allworthy would allow that old cruel schoolmaster to punish a poor boy so harshly for something that was just a result of his good nature.” She then told her maid the story and finished by saying, “Don’t you think he is a boy of noble spirit?”
This young lady was now returned to her father; who gave her the command of his house, and placed her at the upper end of his table, where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was become a great favourite of the squire) often dined. Young men of open, generous dispositions are naturally inclined to gallantry, which, if they have good understandings, as was in reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an obliging complacent behaviour to all women in general. This greatly distinguished Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat sullen deportment of Master Blifil on the other; and he began now, at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the women in the neighbourhood.
This young woman was now back with her father, who put her in charge of his household and seated her at the head of his table, where Tom (who had become a favorite of the squire due to his passion for hunting) often dined. Young men with open, generous personalities are naturally inclined toward charm, which, if they are smart, as was truly the case with Tom, shows itself in a pleasant and courteous manner towards all women in general. This greatly set Tom apart from the loud, rough behavior of typical country squires on one side, and from the serious and somewhat gloomy demeanor of Master Blifil on the other; and he was now, at twenty, starting to be known as quite a catch among all the women in the area.
Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps by showing her a higher respect than he paid to any other. This distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, seemed to demand; but as to design upon her person he had none; for which we shall at present suffer the reader to condemn him of stupidity; but perhaps we shall be able indifferently well to account for it hereafter.
Tom treated Sophia with no special attention, except maybe by showing her more respect than he showed anyone else. Her beauty, wealth, intelligence, and charming demeanor seemed to deserve this special treatment, but he had no intention of pursuing her. For now, we'll let the reader think he’s being foolish, but perhaps we'll explain it better later.
Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, had a remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so greatly increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that had he not been very young and thoughtless, he must have observed it: or had not Mr Western's thoughts been generally either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have perhaps created some jealousy in him: but so far was the good gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions, that he gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover could have wished; and this Tom innocently improved to better advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural gallantry and good-nature, than he might perhaps have done had he had the deepest designs on the young lady.
Sophia, with her pure innocence and modesty, had a lively spirit. This lively energy increased whenever she was around Tom, so much so that if he weren’t so young and carefree, he surely would have noticed it. And if Mr. Western's mind weren’t usually occupied with farming, horses, or dogs, he might have felt a bit jealous. But the kind gentleman was so far from harboring any such thoughts that he gave Tom every chance he could want with his daughter, which Tom, naively, took full advantage of by simply following his natural charm and kindness, rather than having any serious intentions towards the young lady.
But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter escaped the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never remarked it; and her heart was irretrievably lost before she suspected it was in danger.
But it's really no surprise that others didn't notice this, since poor Sophia herself never saw it; and her heart was completely lost before she realized it was in danger.
Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, finding Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious face, to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her which he hoped her goodness would comply with.
Things were like this when Tom, one afternoon, found Sophia alone. After a brief apology and with a serious expression, he began to let her know that he had a favor to ask and hoped that her kindness would agree to it.
Though neither the young man's behaviour, nor indeed his manner of opening this business, were such as could give her any just cause of suspecting he intended to make love to her; yet whether Nature whispered something into her ear, or from what cause it arose I will not determine; certain it is, some idea of that kind must have intruded itself; for her colour forsook her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an answer; but he soon relieved her from her perplexity, by proceeding to inform her of his request; which was to solicit her interest on behalf of the gamekeeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must be, he said, the consequence of Mr Western's pursuing his action against him.
Even though the young man's behavior and the way he approached this situation didn’t really give her any reason to think he was interested in her romantically, something inside her—maybe a gut feeling—made her uneasy. She felt her face flush, her body tremble, and if Tom had waited for her to respond, she might have stumbled over her words. But he quickly eased her discomfort by explaining his request: he wanted her to help the gamekeeper, who, according to him, would face ruin along with his large family if Mr. Western continued his legal action against him.
Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile full of sweetness, said, “Is this the mighty favour you asked with so much gravity? I will do it with all my heart. I really pity the poor fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a small matter to his wife.” This small matter was one of her gowns, some linen, and ten shillings in money, of which Tom had heard, and it had, in reality, put this solicitation into his head.
Sophia quickly shook off her confusion and, with a warm smile, said, “Is this the big favor you asked for so seriously? I’ll do it gladly. I really feel for the poor guy, and just yesterday I sent a little something to his wife.” This little something included one of her dresses, some linens, and ten shillings in cash, which Tom had heard about, and it was what had actually given him this idea.
Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push the matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recommendation of him to her father's service; protesting that he thought him one of the honestest fellows in the country, and extremely well qualified for the place of a gamekeeper, which luckily then happened to be vacant.
Our young man, now confident from his success, decided to take things further and even asked her to recommend him for her father's service; insisting that he considered him one of the most honest guys in the area and very well suited for the position of gamekeeper, which, coincidentally, was currently vacant.
Sophia answered, “Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot promise you as much success as in the former part, which I assure you I will not quit my father without obtaining. However, I will do what I can for the poor fellow; for I sincerely look upon him and his family as objects of great compassion. And now, Mr Jones, I must ask you a favour.”
Sophia replied, “Alright, I’ll take this on as well; but I can’t promise I’ll be as successful as last time, which I can assure you I won’t leave my father without achieving. However, I’ll do what I can for that poor guy; I genuinely see him and his family as deserving of a lot of compassion. Now, Mr. Jones, I need to ask you for a favor.”
“A favour, madam!” cries Tom: “if you knew the pleasure you have given me in the hopes of receiving a command from you, you would think by mentioning it you did confer the greatest favour on me; for by this dear hand I would sacrifice my life to oblige you.”
“A favor, ma'am!” Tom exclaims: “If you knew the joy you’ve given me just by the thought of receiving a request from you, you would realize that simply mentioning it would be the greatest favor you could do for me; because with this dear hand, I would risk my life to help you.”
He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the first time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which before had forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, by rushing all over her face and neck with such violence, that they became all of a scarlet colour. She now first felt a sensation to which she had been before a stranger, and which, when she had leisure to reflect on it, began to acquaint her with some secrets, which the reader, if he doth not already guess them, will know in due time.
He grabbed her hand and eagerly kissed it, marking the first time his lips had ever touched hers. The blood, which had earlier drained from her cheeks, now rushed back with such force that her face and neck turned bright red. For the first time, she experienced a feeling she had never known before, and when she had the chance to think about it, it started revealing some secrets to her—secrets that, if the reader doesn’t already guess, will be revealed in due time.
Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly), informed him that the favour she had to desire of him was, not to lead her father through so many dangers in hunting; for that, from what she had heard, she was terribly frightened every time they went out together, and expected some day or other to see her father brought home with broken limbs. She therefore begged him, for her sake, to be more cautious; and as he well knew Mr Western would follow him, not to ride so madly, nor to take those dangerous leaps for the future.
Sophia, as soon as she could talk (which took a little while), told him that the favor she wanted was for him not to put her father in so many risky situations while hunting. From what she had heard, she was really scared every time they went out together and worried that one day he would come home with broken bones. So, she asked him, for her sake, to be more careful; and since he knew Mr. Western would be following him, to ride more safely and to avoid making those dangerous jumps in the future.
Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after thanking her for her kind compliance with his request, took his leave, and departed highly charmed with his success.
Tom promised to follow her orders; and after thanking her for agreeing to his request, he took his leave, feeling very pleased with his success.
Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. Her sensations, however, the reader's heart (if he or she have any) will better represent than I can, if I had as many mouths as ever poet wished for, to eat, I suppose, those many dainties with which he was so plentifully provided.
Poor Sophia was captivated too, but in a completely different way. Her feelings, though, will be better expressed by the reader's heart (if they have one) than I could, even if I had as many voices as any poet ever wished for, to enjoy, I suppose, those many treats he was so generously given.
It was Mr Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he was drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for he was a great lover of music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, might have passed for a connoisseur; for he always excepted against the finest compositions of Mr Handel. He never relished any music but what was light and airy; and indeed his most favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St George he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others.
It was Mr. Western's routine every afternoon, right after he got drunk, to listen to his daughter play the harpsichord. He loved music and, if he'd lived in the city, he might have been considered a connoisseur; however, he always had something to say about the best works of Mr. Handel. He only enjoyed music that was light and cheerful, and his favorite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St. George was for England, Bobbing Joan, and a few others.
His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and would never willingly have played any but Handel's, was so devoted to her father's pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes to oblige him. However, she would now and then endeavour to lead him into her own taste; and when he required the repetition of his ballads, would answer with a “Nay, dear sir;” and would often beg him to suffer her to play something else.
His daughter, although she was a master of music and would never willingly play anything but Handel's, was so dedicated to her father's enjoyment that she learned all those tunes to please him. However, she would occasionally try to steer him toward her own preferences; when he asked for his favorite ballads again, she would respond with a “No, dear sir,” and often ask him to let her play something different.
This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from his bottle, she played all his favourites three times over without any solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he started from his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her hand was greatly improved. She took this opportunity to execute her promise to Tom; in which she succeeded so well, that the squire declared, if she would give him t'other bout of Old Sir Simon, he would give the gamekeeper his deputation the next morning. Sir Simon was played again and again, till the charms of the music soothed Mr Western to sleep. In the morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement; and his attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any further proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputation.
That evening, after the gentleman had finished his drink, she played all his favorite songs three times without him even asking. This made the good squire so happy that he jumped up from his couch, kissed his daughter, and said her playing had greatly improved. She took this chance to fulfill her promise to Tom, and she did it so well that the squire declared if she played “Old Sir Simon” again, he would give the gamekeeper his appointment the next morning. “Sir Simon” was played over and over until the soothing music put Mr. Western to sleep. The next morning, Sophia made sure to remind him of his promise, and his attorney was immediately called in, instructed to stop any further legal actions, and to prepare the appointment.
Tom's success in this affair soon began to ring over the country, and various were the censures passed upon it; some greatly applauding it as an act of good nature; others sneering, and saying, “No wonder that one idle fellow should love another.” Young Blifil was greatly enraged at it. He had long hated Black George in the same proportion as Jones delighted in him; not from any offence which he had ever received, but from his great love to religion and virtue;—for Black George had the reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. Blifil therefore represented this as flying in Mr Allworthy's face; and declared, with great concern, that it was impossible to find any other motive for doing good to such a wretch.
Tom's success in this situation quickly began to spread across the country, and there were various opinions about it; some praised it as a kind act, while others mocked, saying, “No surprise that one lazy guy would like another.” Young Blifil was really upset about it. He had long resented Black George, just as Jones enjoyed his company; not because of any offense he had received, but because of George’s strong attachment to religion and virtue—since Black George was known to be a bit of a rogue. Blifil therefore portrayed this as disrespecting Mr. Allworthy, and declared, with great concern, that there could be no other reason for helping such a scoundrel.
Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. They were now (especially the latter) become greatly jealous of young Jones with the widow; for he now approached the age of twenty, was really a fine young fellow, and that lady, by her encouragements to him, seemed daily more and more to think him so.
Thwackum and Square were also on the same page. They had both grown extremely jealous of young Jones and the widow. He was now around twenty, a genuinely great guy, and that lady, by showing him encouragement, seemed to think more and more of him each day.
Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He declared himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said the perseverance and integrity of his friendship was highly commendable, and he wished he could see more frequent instances of that virtue.
Allworthy, however, was not swayed by their spite. He stated that he was very pleased with what Jones had done. He remarked that the determination and loyalty of his friendship were highly admirable, and he wished he could witness more frequent examples of that quality.
But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my friend Tom, perhaps because they do not pay more ardent addresses to her, gave now a very different turn to all his actions, and showed them to Mr Allworthy in a light far less agreeable than that gentleman's goodness had hitherto seen them in.
But Fortune, who rarely enjoys people like my friend Tom, probably because they don’t flatter her enough, now took a very different direction with all his actions and revealed them to Mr. Allworthy in a way that was much less favorable than how that kind man had previously viewed them.
Chapter vi. — An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those men of wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies.
There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already conceived some contempt for my heroe, on account of his behaviour to Sophia. The former of these will blame his prudence in neglecting an opportunity to possess himself of Mr Western's fortune; and the latter will no less despise him for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to receive her.
There are two types of people who, unfortunately, have already developed some disdain for my hero because of how he treated Sophia. The first group will criticize his caution in passing up the chance to gain Mr. Western's fortune; the second group will equally look down on him for hesitating with such a lovely girl who seemed eager to run into his arms if he just had the courage to embrace her.
Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of either of these charges (for want of prudence admits of no excuse; and what I shall produce against the latter charge will, I apprehend, be scarce satisfactory); yet, as evidence may sometimes be offered in mitigation, I shall set forth the plain matter of fact, and leave the whole to the reader's determination.
Now, although I might not be able to completely clear him of either of these accusations (because lack of caution has no valid excuse, and what I’ll present for the second accusation will probably be less than convincing), I will lay out the straightforward facts and let the reader make their own judgment.
Mr Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers are not thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly inhabit some human breasts; whose use is not so properly to distinguish right from wrong, as to prompt and incite them to the former, and to restrain and withhold them from the latter.
Mr. Jones had something about him that, although I believe writers don't completely agree on what to call it, definitely lives in some people. Its purpose isn't so much to differentiate right from wrong, but rather to encourage and push them toward the right, while holding them back from the wrong.
This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in the playhouse; for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth what is right, no ravished or friendly spectator is so eager or so loud in his applause: on the contrary, when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt to hiss and explode him.
This could definitely be compared to the well-known trunk-maker in the theater; because whenever the person who has it does the right thing, no captivated or supportive audience member is more eager or vocal in their applause. On the other hand, when he does something wrong, no critic is quicker to boo and condemn him.
To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more familiar to the present age; it may be considered as sitting on its throne in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in his court; where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and condemns according to merit and justice, with a knowledge which nothing escapes, a penetration which nothing can deceive, and an integrity which nothing can corrupt.
To provide a clearer idea of the principle I'm referring to, one more relatable to today's world; it can be seen as sitting on its throne in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this country in his courtroom; where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and condemns based on merit and justice, with an awareness that misses nothing, an insight that can’t be fooled, and an integrity that can’t be compromised.
This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most essential barrier between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if there be some in the human shape who are not under any such dominion, I choose rather to consider them as deserters from us to our neighbours; among whom they will have the fate of deserters, and not be placed in the first rank.
This active principle might be seen as the most important barrier between us and our animal neighbors. If there are some people who don’t seem to be under this principle, I prefer to think of them as having abandoned us for the animals, where they will face the consequences of being deserters, rather than being at the forefront.
Our heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not determine, was very strongly under the guidance of this principle; for though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise without feeling and suffering for it. It was this which taught him, that to repay the civilities and little friendships of hospitality by robbing the house where you have received them, is to be the basest and meanest of thieves. He did not think the baseness of this offence lessened by the height of the injury committed; on the contrary, if to steal another's plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing a man of his whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain.
Our hero, whether he learned this from Thwackum or Square I won’t say, was very much guided by this principle; for although he didn’t always do the right thing, he never acted otherwise without feeling the consequences. It was this that taught him that repaying the kindness and small favors of hospitality by robbing the place where you received them makes you the lowest kind of thief. He didn’t believe the seriousness of this offense was lessened by the severity of the act; on the contrary, if stealing someone’s dishes deserved death and disgrace, he thought it was hard to find a punishment sufficient for stealing a person’s entire fortune, along with their child.
This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of making his fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, is an active principle, and doth not content itself with knowledge or belief only). Had he been greatly enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have thought otherwise; but give me leave to say, there is great difference between running away with a man's daughter from the motive of love, and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.
This principle, therefore, stopped him from considering making his fortune in that way (because this, as I said, is an active principle and doesn’t settle for just knowledge or belief). If he had been really in love with Sophia, he might have thought differently; but let me say, there’s a big difference between running off with a man’s daughter out of love and doing it out of greed.
Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other qualifications, she had made, however, no deep impression on his heart; for which, as it renders him liable to the charge of stupidity, or at least of want of taste, we shall now proceed to account.
Now, even though this young man was aware of Sophia's charms, and really liked her beauty and valued all her other qualities, she hadn't made a strong impression on his heart. This could make him seem stupid or at least lacking in taste, so we’ll explain why.
The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman. Here I question not but the reader will be surprized at our long taciturnity as to this matter; and quite at a loss to divine who this woman was, since we have hitherto not dropt a hint of any one likely to be a rival to Sophia; for as to Mrs Blifil, though we have been obliged to mention some suspicions of her affection for Tom, we have not hitherto given the least latitude for imagining that he had any for her; and, indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of both sexes are too apt to be deficient in their gratitude for that regard with which persons more advanced in years are sometimes so kind to honour them.
The truth is, his heart belonged to another woman. I’m sure the reader will be surprised by our long silence on this topic and quite confused about who this woman is, since we haven’t hinted at anyone who might be a rival to Sophia. Regarding Mrs. Blifil, while we've had to mention some suspicions about her feelings for Tom, we haven't suggested that he has any feelings for her. Unfortunately, I must say that young people, regardless of gender, often lack gratitude for the affection shown to them by those who are older and more experienced.
That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim (commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at present of a wife and five children.
To relieve the reader's suspense, it's worth noting that we've often talked about the family of George Seagrim (commonly known as Black George, the gamekeeper), which currently includes a wife and five children.
The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.
The second of these children was a daughter named Molly, who was considered one of the prettiest girls in the entire country.
Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar souls cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags hide this something from those souls which are not of the vulgar stamp.
Congreve is right in saying that there’s something about true beauty that common souls can’t appreciate; no amount of dirt or rags can conceal this from those who are not of the ordinary kind.
The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till she grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three years older, began first to cast the eyes of affection upon her. And this affection he had fixed on the girl long before he could bring himself to attempt the possession of her person: for though his constitution urged him greatly to this, his principles no less forcibly restrained him. To debauch a young woman, however low her condition was, appeared to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he bore the father, with the compassion he had for his family, very strongly corroborated all such sober reflections; so that he once resolved to get the better of his inclinations, and he actually abstained three whole months without ever going to Seagrim's house, or seeing his daughter.
The beauty of this girl didn't impress Tom at all until she was around sixteen, when Tom, who was almost three years older, began to develop feelings for her. He had feelings for her long before he could bring himself to think about being with her physically: although his body pushed him strongly in that direction, his principles held him back just as forcefully. He saw it as a serious crime to take advantage of a young woman, no matter her background, and the goodwill he felt for her father, along with his compassion for the family, really reinforced his sensible thoughts. So, he decided to overcome his urges and actually stayed away for three whole months without visiting Seagrim's house or seeing his daughter.
Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very fine girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the most amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of feminine in it, and would have become a man at least as well as a woman; for, to say the truth, youth and florid health had a very considerable share in the composition.
Now, although Molly was, as we mentioned, commonly seen as a really great girl, and she was in truth, her beauty wasn’t the most pleasant kind. It actually had very little femininity to it and could have suited a man just as well as a woman; because, to be honest, her youth and vibrant health were a big part of what made her appealing.
Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had she of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.
Nor was her mind more delicate than her appearance. Just as she was tall and strong, her attitude was bold and assertive. She had so little modesty that Jones valued her virtue more than she did herself. Most likely, she liked Tom as much as he liked her, so when she noticed his hesitance, she became even bolder. When she realized he had completely left the house, she found a way to put herself in his path, acting in such a way that the young man must have had either a lot or very little of the hero in him if her efforts had failed. In short, she quickly overcame all of Jones's virtuous resolutions; for although she ultimately acted with some proper reluctance, I prefer to credit her with the victory since, in reality, it was her plan that succeeded.
In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion. He likewise imputed her yielding to the ungovernable force of her love towards him; and this the reader will allow to have been a very natural and probable supposition, as we have more than once mentioned the uncommon comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
In dealing with this situation, I must say, Molly played her role so well that Jones believed he was solely responsible for winning her over and thought of her as someone who had succumbed to the intense force of his attraction. He also attributed her submission to the uncontrollable power of her love for him; and I think readers will agree that this was a very natural and likely assumption, especially since we've noted more than once how unusually handsome he was: in fact, he was one of the most attractive young men around.
As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil's, are solely placed on one single person, whose interest and indulgence alone they consider on every occasion; regarding the good and ill of all others as merely indifferent, any farther than as they contribute to the pleasure or advantage of that person: so there is a different temper of mind which borrows a degree of virtue even from self-love. Such can never receive any kind of satisfaction from another, without loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without making its well-being in some sort necessary to their own ease.
Some people, like Master Blifil, only focus their feelings on one person, considering that person's needs and desires above everything else, while seeing the good and bad of everyone else as unimportant, unless it affects that person's happiness or benefit. In contrast, there are others whose mindset derives a sense of virtue from self-love. These individuals can never feel truly satisfied by someone else without also loving the person who provides that satisfaction, and they make that person's well-being crucial to their own comfort.
Of this latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl as one whose happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on himself. Her beauty was still the object of desire, though greater beauty, or a fresher object, might have been more so; but the little abatement which fruition had occasioned to this was highly overbalanced by the considerations of the affection which she visibly bore him, and of the situation into which he had brought her. The former of these created gratitude, the latter compassion; and both, together with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion which might, without any great violence to the word, be called love; though, perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed.
Our hero belonged to this latter category. He viewed this poor girl as someone whose happiness or suffering depended entirely on him. Her beauty was still an object of desire, even though greater beauty, or a newer interest, might have been more appealing; however, the slight decline in attraction due to familiarity was greatly overshadowed by the affection she clearly felt for him, as well as the situation he had put her in. This affection sparked gratitude, while the situation stirred compassion; together, these feelings, along with his desire for her, ignited a passion that, without stretching the term too much, could be called love, even if it wasn't the most sensible kind initially.
This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might have been reasonably enough interpreted as an encouragement to his addresses; for as he could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was, so no more could he entertain a notion of betraying such a creature as Sophia. And surely, had he given the least encouragement to any passion for that young lady, he must have been absolutely guilty of one or other of those crimes; either of which would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that fate, which, at his first introduction into this history, I mentioned to have been generally predicted as his certain destiny.
This was the real reason for his indifference to Sophia's charms and her behavior, which could have been seen as encouraging his advances. He couldn’t bring himself to abandon his Molly, no matter how poor and helpless she was, nor could he consider betraying someone like Sophia. In fact, if he had shown even the slightest interest in that young lady, he would have been guilty of one of those wrongs; either of which, in my opinion, would justly have led him to the fate that I mentioned at his introduction in this story, which was generally predicted as his inevitable destiny.
Chapter vii. — Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and in order to hide it from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in that sack which Sophia had sent her; though, indeed, that young lady had little apprehension that the poor woman would have been weak enough to let any of her daughters wear it in that form.
Her mother was the first to notice the change in Molly's shape, and to hide it from the neighbors, she foolishly dressed her in that sack Sophia had sent her. Although, to be fair, that young lady had little reason to think the poor woman would be foolish enough to let any of her daughters wear it like that.
Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing her beauty to advantage; for though she could very well bear to contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed in rags; and though she had in that dress conquered the heart of Jones, and perhaps of some others; yet she thought the addition of finery would much improve her charms, and extend her conquests.
Molly was delighted with the first chance she ever had to show off her beauty to its best advantage. Even though she was confident looking at herself in the mirror, even when wearing rags, and had won the heart of Jones—and maybe some others too—she believed that adding some fancy clothes would enhance her charms even more and help her win over more admirers.
Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a new laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs to church with her fan in her hand the very next Sunday. The great are deceived if they imagine they have appropriated ambition and vanity to themselves. These noble qualities flourish as notably in a country church and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the closet. Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly disgrace the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition. Here are plots and circumventions, parties and factions, equal to those which are to be found in courts.
Molly, having dressed herself in this sack, with a new lace cap and some other accessories that Tom had given her, heads to church with her fan in hand the very next Sunday. The powerful are mistaken if they think they've cornered ambition and vanity for themselves. These noble qualities thrive just as much in a country church and churchyard as they do in a drawing room or study. Plans have indeed been made in the vestry that would hardly disgrace a council meeting. Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition. Here are schemes and deceptions, parties and factions, equal to those found in courts.
Nor are the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts than their fair superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes and coquettes. Here are dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy, malice, scandal; in short, everything which is common to the most splendid assembly, or politest circle. Let those of high life, therefore, no longer despise the ignorance of their inferiors; nor the vulgar any longer rail at the vices of their betters.
The women here are just as skilled in the finest feminine arts as their more privileged counterparts. There are prudes and flirtatious women. There’s dressing up and flirting, deceit, jealousy, spite, and gossip; in short, everything that you'd find in the most lavish gathering or the most refined social circle. So let those in high society stop looking down on the ignorance of those beneath them, and let everyday people stop criticizing the flaws of those above them.
Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her neighbours. And then a whisper ran through the whole congregation, “Who is she?” but when she was discovered, such sneering, gigling, tittering, and laughing ensued among the women, that Mr Allworthy was obliged to exert his authority to preserve any decency among them.
Molly had sat down long before her neighbors recognized her. Then a whisper spread through the entire crowd, “Who is she?” But when they figured out who she was, the women burst into sneers, giggles, tittering, and laughter, forcing Mr. Allworthy to use his authority to restore some decency among them.
Chapter viii. — A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and which none but the classical reader can taste.
Mr Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at little greater distance from this church than from his own, he very often came to Divine Service here; and both he and the charming Sophia happened to be present at this time.
Mr. Western owned a property in this parish, and since his house was only a short distance from the church, he often attended services here. Both he and the lovely Sophia happened to be there at this time.
Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied for her simplicity in having dressed herself in that manner, as she saw the envy which it had occasioned among her equals. She no sooner came home than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to her; saying she would provide for her in the family, and might possibly place the girl about her own person, when her own maid, who was now going away, had left her.
Sophia was very pleased by the girl’s beauty, though she felt sorry for her simplicity in dressing that way, especially since she noticed the envy it caused among her peers. As soon as she got home, she called for the gamekeeper and told him to bring his daughter to her. She said she would take care of her in the household and might even have the girl help her personally once her current maid, who was about to leave, was gone.
Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the fault in the shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering voice, “That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to wait on her ladyship, as she had never been at service.” “No matter for that,” says Sophia; “she will soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and am resolved to try her.”
Poor Seagrim was shocked by this; he knew all too well his daughter's flaws. He replied, stammering, "I’m afraid Molly might be too clumsy to attend to her ladyship since she’s never worked in service before." "That’s not a concern," Sophia said. "She'll get better quickly. I like her, and I’m determined to give her a chance."
Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came thither he found his house in some confusion. So great envy had this sack occasioned, that when Mr Allworthy and the other gentry were gone from church, the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar; and, having vented itself at first in opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile weapons; which, though from their plastic nature they threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to bear this treatment tamely. Having therefore—but hold, as we are diffident of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power to our assistance.
Black George now went to his wife, whose wise advice he relied on to get him out of this mess; but when he arrived, he found his home in some chaos. The jealousy caused by this sack was so intense that when Mr. Allworthy and the other gentlemen left church, the anger, which had been bottled up, broke out into an uproar. It started with insults, laughter, hissing, and gestures, but eventually escalated to throwing things. Though these objects posed no real threat to life or limb due to their soft nature, they were still quite frightening to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much spirit to tolerate this kind of treatment. So, having decided to take action—but wait, since we're unsure of our own skills, let's call on a higher authority for help.
Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are not in the power of all.
You Muses, whoever you are, who enjoy singing about battles, especially you who once told the story of the bloodshed in the fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if you haven't been starved like your friend Butler, help me out on this important occasion. Not everything is within everyone's control.
As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls, screams, and other different sounds as there were persons, or indeed passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion, rushed among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
Like a huge herd of cows in a wealthy farmer's yard, when they’re being milked and they hear their calves in the distance, lamenting the theft happening to them, they roar and bellow; just like that, the crowd from Somerset made a loud uproar, filled with as many shouts, screams, and different sounds as there were people, or even feelings among them: some were driven by anger, others were scared, and some were just looking for a good time; but mainly, Envy, the sister of Satan and his constant companion, surged through the crowd, escalating the fury of the women; as soon as they reached Molly, they started throwing dirt and trash at her.
Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army of the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their general, gave back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for the churchyard was the field of battle, where there was to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged it with such fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the taylor took presently measure of his length on the ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more valuable of the two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty heroe and heroine.
Molly, having tried in vain to make a graceful exit, turned around; and grabbing ragged Bess, who was at the front of the enemy, she instantly brought her down to the ground. The entire enemy army (which numbered nearly a hundred), seeing their leader's fate, stepped back several paces and retreated behind a freshly dug grave; for the churchyard was the battlefield, where a funeral was scheduled for that very evening. Molly pressed on with her victory, and picking up a skull that lay at the edge of the grave, hurled it with such force that it struck a tailor on the head. The two skulls produced a similar hollow sound upon impact, and the tailor immediately sank to the ground, lying next to the skulls, prompting a debate over which was more valuable. Molly then grabbed a thigh bone, joined the fleeing ranks, and swung her blows freely on both sides, toppling many a mighty hero and heroine.
Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished, where he first learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and immediately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and fell with almost as much noise as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket, which Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled unfortunately over a tombstone, which catching hold of her ungartered stocking inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels the superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the ground; where, oh perverse fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith's son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms in the church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the daughter of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves.
Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this tragic day. First, Jemmy Tweedle felt the terrible blow on the back of his head. He was nurtured by the pleasant banks of the sweetly winding Stour, where he first learned to sing, entertaining the local girls and guys at wakes and fairs, while he jumped around, playing his own tunes. How useless is his fiddle now! He lies thumping the green ground with his body. Next, old Echepole, the pig killer, received a blow to his forehead from our warrior heroine and immediately collapsed. He was a hefty guy, and his fall was almost as loud as a house coming down. His tobacco box dropped from his pocket at the same time, which Molly picked up as rightful loot. Then Kate of the Mill unfortunately tripped over a tombstone, which caught her unfastened stocking and turned nature upside down, giving her heels the upper hand over her head. Betty Pippin and her lover, young Roger, both fell to the ground; where, oh cruel fate! she greeted the earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the blacksmith's son, was the next target of her wrath. He was a skilled worker and made excellent pattens; in fact, the patten that knocked him down was made by him. Had he been singing psalms in church at that moment, he might have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the farmer's daughter; John Giddish, also a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose father runs the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and many others of lesser importance were rolling among the graves.
Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of them in their flight overthrew each other.
Not that Molly's strong arm could reach all of them; many of them ended up knocking each other down in their flight.
But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was the right side, hastily turned about: for now Goody Brown—whom Zekiel Brown caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of Mars. The trophies of both these her husband always bore about on his head and face; for if ever human head did by its horns display the amorous glories of a wife, Zekiel's did; nor did his well-scratched face less denote her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind.
But now Fortune, worried that she had acted out of character and had supported the same side for too long—especially since it was the right side—quickly changed direction. Goody Brown, whom Zekiel Brown held in his arms, was not just the object of his affection; half the town felt the same way. She was well-known in matters of love and also in those of war. Her husband proudly showcased the signs of both in his appearance; if any man's horns represented the passionate glories of his wife, it was Zekiel's. His well-scratched face was a testament to her skills—or rather, her sharpness—in different areas.
No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopt short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: “Ye Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not ashamed thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose her, I myself and Joan Top here will have the honour of the victory.” Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand, she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that the blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was not idle this while. She soon removed the clout from the head of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one hand, with the other she caused another bloody stream to issue forth from the nostrils of the enemy.
No longer could this Amazon tolerate the disgraceful retreat of her group. She stopped abruptly and, calling out to all who were running away, said, “You Somersetshire men, or more like Somersetshire women, aren’t you ashamed to run from a single woman? If no one else will stand up to her, then I and Joan Top here will take on the honor of the victory.” After saying this, she charged at Molly Seagrim and easily wrenched the thigh bone from her hand, also yanking off her cap. Then, grabbing Molly's hair with her left hand, she furiously attacked her in the face with her right, causing blood to start trickling from her nose. Molly wasn't just standing around either. She quickly stripped the cloth from Goody Brown’s head, and then, while holding onto her hair with one hand, she used the other to make a bloody stream flow from her enemy's nostrils.
When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was against the garments. In this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very few minutes they were both naked to the middle.
When each of the fighters had taken enough hair from their opponent, their next target was the clothes. They were so aggressive in this attack that within just a few minutes, both of them were bare from the waist up.
It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not the same with them as among men; but though they may seem a little to deviate from their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have observed, they never so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of them. This, I know, some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination than the males. On which account they apply to the nose, as to the part whence blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as well as ill-natured supposition.
It’s fortunate for women that the battleground isn’t the same for them as it is for men; although they might slightly stray from societal expectations when they go into a fight, I’ve noticed that they never forget enough to attack each other’s chests, where just a few hits could be deadly for most of them. Some people think this is because women are more inclined to violence than men. For that reason, they often aim for the nose since it’s the spot where blood can be drawn most easily; but that feels like a stretch and a harsh assumption.
Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as well in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an antient piece of parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a considerable while without doing her any great damage.
Goody Brown had a clear advantage over Molly in this regard; for the former had no breasts at all, her chest (if you can call it that), in color and many other ways, looking exactly like an old piece of parchment, which anyone could have drummed on for quite some time without causing her much harm.
Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently formed in those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this instant put an immediate end to the bloody scene.
Molly, despite her current unhappy situation, was shaped differently in those areas, and might have sparked Brown's envy enough to strike her down, if Tom Jones hadn't shown up just in time to stop the violent scene.
This accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, Master Blifil, and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the air, and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his mind (not idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure), desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another way than they had at first purposed. This motion being complied with, brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard.
This accident was fortunately due to Mr. Square; he, Master Blifil, and Jones had gotten on their horses after church to enjoy the fresh air and had ridden about a quarter of a mile when Square, changing his mind (not without reason, which we will explain as soon as we have the time), asked the young gentlemen to ride a different way than they had initially planned. This request meant they had to return to the churchyard.
Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and two women in the posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his horse to enquire what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head, answered him: “I don't know, measter, un't I; an't please your honour, here hath been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.”
Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a crowd gathered, and two women in the position we left the fighters, stopped his horse to ask what was going on. A local guy, scratching his head, replied, “I don’t know, sir; if it pleases your honor, I believe there’s been a fight between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.”
“Who, who?” cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer, having discovered the features of his Molly through all the discomposure in which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and, leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into tears, told him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his rage—for, in reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, which he might not observe—he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip; and then flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his blows so profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the muse (which the good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon her, as she hath so lately been violently sweated), it would be impossible for me to recount the horse-whipping of that day.
“Who is it?” Tom calls out, but without waiting for a response, having recognized Molly’s features despite her obvious distress, he quickly dismounted, let his horse go, and jumped over the wall to run to her. She then burst into tears and told him how badly she had been treated. In his anger, forgetting Goody Brown's gender or perhaps not realizing it—since she really had no feminine look except for the petticoat, which he might have missed—he gave her a couple of lashes with his horsewhip; then, charging at the mob, all of whom Moll accused, he swung his fists furiously in all directions. Unless I want to call on the muse again (which the kind reader might think is a bit much for her, considering she just went through an intense effort), it would be impossible for me to describe the horsewhipping that day.
Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer's heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world could have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition which must give both me and my reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been concerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round her, put his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face as well as he could with his handkerchief, and called out to the servant to ride as fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion, that he might carry her safe home.
Having searched the entire enemy coast, just like any of Homer's heroes or Don Quixote or any knight-errant could have done, he returned to Molly, who was in a state that would pain both me and my reader if described here. Tom was frantic, beating his chest, tearing his hair, stomping on the ground, and swearing revenge on everyone involved. He then took off his coat and wrapped it around her, placed his hat on her head, wiped the blood from her face as best as he could with his handkerchief, and shouted for the servant to hurry and get a side-saddle or a pillion so he could carry her home safely.
Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had only one with them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones, he was obliged to comply.
Master Blifil disagreed with sending away the servant since they only had one with them; however, since Square supported Jones's order, he had no choice but to go along with it.
The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and Molly, having collected her rags as well as she could, was placed behind him. In which manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones attending.
The servant came back quickly with the pillion, and Molly, after gathering her rags as best she could, was situated behind him. This is how she was taken home, with Square, Blifil, and Jones accompanying them.
Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and whispered her, that he would return in the evening, quitted his Molly, and rode on after his companions.
Here Jones, after getting his coat, gave her a sneaky kiss and whispered to her that he would be back in the evening, said goodbye to his Molly, and rode off to catch up with his friends.
Chapter ix. — Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags, than her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particularly her eldest sister, who told her she was well enough served. “How had she the assurance to wear a gown which young Madam Western had given to mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think,” says she, “I myself have the best right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your beauty. I suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of us.”—“Hand her down the bit of glass from over the cupboard,” cries another; “I'd wash the blood from my face before I talked of my beauty.”—“You'd better have minded what the parson says,” cries the eldest, “and not a harkened after men voke.”—“Indeed, child, and so she had,” says the mother, sobbing: “she hath brought a disgrace upon us all. She's the vurst of the vamily that ever was a whore.”
Molly had barely put on her usual rags when her sisters started attacking her, especially the oldest sister, who told her she got what she deserved. “How could you dare wear the dress that young Madam Western gave to mom! If anyone should wear it, I think I have the best right; but I bet you think it belongs to your looks. You probably think you’re prettier than any of us.” — “Hand me that piece of glass from over the cupboard,” another one shouted; “I'd clean the blood off my face before I talked about my looks.” — “You’d better listen to what the parson says,” the oldest replied, “and stop chasing after men.” — “Honestly, dear, she really should have," the mother said, crying: “She’s brought shame on all of us. She’s the first in the family to ever be a disgrace.”
“You need not upbraid me with that, mother,” cries Molly; “you yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you was married.”
“You don’t need to blame me for that, mom,” yells Molly; “you gave birth to my sister just a week after you got married.”
“Yes, hussy,” answered the enraged mother, “so I was, and what was the mighty matter of that? I was made an honest woman then; and if you was to be made an honest woman, I should not be angry; but you must have to doing with a gentleman, you nasty slut; you will have a bastard, hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say of me.”
“Yes, you little hussy,” the furious mother replied, “and so what’s the big deal about that? I became an honest woman then; and if you were to become an honest woman, I wouldn’t be upset; but you’re involved with some gentleman, you filthy slut; you’re going to end up with a bastard, hussy, you will; and I challenge anyone to say that about me.”
In this situation Black George found his family, when he came home for the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were all of them talking together, and most of them crying, it was some time before he could get an opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such an interval occurred, he acquainted the company with what Sophia had said to him.
In this situation, Black George found his family when he returned home for the reason mentioned earlier. His wife and three daughters were all talking at once, and most of them were crying, so it took a while before he could get a chance to speak. But as soon as there was a pause, he told them what Sophia had said to him.
Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. “Here,” says she, “you have brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What will madam say to that big belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this day!”
Goody Seagrim then started to scold her daughter again. “Look,” she said, “you’ve really put us in a tough spot. What is she going to say about that big belly? I can't believe I’m witnessing this day!”
Molly answered with great spirit, “And what is this mighty place which you have got for me, father?” (for he had not well understood the phrase used by Sophia of being about her person). “I suppose it is to be under the cook; but I shan't wash dishes for anybody. My gentleman will provide better for me. See what he hath given me this afternoon. He hath promised I shall never want money; and you shan't want money neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know when you are well.” And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her mother one of them.
Molly replied enthusiastically, “So what is this impressive place you’ve got for me, Dad?” (since he hadn’t quite understood the term Sophia used about being around her). “I assume I’ll be working under the cook, but I’m not going to wash dishes for anyone. My gentleman will take better care of me. Look at what he gave me this afternoon. He promised I’ll never be short on cash; and you won’t be short on cash either, Mom, if you keep quiet and know when to be happy.” Saying this, she pulled out several guineas and handed one to her mother.
The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her temper began (such is the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified. “Why, husband,” says she, “would any but such a blockhead as you not have enquired what place this was before he had accepted it? Perhaps, as Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I don't care my daughter should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a clergyman, died worse than nothing, and so could not give me a shilling of potion, to undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet I would have you to know, I have a spirit above all them things. Marry come up! it would better become Madam Western to look at home, and remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my family, for aught I know, might ride in their coaches, when the grandfathers of some voke walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter, when she sent us that old gownd; some of my family would not have picked up such rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled upon.—The parish need not have been in such a fluster with Molly. You might have told them, child, your grandmother wore better things new out of the shop.”
The good woman immediately felt the gold in her hand, and her mood (such is the power of that remedy) started to soften. “Why, husband,” she said, “would anyone but a fool like you not have asked where this was from before accepting it? Maybe, as Molly says, it could be from the kitchen; and honestly, I don’t mind if my daughter ends up as a kitchen maid; because, even though I’m poor, I’m a lady. And although I had to settle for marrying a poor man since my father, a clergyman, died worse than broke and couldn’t leave me a penny of inheritance, I want you to know that I have a spirit above all that nonsense. Honestly! Madam Western should look to herself and remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my family, for all I know, might have traveled in their own carriages while the grandfathers of some common folks walked around. I bet she thinks she did something impressive when she sent us that old gown; some of my family wouldn’t have picked up such rags off the street, but poor people are always looked down on. The parish didn’t need to get so worked up about Molly. You could have told them, sweetheart, that your grandmother wore better things fresh out of the shop.”
“Well, but consider,” cried George, “what answer shall I make to madam?”
“Well, think about it,” George exclaimed, “what should I say to her?”
“I don't know what answer,” says she; “you are always bringing your family into one quandary or other. Do you remember when you shot the partridge, the occasion of all our misfortunes? Did not I advise you never to go into Squire Western's manor? Did not I tell you many a good year ago what would come of it? But you would have your own headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she says; “you always bring your family into one mess or another. Do you remember when you shot the partridge, the cause of all our troubles? Didn’t I warn you never to go into Squire Western’s manor? Didn’t I tell you years ago what would happen? But you insisted on doing things your own stubborn way; yes, you did, you rascal.”
Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and nothing choleric nor rash; yet did he bear about him something of what the antients called the irascible, and which his wife, if she had been endowed with much wisdom, would have feared. He had long experienced, that when the storm grew very high, arguments were but wind, which served rather to increase, than to abate it. He was therefore seldom unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, as he had often essayed, and which the word villain served as a hint for his applying.
Black George was generally a calm guy, not quick to anger or reckless; however, he did have a touch of what the ancients referred to as being irritable, which his wife, if she had any sense, would have been wary of. He had learned over time that when things got really heated, arguing just added fuel to the fire instead of calming things down. So, he usually carried a small switch with him, a surprisingly effective remedy that he had often tried out, and the word "villain" was a cue for him to put it to use.
No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had immediate recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is usual in all very efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to heighten and inflame the disease, soon produced a total calm, and restored the patient to perfect ease and tranquillity.
No sooner had this symptom appeared than he quickly turned to the remedy mentioned, which, as is often the case with very effective medicines, initially seemed to worsen the condition. However, it soon brought complete relief and restored the patient to a state of perfect comfort and peace.
This is, however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very robust constitution to digest, and is therefore proper only for the vulgar, unless in one single instance, viz., where superiority of birth breaks out; in which case, we should not think it very improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the application was not in itself so base, that, like certain applications of the physical kind which need not be mentioned, it so much degrades and contaminates the hand employed in it, that no gentleman should endure the thought of anything so low and detestable.
This is, after all, a kind of harsh remedy that requires a strong constitution to handle, and is therefore only suitable for the common folk, unless in one specific case, which is when someone of higher birth acts out; in that situation, we shouldn't find it inappropriate for any husband to apply it, unless the application itself is so degrading and disgusting that, like certain physical actions we don't need to mention, it greatly devalues and taints the person doing it, making it something no gentleman should even consider.
The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet; for the virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is often communicated through one person to many others, who are not touched by the instrument. To say the truth, as they both operate by friction, it may be doubted whether there is not something analogous between them, of which Mr Freke would do well to enquire, before he publishes the next edition of his book.
The whole family was soon in a state of complete silence; for this medicine, like electricity, often spreads its effects from one person to many others who aren’t directly affected by it. Honestly, since they both work through friction, it might be worth considering whether there's some similarity between them, something Mr. Freke should look into before he releases the next edition of his book.
A council was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly still persisting that she would not go to service, it was at length resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western, and endeavour to procure the place for her eldest daughter, who declared great readiness to accept it: but Fortune, who seems to have been an enemy of this little family, afterwards put a stop to her promotion.
A council was called, where, after a lot of discussions, Molly stuck to her decision not to go into service. Eventually, they decided that Goody Seagrim should approach Miss Western and try to secure the position for her oldest daughter, who was eager to take it. However, fate, which seemed to be against this little family, later intervened and prevented her from getting the job.
Chapter x. — A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration of Squire Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it made by her.
The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western, and was at his return invited by that gentleman to dinner.
The next morning, Tom Jones went hunting with Mr. Western, and when they returned, that gentleman invited him to dinner.
The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly levelled at our heroe; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet knew her own intention; but if she had any design of charming him, she now succeeded.
The lovely Sophia stood out that day with more cheerfulness and energy than usual. She was definitely aiming her charm at our hero; though, I think she herself barely realized her own intention. But if she meant to win him over, she succeeded.
Mr Supple, the curate of Mr Allworthy's parish, made one of the company. He was a good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable for his great taciturnity at table, though his mouth was never shut at it. In short, he had one of the best appetites in the world. However, the cloth was no sooner taken away, than he always made sufficient amends for his silence: for he was a very hearty fellow; and his conversation was often entertaining, never offensive.
Mr. Supple, the curate of Mr. Allworthy's parish, was part of the group. He was a kind-hearted and decent man, but he was especially known for being quiet at the table, even though he never truly stopped talking. In short, he had one of the biggest appetites around. However, once the meal was over, he made up for his earlier silence with his enthusiasm: he was a lively guy, and his conversations were often engaging and never unpleasant.
At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had brought some news with him, and was beginning to tell, that he came that moment from Mr Allworthy's, when the sight of the roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say grace, and to declare he must pay his respect to the baronet, for so he called the sirloin.
When he first arrived, just before the roast beef was brought out, he hinted that he had some news to share. He was about to say he had just come from Mr. Allworthy's when the sight of the roast beef left him speechless, allowing him only to say grace and mention he needed to show respect to the baronet, which is what he called the sirloin.
When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began as follows: “I believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman at church yesterday at even-song, who was drest in one of your outlandish garments; I think I have seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in the country, such dresses are
When dinner was over, reminded by Sophia about his news, he started with: “I believe, lady, you noticed a young woman at church yesterday during evening service, who was wearing one of your unusual outfits; I think I've seen you in something like that. However, in the countryside, such dresses are
Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.
Rare bird on earth, very similar to a black swan.
That is, madam, as much as to say, 'A rare bird upon the earth, and very like a black swan.' The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to what I was relating. I was saying such garments are rare sights in the country; and perchance, too, it was thought the more rare, respect being had to the person who wore it, who, they tell me, is the daughter of Black George, your worship's gamekeeper, whose sufferings, I should have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much confusion in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had not silenced it, it would have interrupted the service: for I was once about to stop in the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit, nevertheless, after prayer was over, and I was departed home, this occasioned a battle in the churchyard, where, amongst other mischief, the head of a travelling fidler was very much broken. This morning the fidler came to Squire Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a sudden the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship's pardon) to be, as it were, at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded of her who was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response. So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I departed.”
That is, ma'am, saying, 'A rare bird on earth, very much like a black swan.' The verse is from Juvenal. But to get back to what I was saying. I mentioned that such outfits are uncommon in the countryside; and perhaps it was considered even more rare, considering the person wearing it, who, I've heard, is the daughter of Black George, your worship's gamekeeper, whose hardships, I would have thought, might have given him more sense than to dress his girls in such flashy clothing. She caused such a stir in the congregation that if Squire Allworthy hadn't quieted it down, it would have disrupted the service: I was nearly ready to stop in the middle of the first lesson. However, after the prayer was finished and I headed home, this led to a fight in the churchyard, where, among other chaos, a traveling fiddler's head was badly beaten. This morning, the fiddler went to Squire Allworthy for a warrant, and the girl was brought before him. The squire was inclined to settle the matter; then suddenly the girl appeared (I beg your ladyship's pardon) as if she were about to give birth to an illegitimate child. The squire asked her who the father was, but she stubbornly refused to respond. He was about to send her to Bridewell when I left.
“And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?” cries Western; “I thought it might have been some public matter, something about the nation.”
“And is it just that a girl had a baby out of wedlock that you’ve got to share, doctor?” shouts Western; “I thought it might be something more significant, something concerning the country.”
“I am afraid it is too common, indeed,” answered the parson; “but I thought the whole story altogether deserved commemorating. As to national matters, your worship knows them best. My concerns extend no farther than my own parish.”
“I’m afraid it’s pretty common, actually,” replied the parson; “but I thought the whole story was worth remembering. As for national issues, your honor knows them best. My concerns don’t go beyond my own parish.”
“Why, ay,” says the squire, “I believe I do know a little of that matter, as you say. But, come, Tommy, drink about; the bottle stands with you.”
“Yeah,” says the squire, “I think I know a bit about that, as you say. But, come on, Tommy, let's drink; the bottle's with you.”
Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular business; and getting up from table, escaped the clutches of the squire, who was rising to stop him, and went off with very little ceremony.
Tom asked to be excused because he had something important to take care of. He got up from the table and managed to avoid the squire, who was getting up to stop him, and left without much fuss.
The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and then turning to the parson, he cried out, “I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is certainly the father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember how he recommended the veather o' her to me. D—n un, what a sly b—ch 'tis. Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, Tom is the veather of the bastard.”
The squire gave him a good curse as he left; then turning to the parson, he shouted, “I get it: I get it. Tom is definitely the father of this bastard. Damn it, parson, you remember how he talked her up to me. Damn him, what a sneaky woman she is. Yep, as sure as anything, Tom is the father of the bastard.”
“I should be very sorry for that,” says the parson.
“I would really regret that,” says the pastor.
“Why sorry,” cries the squire: “Where is the mighty matter o't? What, I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got a bastard? Pox! more good luck's thine? for I warrant hast a done a therefore many's the good time and often.”
“Why apologize?” yells the squire. “What’s the big deal? What, do you think you’re the only one who’s ever had a kid out of wedlock? Seriously! You’re just lucky, aren’t you? I bet you’ve had plenty of good times!”
“Your worship is pleased to be jocular,” answered the parson; “but I do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the action—though that surely is to be greatly deprecated—but I fear his unrighteousness may injure him with Mr Allworthy. And truly I must say, though he hath the character of being a little wild, I never saw any harm in the young man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your worship now mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his responses at church; but altogether he seems
"You're joking, aren't you?" replied the parson. "But I'm not just criticizing the sinfulness of the action—although that is definitely something to be concerned about—I'm worried that his wrongdoing might get him on Mr. Allworthy's bad side. Honestly, I have to say, even though he has a reputation for being a bit wild, I've never seen anything wrong with the young man; and I can't say I've heard of any issues, except for what you've just brought up. I do wish he was a bit more consistent in his responses at church, but overall he seems
Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris.
Innocent face of an innocent boy.
That is a classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into English, is, `a lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous modesty;' for this was a virtue in great repute both among the Latins and Greeks. I must say, the young gentleman (for so I think I may call him, notwithstanding his birth) appears to me a very modest, civil lad, and I should be sorry that he should do himself any injury in Squire Allworthy's opinion.”
That’s a classic line, young lady; when translated into English, it means 'a boy with an honest face and genuine modesty;' because this was a quality highly valued by both the Romans and Greeks. I have to say, the young man (as I think I can call him, despite his background) seems like a very humble, polite guy, and I would be upset if he harmed his reputation in Squire Allworthy's eyes.
“Poogh!” says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Why, Allworthy loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country know whose son Tom is? You must talk to another person in that manner. I remember Allworthy at college.”
“Poogh!” says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Look, Allworthy loves a woman himself. Doesn’t everyone in the country know whose son Tom is? You need to speak to someone else like that. I remember Allworthy from college.”
“I thought,” said the parson, “he had never been at the university.”
“I thought,” said the pastor, “he had never been to college.”
“Yes, yes, he was,” says the squire: “and many a wench have we two had together. As arrant a whore-master as any within five miles o'un. No, no. It will do'n no harm with he, assure yourself; nor with anybody else. Ask Sophy there—You have not the worse opinion of a young fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the women will like un the better for't.”
“Yes, yes, he was,” says the squire. “And we've had plenty of girls together. Just as much of a player as anyone within five miles of here. No, no. It won't hurt him, trust me; nor anyone else. Ask Sophy there—You don't think any less of a young guy for having a kid out of wedlock, do you, girl? No, no, the women will actually like him more for it.”
This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom's colour change at the parson's story; and that, with his hasty and abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason to think her father's suspicion not groundless. Her heart now at once discovered the great secret to her which it had been so long disclosing by little and little; and she found herself highly interested in this matter. In such a situation, her father's malapert question rushing suddenly upon her, produced some symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious heart; but, to do the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she rose therefore from her chair, and told him a hint from him was always sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to leave the room, and then with great gravity of countenance remarked, “That it was better to see a daughter over-modest than over-forward;”—a sentiment which was highly applauded by the parson.
This was a tough question for poor Sophia. She had noticed Tom's change in color during the parson's story, and his quick and abrupt exit gave her enough reason to believe her father's suspicions weren't unfounded. Her heart suddenly revealed to her the big secret it had been slowly uncovering for a while, and she realized she was deeply invested in the situation. In that moment, her father's blunt question caught her off guard and led to some reactions that might have worried a suspicious person; however, to give the squire his due, that was not his intention. When she got up from her chair and mentioned that just a hint from him was enough to make her leave, he allowed her to exit the room and then, with a serious expression, stated, “It’s better to have a daughter who is too modest than one who is too forward”—a sentiment that the parson highly praised.
There now ensued between the squire and the parson a most excellent political discourse, framed out of newspapers and political pamphlets; in which they made a libation of four bottles of wine to the good of their country: and then, the squire being fast asleep, the parson lighted his pipe, mounted his horse, and rode home.
A great political conversation followed between the squire and the parson, filled with ideas from newspapers and political pamphlets. They celebrated the good of their country by finishing off four bottles of wine. Then, after the squire fell fast asleep, the parson lit his pipe, got on his horse, and rode home.
When the squire had finished his half-hour's nap, he summoned his daughter to her harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that evening, on account of a violent head-ache. This remission was presently granted; for indeed she seldom had occasion to ask him twice, as he loved her with such ardent affection, that, by gratifying her, he commonly conveyed the highest gratification to himself. She was really, what he frequently called her, his little darling, and she well deserved to be so; for she returned all his affection in the most ample manner. She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him in all things; and this her love made not only easy, but so delightful, that when one of her companions laughed at her for placing so much merit in such scrupulous obedience, as that young lady called it, Sophia answered, “You mistake me, madam, if you think I value myself upon this account; for besides that I am barely discharging my duty, I am likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight equal to that of contributing to my father's happiness; and if I value myself, my dear, it is on having this power, and not on executing it.”
When the squire finished his half-hour nap, he called his daughter to play the harpsichord. However, she asked to be excused that evening because she had a bad headache. He quickly granted her request since she rarely had to ask him twice; he loved her so deeply that making her happy often brought him the greatest joy. She was truly what he often called her, his little darling, and she deserved that title as she returned his affection wholeheartedly. She showed unwavering loyalty to him in everything, and her love made it not just easy but so enjoyable that when one of her friends teased her for being so obedient, as that young lady put it, Sophia responded, “You misunderstand me, madam, if you think I take pride in this; because aside from fulfilling my duty, I am also making myself happy. I can honestly say there’s no greater joy for me than contributing to my father’s happiness, and if I take pride in anything, it’s having that ability, not in doing it.”
This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of tasting this evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused from her attendance at the harpsichord, but likewise begged that he would suffer her to absent herself from supper. To this request likewise the squire agreed, though not without some reluctance; for he scarce ever permitted her to be out of his sight, unless when he was engaged with his horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he yielded to the desire of his daughter, though the poor man was at the same time obliged to avoid his own company (if I may so express myself), by sending for a neighbouring farmer to sit with him.
This was a satisfaction that poor Sophia couldn’t enjoy this evening. She not only wanted to skip her turn at the harpsichord, but also asked if she could miss supper. The squire agreed to her request, although with some hesitation; he rarely allowed her out of his sight, unless he was busy with his horses, dogs, or drinking. Still, he gave in to his daughter's wish, even though he had to avoid being alone (if I can put it that way) by calling in a nearby farmer to keep him company.
Chapter xi. — The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into nature.
Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr Western's horses that morning in the chase; so that having no horse of his own in the squire's stable, he was obliged to go home on foot: this he did so expeditiously that he ran upwards of three miles within the half-hour.
Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr. Western's horses that morning during the hunt; since he didn't have a horse of his own at the squire's stable, he had to walk home. He did this so quickly that he covered more than three miles in half an hour.
Just as he arrived at Mr Allworthy's outward gate, he met the constable and company with Molly in their possession, whom they were conducting to that house where the inferior sort of people may learn one good lesson, viz., respect and deference to their superiors; since it must show them the wide distinction Fortune intends between those persons who are to be corrected for their faults, and those who are not; which lesson if they do not learn, I am afraid they very rarely learn any other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the house of correction.
Just as he reached Mr. Allworthy’s front gate, he ran into the constable and his team with Molly in their custody, who they were taking to that place where the less fortunate can learn an important lesson: respect and deference to those above them. It’s meant to demonstrate the clear distinction Fortune makes between those who will be punished for their mistakes and those who won’t. If they don’t grasp this lesson, I fear they seldom learn any other valuable lessons or improve their morals at the correctional facility.
A lawyer may perhaps think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a little in this instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here was no regular information before him, whether his conduct was strictly regular. However, as his intention was truly upright, he ought to be excused in foro conscientiae; since so many arbitrary acts are daily committed by magistrates who have not this excuse to plead for themselves.
A lawyer might think Mr. Allworthy went a bit overboard with his authority in this situation. Honestly, I wonder if his actions were completely appropriate since he didn't have any formal information to rely on. However, because his intentions were genuinely good, he should be pardoned in foro conscientiae, considering that many arbitrary decisions are made daily by magistrates who don’t have this justification to defend themselves.
Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were proceeding (indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than he caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly before them all, swore he would murder the first man who offered to lay hold of her. He bid her dry her eyes and be comforted; for, wherever she went, he would accompany her. Then turning to the constable, who stood trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to return with him for a moment only to his father (for so he now called Allworthy); for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he had alledged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be discharged.
Tom was just told by the constable where they were going (though he pretty much figured it out himself), when he grabbed Molly in his arms and, hugging her tightly in front of everyone, swore he would kill the first guy who tried to grab her. He told her to dry her tears and be comforted because he would go wherever she went. Then, turning to the constable, who was standing there nervously with his hat off, he kindly asked him to come back with him for just a moment to see his father (that’s what he now called Allworthy); he assured him that once he explained what he needed to say to help her, she would be let go.
The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his prisoner had Tom demanded her, very readily consented to this request. So back they all went into Mr Allworthy's hall; where Tom desired them to stay till his return, and then went himself in pursuit of the good man. As soon as he was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and having begged a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the father of the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to have compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any guilt in the case, it lay principally at his door.
The constable, who I’m sure would have turned over his prisoner if Tom had asked for her, quickly agreed to this request. So they all went back into Mr. Allworthy's hall, where Tom asked them to wait for him to return, and then he set off to find the good man. Once he found him, Tom fell at his feet and, after asking for a moment of his attention, confessed that he was the father of the child Molly was carrying. He begged him to have compassion for the poor girl and to remember that if there was any wrongdoing in this situation, it was mainly his fault.
“If there is any guilt in the case!” answered Allworthy warmly: “Are you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine to doubt whether the breaking the laws of God and man, the corrupting and ruining a poor girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it doth lie principally upon you; and so heavy it is, that you ought to expect it should crush you.”
“If there’s any guilt in this situation!” Allworthy replied passionately. “Are you really such a reckless and shameless person that you can doubt whether breaking the laws of God and man, and corrupting and ruining a poor girl, is a crime? I admit, the guilt primarily falls on you; and it’s so significant that you should expect it to weigh you down.”
“Whatever may be my fate,” says Tom, “let me succeed in my intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For Heaven's sake, sir, revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a place which must unavoidably prove her destruction.”
“Whatever happens to me,” says Tom, “please let me help the poor girl. I admit I've led her astray! But whether she will be ruined depends on you. For heaven's sake, sir, take back your warrant and don’t send her to a place that will definitely destroy her.”
Allworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was no occasion; for he had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon his goodness, had brought them all back into his hall, where they now waited his final resolution, which upon his knees he besought him might be in favour of the girl; that she might be permitted to go home to her parents, and not be exposed to a greater degree of shame and scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. “I know,” said he, “that is too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will endeavour to make amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter the goodness to forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it.”
Allworthy asked him to immediately call a servant. Tom replied that it wasn't necessary; he had run into them at the gate and, trusting in Allworthy's kindness, had brought them all back to his hall. They were now waiting for his final decision, which he pleaded for on his knees, asking that it be in favor of the girl—that she be allowed to go home to her parents and not face more shame and scorn than she already had to endure. “I know,” he said, “that it's asking too much. I realize I'm the wicked cause of this. I will try to make it right, if I can; and if you find it in your heart to forgive me later, I hope to earn it.”
Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, “Well, I will discharge my mittimus.—You may send the constable to me.” He was instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl.
Allworthy paused for a moment and finally said, “Alright, I’ll lift my order for your arrest. You can send the constable to me.” He was immediately called, released, and so was the girl.
It will be believed that Mr Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very severe lecture on this occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it here, as we have faithfully transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in the first book, most of which may be applied to the men, equally with the women. So sensible an effect had these reproofs on the young man, who was no hardened sinner, that he retired to his own room, where he passed the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.
It should be noted that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom a pretty serious lecture this time; however, there’s no need to include it here since we've already laid out what he said to Jenny Jones in the first book, most of which applies to men just as much as it does to women. These criticisms had a strong impact on the young man, who wasn’t a hardened sinner, prompting him to go back to his room where he spent the evening alone, deep in sad thought.
Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of Jones; for notwithstanding the assertions of Mr Western, it is certain this worthy man had never indulged himself in any loose pleasures with women, and greatly condemned the vice of incontinence in others. Indeed, there is much reason to imagine that there was not the least truth in what Mr Western affirmed, especially as he laid the scene of those impurities at the university, where Mr Allworthy had never been. In fact, the good squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of pleasantry which is generally called rhodomontade: but which may, with as much propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word; and perhaps we too often supply the use of this little monosyllable by others; since very much of what frequently passes in the world for wit and humour, should, in the strictest purity of language, receive that short appellation, which, in conformity to the well-bred laws of custom, I here suppress.
Allworthy was quite offended by Jones's actions; because despite what Mr. Western claimed, it's clear that this good man had never engaged in any immoral activities with women and strongly disapproved of the vice of promiscuity in others. In fact, there’s plenty of reason to believe that Mr. Western's statements had no basis, especially since he claimed these acts took place at the university, where Mr. Allworthy had never set foot. The good squire was a bit too prone to indulging in that kind of boasting humor, which is often referred to as bravado; yet this can be more appropriately summed up with a much simpler word. Perhaps we tend to substitute this little one-syllable term with others too often; since much of what is usually considered wit and humor should, in the strictest sense of the language, really be labeled with that short term, which I will refrain from stating here out of respect for social conventions.
But whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to any other vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if there had been no mixture of vice in the same character. While he was angry therefore with the incontinence of Jones, he was no less pleased with the honour and honesty of his self-accusation. He began now to form in his mind the same opinion of this young fellow, which, we hope, our reader may have conceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections, the latter seemed rather to preponderate.
But no matter how much Mr. Allworthy hated this or any other vice, he wasn't so blinded by it that he couldn't see any virtue in the guilty person, just as clearly as if there were no mix of vice in their character. While he was angry with Jones for his lack of self-control, he was equally impressed by his honor and honesty in admitting his faults. He started to form the same opinion of this young man that we hope our readers may have developed. In weighing his shortcomings against his virtues, the latter seemed to outweigh the former.
It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was immediately charged by Mr Blifil with the story, unbended all his rancour against poor Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hearing to their invectives, and then answered coldly: “That young men of Tom's complexion were too generally addicted to this vice; but he believed that youth was sincerely affected with what he had said to him on the occasion, and he hoped he would not transgress again.” So that, as the days of whipping were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent revenge.
It was pointless, then, for Thwackum, who was quickly accused by Mr. Blifil of the story, to unleash all his bitterness against poor Tom. Allworthy listened patiently to their insults, then replied coolly: “Young men like Tom are generally prone to this fault; however, I believe he genuinely felt what I said to him about it, and I hope he won’t mess up again.” So, since the days of punishment were over, the tutor had no outlet for his anger except his own words, which is the usual sad tactic of weak revenge.
But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man; and as he hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he contrived to do him more mischief in the mind of Mr Allworthy.
But Square, who was less violent, was much more cunning; and since he probably hated Jones more than Thwackum did, he managed to cause more trouble for him in Mr. Allworthy's eyes.
The reader must remember the several little incidents of the partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in the second book. By all which Jones had rather improved than injured the affection which Mr Allworthy was inclined to entertain for him. The same, I believe, must have happened to him with every other person who hath any idea of friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, that is to say, who hath any traces of goodness in his mind.
The reader should keep in mind the various small incidents involving the partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were described in the second book. Overall, Jones had more positively influenced than harmed the affection that Mr. Allworthy felt for him. I believe the same must have been true for everyone else who understands friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, meaning those who have any sense of goodness in them.
Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which those several instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of Allworthy; for the philosopher very well knew what virtue was, though he was not always perhaps steady in its pursuit; but as for Thwackum, from what reason I will not determine, no such thoughts ever entered into his head: he saw Jones in a bad light, and he imagined Allworthy saw him in the same, but that he was resolved, from pride and stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had once cherished; since by so doing, he must tacitly acknowledge that his former opinion of him had been wrong.
Square was not unaware of the real impact that those acts of kindness had made on Allworthy’s kind heart; the philosopher understood what virtue was, even if he wasn’t always consistent in pursuing it. On the other hand, Thwackum, for reasons I won't speculate on, never had such thoughts. He viewed Jones negatively and believed Allworthy did too, but that Allworthy was determined, out of pride and stubbornness, not to abandon the boy he had once cared for; to do so would mean admitting that his previous judgment of Jones had been wrong.
Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in the tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these before-mentioned occurrences. “I am sorry, sir,” said he, “to own I have been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help being pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though it was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the sacrifice of truth, which we both imagined to have been made to friendship, was in reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and debauched appetite. You now plainly see whence all the seeming generosity of this young man to the family of the gamekeeper proceeded. He supported the father in order to corrupt the daughter, and preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to shame and ruin. This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir Richard Steele says, `Gluttons who give high prices for delicacies, are very worthy to be called generous.' In short I am resolved, from this instance, never to give way to the weakness of human nature more, nor to think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the unerring rule of right.”
Square seized the chance to hurt Jones in the most sensitive area by twisting all the previously mentioned events. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “to admit I’ve been misled just like you. I couldn’t help but feel pleased with what I thought was an act of friendship, even if it went too far, and all excess is flawed and wrong. However, I made allowances because of youth. Little did I know that the sacrifice of truth, which we both thought was made in the name of friendship, was actually just a betrayal of it for a twisted and corrupt desire. You can clearly see where all this young man’s apparent generosity towards the gamekeeper's family came from. He supported the father to corrupt the daughter and kept the family from starving just to bring one of them to disgrace and ruin. This is friendship! This is generosity! As Sir Richard Steele says, 'Gluttons who pay top dollar for delicacies truly deserve to be called generous.' In short, I’ve decided that from this example, I will never again give in to the weaknesses of human nature, nor think anything is virtuous that doesn’t align perfectly with the absolute rule of what’s right.”
The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what Square had said sunk very deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness which it there created was very visible to the other; though the good man would not acknowledge this, but made a very slight answer, and forcibly drove off the discourse to some other subject. It was well perhaps for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been made before he was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the mind of Allworthy the first bad impression concerning Jones.
Allworthy's kindness had kept him from considering those thoughts himself; however, they were too reasonable to be completely dismissed when pointed out by someone else. Indeed, what Square said lingered in his mind, and the discomfort it caused was noticeable to the other person, although the good man wouldn’t admit it. He gave only a brief response and quickly changed the topic. Perhaps it was fortunate for poor Tom that such ideas hadn’t been brought up before he was forgiven; they definitely created a negative first impression of Jones in Allworthy's mind.
Chapter xii. — Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the same fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended her at the usual hour, she was found already up and drest.
The reader will likely be happy to join me in revisiting Sophia. She spent the night, after we last saw her, not very comfortably. Sleep didn’t help her much, and her dreams were even worse. In the morning, when Mrs. Honour, her maid, came to see her at the usual time, she was already up and dressed.
Persons who live two or three miles' distance in the country are considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one house fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs Honour, therefore, had heard the whole story of Molly's shame; which she, being of a very communicative temper, had no sooner entered the apartment of her mistress, than she began to relate in the following manner:—
People who live two or three miles away in the country are seen as next-door neighbors, and news from one house travels incredibly fast to the other. Mrs. Honour, therefore, had heard the entire story of Molly's embarrassment; and as she was quite talkative, she wasted no time in entering her mistress's room before she started to share it in the following manner:—
“La, ma'am, what doth your la'ship think? the girl that your la'ship saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you would not have thought her so handsome neither, if you had seen her nearer, but to be sure she hath been carried before the justice for being big with child. She seemed to me to look like a confident slut: and to be sure she hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And all the parish says Mr Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he won't see him. To be sure, one can't help pitying the poor young man, and yet he doth not deserve much pity neither, for demeaning himself with such kind of trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should be sorry to have him turned out of doors. I dares to swear the wench was as willing as he; for she was always a forward kind of body. And when wenches are so coming, young men are not so much to be blamed neither; for to be sure they do no more than what is natural. Indeed it is beneath them to meddle with such dirty draggle-tails; and whatever happens to them, it is good enough for them. And yet, to be sure, the vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes, with all my heart, they were well to be whipped at the cart's tail; for it is pity they should be the ruin of a pretty young gentleman; and nobody can deny but that Mr Jones is one of the most handsomest young men that ever——”
“Wow, ma'am, what do you think? The girl you saw at church on Sunday, who you thought was so attractive; though you wouldn’t have thought she was that pretty if you saw her up close. She's been brought before the justice for being pregnant. She seemed to me like a bold hussy, and she’s claimed that the child belongs to young Mr. Jones. Everyone in the parish says that Mr. Allworthy is so angry with young Mr. Jones that he won't even see him. You can't help but feel sorry for the poor guy, but honestly, he doesn't deserve that much pity either for getting involved with such nonsense. Still, he is quite a charming young man, and I’d hate to see him thrown out. I bet that girl was just as eager as he was; she’s always been a bit forward. And when young women are so willing, young men can’t really be blamed; they’re just acting on instinct. In fact, it’s beneath them to get involved with such loose women; whatever happens to them is fair. But honestly, those shameless girls are mostly to blame. I truly wish they could be punished; it's a shame they could ruin a handsome young man. No one can deny that Mr. Jones is one of the most handsome young men ever—”
She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than she had ever spoken to her in before, cried, “Prithee, why dost thou trouble me with all this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr Jones doth? I suppose you are all alike. And you seem to me to be angry it was not your own case.”
She was going on like this when Sophia, using a more annoyed tone than she had ever used with her before, said, “Please tell me, why are you bothering me with all this? What do I care about what Mr. Jones does? I guess you’re all the same. And you seem to be mad that it’s not your own situation.”
“I, ma'am!” answered Mrs Honour, “I am sorry your ladyship should have such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any such thing of me. All the young fellows in the world may go to the divil for me. Because I said he was a handsome man? Everybody says it as well as I. To be sure, I never thought as it was any harm to say a young man was handsome; but to be sure I shall never think him so any more now; for handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench!—”
"I, ma'am!” replied Mrs. Honour, “I’m sorry your ladyship thinks of me this way. I'm sure no one can say anything like that about me. All the young guys in the world can go to hell for all I care. Just because I said he was a good-looking guy? Everyone says it just like I do. Of course, I never thought it was wrong to say a young man was handsome; but I definitely won’t think he is anymore now, because handsome is as handsome does. A beggar girl!—”
“Stop thy torrent of impertinence,” cries Sophia, “and see whether my father wants me at breakfast.”
“Stop your torrent of rudeness,” Sophia exclaims, “and see if my dad needs me at breakfast.”
Mrs Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself, of which “Marry come up, I assure you,” was all that could be plainly distinguished.
Mrs. Honour then stormed out of the room, muttering to herself, of which “Honestly, I assure you,” was all that could be clearly understood.
Whether Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our reader's curiosity by resolving. We will, however, make him amends in disclosing what passed in the mind of Sophia.
Whether Mrs. Honour actually deserved the suspicion that her mistress hinted at is something we won't satisfy our reader's curiosity by resolving. However, we will make it up to him by revealing what was going on in Sophia's mind.
The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for Mr Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady. That it had there grown to a pretty great height before she herself had discovered it. When she first began to perceive its symptoms, the sensations were so sweet and pleasing, that she had not resolution sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went on cherishing a passion of which she never once considered the consequences.
The reader will be pleased to remember that a secret admiration for Mr. Jones had quietly crept into the heart of this young lady. It had grown quite strong before she even realized it. When she first started to notice the signs, the feelings were so sweet and enjoyable that she didn’t have the willpower to suppress or push them away; and so she continued to nurture a passion that she never once thought about the consequences of.
This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of other nauseous physic, and for the time expelled her distemper. Its operation indeed was most wonderfully quick; and in the short interval, while her maid was absent, so entirely removed all symptoms, that when Mrs Honour returned with a summons from her father, she was become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough indifference for Mr Jones.
This incident involving Molly was the first time she really opened her eyes. She now recognized the mistakes she had made, and even though it caused her a lot of turmoil, it acted like a strong medicine and temporarily relieved her distress. Its effect was surprisingly fast; in the brief time her maid was away, it completely cleared away all her worries. By the time Mrs. Honour returned with a message from her father, Molly felt perfectly calm and had managed to become totally indifferent to Mr. Jones.
The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those of the body. For which reason, we hope, that learned faculty, for whom we have so profound a respect, will pardon us the violent hands we have been necessitated to lay on several words and phrases, which of right belong to them, and without which our descriptions must have been often unintelligible.
The mental illnesses often mirror physical ones in many ways. For this reason, we hope that the esteemed professionals we respect deeply will forgive us for the drastic changes we've made to several words and phrases that properly belong to them, as without these modifications, our explanations would have often been unclear.
Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind bear a more exact analogy to those which are called bodily, than that aptness which both have to a relapse. This is plain in the violent diseases of ambition and avarice. I have known ambition, when cured at court by frequent disappointments (which are the only physic for it), to break out again in a contest for foreman of the grand jury at an assizes; and have heard of a man who had so far conquered avarice, as to give away many a sixpence, that comforted himself, at last, on his deathbed, by making a crafty and advantageous bargain concerning his ensuing funeral, with an undertaker who had married his only child.
Now, there's no situation where mental issues relate more closely to physical ones than in their tendency to relapse. This is evident in the intense desires of ambition and greed. I've seen ambition, once treated by constant letdowns (which are the only cure for it), flare up again during a competition for the position of foreman of the grand jury at a court session. I've also heard of a guy who had managed to conquer his greed enough to give away a few sixpences but ultimately comforted himself on his deathbed by striking a sly and beneficial deal about his upcoming funeral with an undertaker who had married his only daughter.
In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the Stoic philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness to relapse is no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia; upon whom, the very next time she saw young Jones, all the former symptoms returned, and from that time cold and hot fits alternately seized her heart.
In the matter of love, which we will consider as a disease in line with Stoic philosophy, this tendency to relapse is just as evident. This happened to poor Sophia; the very next time she saw young Jones, all her old symptoms came back, and from that point on, her heart was alternately gripped by cold and hot spells.
The situation of this young lady was now very different from what it had ever been before. That passion which had formerly been so exquisitely delicious, became now a scorpion in her bosom. She resisted it therefore with her utmost force, and summoned every argument her reason (which was surprisingly strong for her age) could suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far succeeded, that she began to hope from time and absence a perfect cure. She resolved therefore to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; for which purpose she began to conceive a design of visiting her aunt, to which she made no doubt of obtaining her father's consent.
The situation for this young woman was now very different from how it had ever been before. The passion that had once been so incredibly enjoyable now felt like a scorpion in her chest. So, she fought against it with all her strength, using every argument her surprisingly strong reasoning—especially for her age—could come up with, to overpower and push it away. She succeeded to some extent, starting to hope that time and distance would bring her a complete cure. Therefore, she decided to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; to that end, she started planning a visit to her aunt, confident that she would get her father's approval.
But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop to any such proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be related in the next chapter.
But Fate, who had other plans in mind, quickly put an end to any such actions by introducing an accident, which will be described in the next chapter.
Chapter xiii. — A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant behaviour of Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to the young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex. —
Mr Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch that his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his affections; but as he could not prevail on himself to abandon these, he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their company, together with that of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a hunting with him.
Mr. Western grew fonder and fonder of Sophia every day, to the point where even his beloved dogs were almost replaced by her in his affections. However, since he couldn't bring himself to give them up, he cleverly figured out a way to enjoy their company along with his daughter's by insisting that she go hunting with him.
Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied with his desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which was of too rough and masculine a nature to suit with her disposition. She had however another motive, beside her obedience, to accompany the old gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she hoped in some measure to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
Sophia, to whom her father's word was like a law, quickly agreed to his wishes, even though she didn’t enjoy a sport that was too rough and masculine for her taste. However, she had another reason, besides her obedience, to join the old man in the hunt; she hoped that by being there, she could help hold back his impulsiveness and stop him from putting himself in danger so often.
The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom she had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting season now approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her aunt, to reason herself entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt of being able to meet him in the field the subsequent season without the least danger.
The biggest objection was what would have previously tempted her: the frequent encounters with young Jones, whom she had decided to stay away from. But as the hunting season was coming to an end, she hoped that a brief visit with her aunt would help her completely move on from her unfortunate feelings. She was confident she'd be able to see him in the field next season without any risk at all.
On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the chase, and was arrived within a little distance from Mr Western's house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider, fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such a manner that she was in the most imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was at a little distance behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse, and caught hold of hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared himself an end on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his back, and Jones caught her in his arms.
On the second day of her hunt, as she was heading back and was close to Mr. Western's house, her horse, which needed a more skilled rider, suddenly started prancing and jumping around in a way that almost made her fall. Tom Jones, who was a little way behind, noticed this and quickly rode up to help her. As soon as he got there, he jumped off his horse and grabbed her horse's bridle. The wild horse then reared up on its hind legs and threw her off, but Jones caught her in his arms.
She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately able to satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know whether she had received any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked him for the care he had taken of her. Jones answered, “If I have preserved you, madam, I am sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you from the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself than I have suffered on this occasion.”
She was so shaken up by the shock that she couldn't immediately reassure Jones, who was very eager to know if she was hurt. However, she soon regained her composure, confirmed that she was okay, and thanked him for taking care of her. Jones replied, “If I've saved you, madam, that’s all the reward I need; I swear I would have gone through a much worse misfortune myself to make sure you were safe.”
“What misfortune?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you have come to no mischief?”
“What trouble?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you haven't gotten into any trouble?”
“Be not concerned, madam,” answered Jones. “Heaven be praised you have escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I feared upon your account.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Jones replied. “Thank goodness you came out of this so well, given the danger you were in. If I’ve broken my arm, I see it as nothing compared to what I feared for you.”
Sophia then screamed out, “Broke your arm! Heaven forbid.”
Sophia then shouted, “You broke your arm! Oh no.”
“I am afraid I have, madam,” says Jones: “but I beg you will suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your service, to help you into the next field, whence we have but a very little walk to your father's house.”
“I’m sorry I have, ma’am,” says Jones. “But please let me help you first. I can still offer you my hand to guide you to the next field, from where it’s just a short walk to your father’s house.”
Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All her limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could scarce support her; and as her thoughts were in no less agitation, she could not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the assistance of a third more powerful passion.
Sophia saw his left arm hanging by his side while he used his other arm to guide her, and she no longer doubted the truth. She became much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All her limbs trembled so much that Jones could barely support her; and with her thoughts in just as much turmoil, she couldn't help but give Jones a look so filled with tenderness that it suggested a stronger feeling in her heart than even gratitude and pity combined could evoke in the gentlest woman, without the influence of a third, more powerful emotion.
Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them with what had befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon which Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his daughter's horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to find her unhurt, cried out, “I am glad it is no worse. If Tom hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again.”
Mr. Western, who was a good distance away when this accident happened, had now come back, along with the other horsemen. Sophia quickly informed them about what had happened to Jones and asked them to look after him. Upon hearing this, Western, who had been very worried when he encountered his daughter's horse without its rider, was now thrilled to see her safe and exclaimed, “I’m glad it’s not worse. If Tom has broken his arm, we’ll just get a carpenter to fix it.”
The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial spectator, who had met them on the way, would, on viewing their several countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to have been the object of compassion: for as to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved the life of the young lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he was not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was, however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate escape of his daughter.
The squire got off his horse and walked to his house with his daughter and Jones. An unbiased observer who happened to see them on their way would have thought that only Sophia deserved sympathy: while Jones felt proud that he might have saved the young lady's life, even if it meant dealing with a broken bone; and Mr. Western, although he was somewhat worried about the accident that had happened to Jones, was much more pleased with his daughter's lucky escape.
The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour of Jones into great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her heart: for certain it is, that there is no one quality which so generally recommends men to women as this; proceeding, if we believe the common opinion, from that natural timidity of the sex, which is, says Mr Osborne, “so great, that a woman is the most cowardly of all the creatures God ever made;”—a sentiment more remarkable for its bluntness than for its truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I believe, more justice, when he says, “The modesty and fortitude of men differ from those virtues in women; for the fortitude which becomes a woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the modesty which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman.” Nor is there, perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who derive the partiality which women are inclined to show to the brave, from this excess of their fear. Mr Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen) imputes this, and with greater probability, to their violent love of glory; for the truth of which, we have the authority of him who of all others saw farthest into human nature, and who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, the great pattern of matrimonial love and constancy, assigning the glory of her husband as the only source of her affection towards him.[*]
Sophia’s generous nature interpreted Jones's behavior as great bravery, leaving a strong impact on her heart. It's clear that no single trait wins women over to men like this one; according to common belief, it comes from the natural timidity of women, which Mr. Osborne claims is “so great that a woman is the most cowardly of all the creatures God ever made”—a statement notable more for its bluntness than its accuracy. Aristotle, in his Politics, does a better job of addressing this when he states, “The modesty and courage of men are different from those virtues in women; for the courage that suits a woman would be cowardice in a man, and the modesty that suits a man would be boldness in a woman.” There may not be much truth behind the idea that women’s preference for brave men stems from their heightened fear. Mr. Bayle (I believe in his article about Helen) suggests, more plausibly, that it's due to their intense desire for glory; the evidence for this is found in the words of the one who had the deepest understanding of human nature, introducing the heroine of his Odyssey—the ultimate example of marital love and loyalty—linking her affection for her husband solely to his glory.[*]
[*] The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.
[*] The English reader won't find this in the poem because the sentiment is completely missing in the translation.
However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very strongly on Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I am inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia made no less impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had for some time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.
However this may be, it’s certain that the accident had a strong effect on Sophia; and, after looking into it a lot, I’m inclined to believe that, at this very moment, the lovely Sophia made quite an impression on Jones’s heart. To be honest, he had been aware for some time of the undeniable allure of her charms.
Chapter xiv. — The arrival of a surgeon.—His operations, and a long dialogue between Sophia and her maid.
When they arrived at Mr Western's hall, Sophia, who had tottered along with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the assistance of hartshorn and water, she was prevented from fainting away, and had pretty well recovered her spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for to Jones appeared. Mr Western, who imputed these symptoms in his daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently blooded by way of prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the surgeon, who gave so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many cases where persons had miscarried for want of it, that the squire became very importunate, and indeed insisted peremptorily that his daughter should be blooded.
When they got to Mr. Western’s house, Sophia, who had stumbled along with great difficulty, collapsed in her chair; but with the help of a mix of hartshorn and water, she managed not to faint and had pretty much regained her composure when the surgeon called to attend to Jones arrived. Mr. Western, believing his daughter's symptoms were from her fall, suggested that she be bled as a precaution. The surgeon agreed, providing numerous reasons for the bleeding and citing many cases where people had suffered miscarriages due to not doing it, which made the squire very insistent, and he firmly insisted that his daughter should undergo the procedure.
Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less danger from the fright, than either the squire or the surgeon. She then stretched out her beautiful arm, and the operator began to prepare for his work.
Sophia soon gave in to her father's demands, even though it went against her own desires, as she suspected there was less danger from the scare than from either the squire or the surgeon. She then extended her beautiful arm, and the operator started getting ready for his task.
While the servants were busied in providing materials, the surgeon, who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in Sophia to her fears, began to comfort her with assurances that there was not the least danger; for no accident, he said, could ever happen in bleeding, but from the monstrous ignorance of pretenders to surgery, which he pretty plainly insinuated was not at present to be apprehended. Sophia declared she was not under the least apprehension; adding, “If you open an artery, I promise you I'll forgive you.” “Will you?” cries Western: “D—n me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, d—n me if I don't ha' the heart's blood o'un out.” The surgeon assented to bleed her upon these conditions, and then proceeded to his operation, which he performed with as much dexterity as he had promised; and with as much quickness: for he took but little blood from her, saying, it was much safer to bleed again and again, than to take away too much at once.
While the servants were busy gathering supplies, the surgeon, who attributed Sophia's hesitation to her fears, began to reassure her by saying there was absolutely no danger; he explained that no accidents could occur during a bleeding procedure, except due to the appalling ignorance of those pretending to be surgeons, which he made clear wasn't a concern at that moment. Sophia insisted she wasn’t worried at all, adding, “If you open an artery, I promise I’ll forgive you.” “Will you?” exclaimed Western: “Damn me if I will. If he harms you in any way, I swear I'll take his heart's blood.” The surgeon agreed to proceed with the bleeding under those terms and then carried out the procedure with the skill and speed he had promised, as he only took a small amount of blood from her, stating it was much safer to bleed her multiple times than to take too much all at once.
Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not willing (nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the operation on Jones. Indeed, one objection which she had to bleeding (though she did not make it) was the delay which it would occasion to setting the broken bone. For Western, when Sophia was concerned, had no consideration but for her; and as for Jones himself, he “sat like patience on a monument smiling at grief.” To say the truth, when he saw the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce thought of what had happened to himself.
Sophia, after her arm was wrapped up, stepped away because she didn’t want to (and perhaps it wasn’t entirely proper) to witness the procedure on Jones. In fact, one reason she opposed bleeding (though she didn’t voice it) was the delay it would cause in treating the broken bone. Western, when it came to Sophia, only had her in mind; as for Jones, he “sat like patience on a monument smiling at grief.” Honestly, when he saw blood gushing from Sophia’s beautiful arm, he hardly thought about his own situation.
The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and then entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in such a manner that the tortures he put him to caused Jones to make several wry faces; which the surgeon observing, greatly wondered at, crying, “What is the matter, sir? I am sure it is impossible I should hurt you.” And then holding forth the broken arm, he began a long and very learned lecture of anatomy, in which simple and double fractures were most accurately considered; and the several ways in which Jones might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper annotations showing how many of these would have been better, and how many worse than the present case.
The surgeon instructed his patient to remove his shirt and then completely exposed the arm. He started to stretch and examine it in a way that made Jones wince multiple times. The surgeon, noticing this, was puzzled and exclaimed, “What’s wrong, sir? I can’t possibly be hurting you.” He then held up the broken arm and launched into a detailed and impressive lecture on anatomy, where he carefully explained simple and compound fractures. He discussed various ways that Jones could have broken his arm, pointing out which methods would have been preferable and which would have been worse than the current situation.
Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the audience, though it had greatly raised their attention and admiration, were not much edified, as they really understood not a single syllable of all he had said, he proceeded to business, which he was more expeditious in finishing, than he had been in beginning.
Having finally wrapped up his long-winded speech, which had certainly captured the audience's attention and admiration, but hadn't really taught them anything since they didn't understand a single word he said, he moved on to the task at hand, which he completed more quickly than he had started.
Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to accept at his own house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed upon him.
Jones was then told to get into bed, which Mr. Western insisted he do at his own house, and he was sentenced to a diet of water gruel.
Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the bone-setting, Mrs Honour was one; who being summoned to her mistress as soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young gentleman did, presently launched into extravagant praises on the magnanimity, as she called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, “was so charming in so pretty a creature.” She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums on the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending with the whiteness of his skin.
Among the decent people who had gathered in the hall during the bone-setting, Mrs. Honour was one. When called by her mistress as soon as it was over and asked how the young gentleman was doing, she immediately began to lavish extravagant praise on what she described as the nobility of his behavior, saying it was “so charming in such a pretty creature.” She then launched into even more enthusiastic compliments about his looks, listing many details and finishing with a mention of the fairness of his skin.
This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which would not perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman, had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was speaking: but as a looking-glass, which was most commodiously placed opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of surveying those features, in which, of all others, she took most delight; so she had not once removed her eyes from that amiable object during her whole speech.
This conversation affected Sophia's expression, which might not have gone unnoticed by the insightful maid if she had looked her mistress in the eye while she spoke. However, since a conveniently placed mirror allowed her to admire the features she loved most, she never took her eyes off that lovely sight throughout the entire conversation.
Mrs Honour was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave her mistress time to conquer her confusion; which having done, she smiled on her maid, and told her, “she was certainly in love with this young fellow.”—“I in love, madam!” answers she: “upon my word, ma'am, I assure you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not.”—“Why, if you was,” cries her mistress, “I see no reason that you should be ashamed of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow.”—“Yes, ma'am,” answered the other, “that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I don't know why I should be ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more than us servants. Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for thof I am a poor body, I am an honest person's child, and my father and mother were married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they hold their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you, my dirty cousin! thof his skin be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was seen, I am a Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am base born: my grandfather was a clergyman,[*] and would have been very angry, I believe, to have thought any of his family should have taken up with Molly Seagrim's dirty leavings.”
Mrs. Honour was so completely focused on what she was talking about and the person in front of her that she allowed her mistress time to gather her thoughts. Once she did, her mistress smiled at her maid and said, “You’re definitely in love with this young man.” "Me in love, ma'am?" she replied. "I promise you, ma'am, I swear, ma'am, I'm not." "Well, if you were," her mistress said, "I don’t see why you should be ashamed of it; he's certainly a handsome guy." "Yes, ma'am," the maid replied. "He really is the most handsome man I've ever seen. And, like you say, I don't see why I should be embarrassed about loving him, even though he’s of a higher status. Gentlefolk are just flesh and blood like us servants. Besides, as for Mr. Jones, even though Squire Allworthy has made him a gentleman, he wasn’t born better than me. Even if I’m poor, I’m the child of honest parents, and my mom and dad were married, which is more than some people can say, no matter how high and mighty they think they are. Honestly! I assure you, my filthy cousin! Even if his skin is so white—and it certainly is the whitest there ever was—I’m a Christian just like he is, and no one can say I’m of low birth: my grandfather was a clergyman, and I believe he would’ve been very upset to think any of his family would come to terms with Molly Seagrim's dirty leftovers.”
[*] This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can be thought at present.
[*] This is the second low-status person we've documented in this history who came from the clergy. We hope that in future times, when there are better provisions for the families of lower clergy, these instances will seem stranger than they do now.
Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner, from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for certainly there were some passages in her speech which were far from being agreeable to the lady. However, she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no end of its flowing. “I wonder,” says she, “at your assurance in daring to talk thus of one of my father's friends. As to the wench, I order you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage, may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the future.”
Maybe Sophia just let her maid ramble on like this because she didn’t have the energy to stop her, which we can imagine wasn’t an easy thing to do; after all, some parts of what she said were definitely not pleasing to her. Still, she finally interrupted the flow, which seemed endless. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to talk like that about one of my father’s friends. As for that girl, I forbid you to ever mention her name to me again. And when it comes to the young man’s background, anyone who can say nothing worse about him might as well stay silent on that topic, which is what I want you to do from now on.”
“I am sorry I have offended your ladyship,” answered Mrs Honour. “I am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the house to witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have always taken his part; for which of you, says I to the footmen, would not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I, I am sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of the whitest hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and, says I, all the servants and neighbours all round the country loves him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would offend you.”—“What could you tell me, Honour?” says Sophia. “Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore I would not have your ladyship be offended.”—“Prithee tell me,” says Sophia; “I will know it this instant.”—“Why, ma'am,” answered Mrs Honour, “he came into the room one day last week when I was at work, and there lay your ladyship's muff on a chair, and to be sure he put his hands into it; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La! says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it: but he still kept his hands in it: and then he kissed it—to be sure I hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it.”—“I suppose he did not know it was mine,” replied Sophia. “Your ladyship shall hear, ma'am. He kissed it again and again, and said it was the prettiest muff in the world. La! sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs Honour, cried he; but who can see anything beautiful in the presence of your lady but herself?—Nay, that's not all neither; but I hope your ladyship won't be offended, for to be sure he meant nothing. One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master, Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked melancholy. La! says I, Mr Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, what can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing? And then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs Honour, says he, how happy will that man be!—and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is as sweet as a nosegay.—But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So I hope your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a crown never to mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe, indeed, it was not the Bible.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you, my lady,” Mrs. Honour replied. “I hate Molly Seagrim just as much as you do; and when it comes to talking about Squire Jones, I can bring all the servants in the house to testify that whenever the topic of illegitimate children comes up, I’ve always defended him. I say to the footmen, who wouldn’t want to be a bastard if it meant becoming a gentleman? And I say he’s a very fine gentleman; he has the whitest hands in the world, that’s for sure. And I say he’s one of the sweetest-natured, best-tempered men you could meet, and everyone around here loves him. And I could tell you something, my lady, but I’m afraid it might upset you."—“What do you want to tell me, Honour?” Sophia asked. “Well, ma'am, he surely didn’t mean any harm, so I wouldn’t want you to be upset.” —“Please tell me,” Sophia insisted; “I want to know right now.” —“Well, ma'am,” Mrs. Honour answered, “he came into the room one day last week while I was working, and your muff was lying on a chair. He put his hands in it; that very muff you gave me just yesterday. I said, ‘Mr. Jones, you’re going to stretch my lady’s muff and ruin it!’ But he just kept his hands in it, and then he kissed it—I can honestly say, I’ve never seen such a kiss in my life.” —“I suppose he didn’t realize it was mine,” Sophia replied. “You’ll hear, ma'am. He kissed it again and again, saying it was the prettiest muff in the world. I said, ‘Well, sir, you’ve seen it a hundred times.’ He said, ‘Yes, Mrs. Honour, but who can notice anything beautiful in the presence of your lady but herself?’—And that’s not all either; but I hope you won’t be upset because he meant nothing by it. One day, while you were playing the harpsichord for my master, Mr. Jones was sitting in the next room, and he looked a bit sad. I said, ‘Mr. Jones, what’s the matter? A penny for your thoughts.’ He jumped up as if waking from a dream and said, ‘What can I be thinking about when that angel your mistress is playing?’ And then, squeezing my hand, he sighed and said, ‘Oh! Mrs. Honour, how happy that man will be!’ Honestly, his breath is as sweet as a bouquet. But he truly meant no harm. So please don’t mention a word; he gave me a crown to never speak of it and made me swear on a book—but I believe it wasn’t the Bible.”
Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion. “Ho—nour,” says she, “I—if you will not mention this any more to me—nor to anybody else, I will not betray you—I mean, I will not be angry; but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it such liberties?”—“Nay, ma'am,” answered she, “to be sure, I would sooner cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall never mention a word that your ladyship would not have me.”—“Why, I would not have you mention this any more,” said Sophia, “for it may come to my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr Jones; though I really believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry myself, if I imagined—“—“Nay, ma'am,” says Honour, “I protest I believe he meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of his senses; nay, he said he believed he was beside himself when he had spoken the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he, Honour.—But I ask your ladyship's pardon; I could tear my tongue out for offending you.” “Go on,” says Sophia; “you may mention anything you have not told me before.”—“Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time afterwards, when he gave me the crown), I am neither such a coxcomb, or such a villain, as to think of her in any other delight but as my goddess; as such I will always worship and adore her while I have breath.—This was all, ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he meant no harm.”—“Indeed, Honour,” says Sophia, “I believe you have a real affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you warning; but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall.”—“To be sure, ma'am,” answered Mrs Honour, “I shall never desire to part with your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you gave me warning. It would be very ungrateful in me to desire to leave your ladyship; because as why, I should never get so good a place again. I am sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr Jones said, happy is the man——”
Until something more beautiful and red than vermilion is found, I won’t say anything about Sophia's color this time. “Listen, Honour,” she says, “if you don’t mention this to me again or to anyone else, I won’t betray you—I mean, I won’t be upset; but I am scared of your talk. Why do you let it have so much freedom?”—“Well, ma'am,” she replied, “I’d rather cut out my tongue than upset you. I promise I won’t say anything that your ladyship wouldn’t want me to.” “I wouldn’t want you to mention this again,” said Sophia, “because it could reach my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr. Jones; although I truly believe, as you say, he meant nothing by it. I would be very upset myself if I thought—“—“No, ma'am,” says Honour, “I honestly believe he meant nothing. I thought he was acting as if he had lost his mind; in fact, he said he thought he was beside himself when he said those words. Yes, sir, I said, I believe that too. Yes, he said, Honour.—But I beg your ladyship's pardon; I could tear my tongue out for upsetting you.” “Go on,” says Sophia; “you can mention anything you haven’t told me before.”—“Yes, Honour, he said (this was a while later when he gave me the crown), I’m neither such a fool nor such a villain to think of her in any way but as my goddess; as such, I will always worship and adore her while I breathe.—That’s all, ma'am, I promise I remember it clearly. I was angry with him myself until I realized he meant no harm.”—“Indeed, Honour,” says Sophia, “I believe you really care for me. I was upset the other day when I warned you; but if you want to stay with me, you can.”—“Of course, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Honour, “I would never want to leave your ladyship. I almost cried my eyes out when you warned me. It would be very ungrateful of me to want to leave, because honestly, I’d never find a better position again. I’m sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr. Jones said, happy is the man——”
Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she should be. As to the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere to a rule of Horace, by not attempting to describe it, from despair of success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily to themselves; and the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at least would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
Here, the dinner bell interrupted a conversation that had affected Sophia so much that she felt more grateful for her morning bleeding than she had realized at the time. As for her current state of mind, I’ll follow Horace's rule and not try to describe it out of fear of failing. Most of my readers will easily imagine it themselves, and the few who can’t wouldn’t grasp the picture, or at least would reject it as unnatural, no matter how well it was drawn.
BOOK V. — CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR.
Chapter i. — Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is introduced.
Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will give the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have given the author the greatest pains in composing. Among these probably may be reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the historical matter contained in every book; and which we have determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of which we have set ourselves at the head.
Perhaps there are no sections in this great work that will give the reader less pleasure in reading than those that gave the author the most trouble to create. Among these are likely the introductory essays that we have placed before the historical content in each book, which we have decided are essential to this type of writing that we have taken the lead on.
For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic writing. Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or place which is now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry? What critic hath been ever asked, why a play may not contain two days as well as one? Or why the audience (provided they travel, like electors, without any expense) may not be wafted fifty miles as well as five? Hath any commentator well accounted for the limitation which an antient critic hath set to the drama, which he will have contain neither more nor less than five acts? Or hath any one living attempted to explain what the modern judges of our theatres mean by that word low; by which they have happily succeeded in banishing all humour from the stage, and have made the theatre as dull as a drawing-room! Upon all these occasions the world seems to have embraced a maxim of our law, viz., cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est: for it seems perhaps difficult to conceive that any one should have had enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules in any art or science without the least foundation. In such cases, therefore, we are apt to conclude there are sound and good reasons at the bottom, though we are unfortunately not able to see so far.
For this decision, we don't feel the need to give a strict explanation; it’s enough that we’ve established it as a necessary rule for all prose-comic-epic writing. Who has ever questioned the reasons for that precise unity of time or place that is now deemed essential to dramatic poetry? Which critic has ever been asked why a play can’t take place over two days instead of one? Or why the audience (as long as they can travel without any cost) can’t be transported fifty miles instead of just five? Has any commentator clearly explained the limitation that an ancient critic imposed on drama, insisting it must have exactly five acts? Or has anyone tried to clarify what the modern judges of our theaters mean by the term low, which has successfully removed all humor from the stage and made the theater as boring as a drawing room? In all these cases, it seems like the world has adopted a legal principle, namely, cuicunque in arte sua perito credendum est: for it seems hard to believe that anyone would have the nerve to establish dogmatic rules in any art or science without any basis. In such situations, we tend to assume there are solid and valid reasons behind it, even if we can't see them clearly.
Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them.
Now, in reality, the world has given critics too much credit and has believed them to be much deeper thinkers than they actually are. This overconfidence has encouraged critics to take on a control over authors, and they've succeeded so much that they have become the authority, daring to impose rules on the very authors from whom they originally learned.
The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose office it is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great judges whose vast strength of genius hath placed them in the light of legislators, in the several sciences over which they presided. This office was all which the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever dare to advance a sentence, without supporting it by the authority of the judge from whence it was borrowed.
The critic, when you think about it, is just like a clerk, whose job is to write down the rules and laws created by those brilliant minds who have established themselves as leaders in the various fields they oversaw. This was all that critics in the past aimed for; they never tried to make a statement without backing it up with the authority of the original source.
But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to invade the power and assume the dignity of his master. The laws of writing were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on the dictates of the critic. The clerk became the legislator, and those very peremptorily gave laws whose business it was, at first, only to transcribe them.
But over time, and during periods of ignorance, the clerk started to take over the authority and adopt the importance of his master. The rules of writing were no longer based on the practice of the author, but rather on the opinions of the critic. The clerk became the one making the rules, and those who were initially just supposed to transcribe them began to impose strict laws.
Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.
This led to a clear, and maybe unavoidable mistake; these critics, being quite shallow, easily confused mere style with real substance. They acted like judges who stick to the lifeless letter of the law and ignore its true meaning. Small details, which might have been incidental in a great author, were seen by these critics as the main strengths worth passing down as essential for all future writers to follow. Time and ignorance, the two main enablers of deception, lent these ideas some authority; thus, many rules for good writing were created that have no real basis in truth or nature. They usually serve only to stifle and limit creativity, just like if the many great guides on dancing had insisted that every dancer must be shackled.
To avoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for posterity, founded only on the authority of ipse dixit—for which, to say the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration—we shall here waive the privilege above contended for, and proceed to lay before the reader the reasons which have induced us to intersperse these several digressive essays in the course of this work.
To avoid any claim of setting a rule for future generations based solely on the authority of ipse dixit—which, to be honest, we don't hold in the highest regard—we will set aside the privilege mentioned above and explain to the reader the reasons that led us to include these various digressive essays throughout this work.
And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge, which if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been wrought on by any antient or modern writer. This vein is no other than that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation, and may probably have a large share in constituting in us the idea of all beauty, as well natural as artificial: for what demonstrates the beauty and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of day, and that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and winter. And, I believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only the two former, he would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.
And here we will inevitably start to explore a new area of knowledge, which, even if it has been discovered, doesn’t seem to have been addressed by any ancient or modern writer to our knowledge. This area is nothing other than contrast, which runs through all of creation and likely plays a significant role in shaping our perception of beauty, both natural and artificial. After all, what highlights the beauty and excellence of something more than its opposite? For example, the beauty of day and summer is emphasized by the harshness of night and winter. I believe that if someone were only to experience the former, they would have a very limited understanding of their beauty.
But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the finest woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the eye of a man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies themselves seem so sensible of this, that they are all industrious to procure foils: nay, they will become foils to themselves; for I have observed (at Bath particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly as possible in the morning, in order to set off that beauty which they intend to show you in the evening.
But to keep things light, can anyone really doubt that the most beautiful woman in the world would lose all her appeal to a man who had never seen another woman? The ladies themselves seem to understand this so well that they're all trying hard to create contrasts; in fact, they will even act as contrasts to themselves. I've noticed (especially in Bath) that they try to look as unattractive as possible in the morning to enhance the beauty they plan to show off in the evening.
Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have not much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest brilliant requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his figures, often acquires great applause.
Most artists have this secret in practice, although some may not have studied the theory much. The jeweler knows that the best diamond needs a backdrop; and the painter, through the contrast of his figures, often receives a lot of praise.
A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot, indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath a title to be placed among those
A great genius among us will fully explain this issue. I can't really categorize him with regular artists, as he deserves to be among those
Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes.
Who by invented arts have life improved.
Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes.
Those who have enhanced life through their inventions and creativity.I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the English Pantomime.
I’m talking about the creator of that delightful form of entertainment known as the English Pantomime.
This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.
This entertainment had two parts, which the creator called the serious and the comic. The serious part featured a group of pagan gods and heroes, who were definitely the worst and most boring characters an audience could encounter; and (something few knew) they were specifically designed to be that way, to highlight the comic section of the show and to showcase Harlequin's tricks more effectively.
This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect. And this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we supply the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly duller than anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off only by that superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious. So intolerably serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that harlequin (though the English gentleman of that name is not at all related to the French family, for he is of a much more serious disposition) was always welcome on the stage, as he relieved the audience from worse company.
This may not have been the most polite use of such characters, but the idea was clever enough and did have an impact. This will become clear if we replace "serious" and "comic" with "duller" and "dullest," because the comic was definitely duller than anything previously seen on stage, and it could only be contrasted by the extreme dullness of the serious parts. These gods and heroes were so unbearably serious that Harlequin (even though the English gentleman of that name isn’t at all related to the French version, as he has a much more serious nature) was always a welcome presence on stage, as he provided the audience with a break from the worse company.
Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with great success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at this art in Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line:
Judicious writers have always practiced this art of contrast with great success. I’ve been surprised that Horace would criticize this technique in Homer; but in fact, he contradicts himself in the very next line:
Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum.
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.
It's frustrating when the great Homer falls asleep; But in lengthy works, it's okay for sleep to creep in. I grieve if ever great Homer happens to doze off, Yet in long works, it’s fair for sleep to sneak in.
For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an author actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that readers are too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as any of Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be subject to the least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,
For we're not here to think, like some might, that an author actually falls asleep while writing. It’s true that readers can get too caught up and lose track of time; however, if the work is as long as anything by Oldmixon, the author is having too much fun to feel even a hint of drowsiness. He is, as Mr. Pope remarks,
Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
Sleepless himself to help his readers sleep.
To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and this is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the public that whenever he was dull they might be assured there was a design in it.
Honestly, these boring parts are just a bunch of carefully crafted scenes that are meant to contrast with and highlight the rest; and this aligns with what a recent witty writer said, that whenever he seemed dull, there was a purpose behind it.
In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the reader to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he shall be of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts of this history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be laboriously dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter.
In this context, or rather in this darkness, I’d like the reader to think about these introductory essays. And after this heads-up, if they believe they can find enough of substance in other parts of this history, they can skip these where we claim to be painstakingly dull, and start the following books at the second chapter.
Chapter ii. — In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during his confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce visible to the naked eye.
Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some, perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy saw him almost every day; but though he pitied Tom's sufferings, and greatly approved the gallant behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he thought this was a favourable opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his indiscreet conduct; and that wholesome advice for that purpose could never be applied at a more proper season than at the present, when the mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by danger; and when its attention was unembarrassed with those turbulent passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.
Tom Jones had a lot of visitors while he was stuck at home, although some of them might not have been very pleasant for him. Mr. Allworthy saw him nearly every day; even though he felt sorry for Tom's suffering and really admired the brave actions that led to it, he thought this was a good chance to help Tom realize the consequences of his reckless behavior. He believed that giving good advice would be most effective now, when Tom's mind was softened by pain and illness, worried about danger, and free from the chaotic emotions that usually drive us to seek pleasure.
At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the youth, especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took occasion to remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the mildest and tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce the caution which he prescribed for his future behaviour; “on which alone,” he assured him, “would depend his own felicity, and the kindness which he might yet promise himself to receive at the hands of his father by adoption, unless he should hereafter forfeit his good opinion: for as to what had past,” he said, “it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He therefore advised him to make a good use of this accident, that so in the end it might prove a visitation for his own good.”
At all times, whenever the good man was alone with the young man, especially when the young man was completely relaxed, he took the opportunity to gently remind him of his past mistakes. He did this in the kindest way, solely to introduce the advice he had for his future behavior; “this alone,” he assured him, “will determine your happiness and the kindness you can still expect from your adoptive father, unless you eventually lose his good opinion. As for what happened in the past,” he said, “that should all be forgiven and forgotten. So he encouraged him to learn from this situation, so that in the end, it might serve as a lesson for his own benefit.”
Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His stile, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy's: he told his pupil, “That he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from heaven on his sins. That it would become him to be daily on his knees, pouring forth thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not his neck; which latter,” he said, “was very probably reserved for some future occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part,” he said, “he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments, though slow, are always sure.” Hence likewise he advised him, “to foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his state of reprobacy. These are,” said he, “to be averted only by such a thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid, is totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this repentance, though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and fruitless. But liberavi animam meam. I can accuse my own conscience of no neglect; though it is at the same time with the utmost concern I see you travelling on to certain misery in this world, and to as certain damnation in the next.”
Thwackum was also quite diligent in his visits, and he believed that a sickbed was a perfect setup for lectures. His approach, however, was more harsh than Mr. Allworthy's: he told his student, “You should see your broken limb as punishment from above for your sins. You ought to spend every day on your knees, thanking your lucky stars that you only broke your arm and not your neck; the latter,” he said, “might be saved for another time, and maybe not too far off. For my part,” he continued, “I've often wondered why some punishment hasn't come upon me sooner; but this shows that divine retribution, although slow, is always certain.” He also advised him, “to anticipate, with equal certainty, the greater misfortunes that lie ahead, which are as likely as this one will catch up with you in your state of wrongdoing. These can only be avoided through a true and sincere repentance, which I don’t expect or hope for from someone so lost in their youth and whose mind, I'm afraid, is completely tainted. Still, it's my duty to urge you toward this repentance, even though I know all my pleas will be pointless and futile. But liberavi animam meam. I can’t say I’ve neglected my duty; yet it troubles me deeply to see you heading toward certain misery in this life and equally certain damnation in the next.”
Square talked in a very different strain; he said, “Such accidents as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it was abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these mischances, to reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good of the whole.” He said, “It was a mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which there was no moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst consequence of such accidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world;” with more of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of Tully's Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit his tongue; and in such a manner, that it not only put an end to his discourse, but created much emotion in him, and caused him to mutter an oath or two: but what was worst of all, this accident gave Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such doctrine to be heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap a judgment on his back. Now this was done with so malicious a sneer, that it totally unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of the philosopher, which the bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and as he was disabled from venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly found a more violent method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who was then luckily in the room, contrary to his own interest, interposed and preserved the peace.
Square spoke in a very different way. He said, “Accidents like a broken bone are not worth a wise person’s concern. It’s enough to accept that these mishaps can happen to the wisest people, and they are ultimately for the greater good.” He continued, “It’s a misuse of words to label things as evils when there’s no moral wrong in them; that pain, which is the worst result of such accidents, is the most trivial thing in the world.” He offered more statements like these, taken from the second book of Cicero's Tusculan Questions and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. One day, he got so carried away while speaking that he accidentally bit his tongue, which not only interrupted his speech but also caused him much distress and led him to mutter a couple of oaths. However, the worst part was that this incident gave Thwackum, who was present and considered such beliefs to be pagan and atheistic, a chance to mock him. The sneer was so malicious that it completely upset (if I may say so) the philosopher’s temper, which had already been slightly disturbed by the tongue bite. Since he couldn't express his anger verbally, he might have resorted to a more violent form of revenge if the surgeon, who happened to be in the room at that moment, hadn’t intervened, contrary to his own interests, and restored order.
Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. This worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and as great concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any intimacy, lest, as he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the sobriety of his own character: for which purpose he had constantly in his mouth that proverb in which Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that he was so bitter as Thwackum; for he always expressed some hopes of Tom's reformation; “which,” he said, “the unparalleled goodness shown by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect in one not absolutely abandoned:” but concluded, “if Mr Jones ever offends hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his favour.”
Mr. Blifil rarely visited his friend Jones and never did so alone. This respectable young man, however, claimed to care a lot for him and expressed considerable concern for his troubles, but he was careful to avoid getting too close, as he often hinted, fearing it might tarnish his own reputation. To support this, he frequently quoted the saying from Solomon about the dangers of bad company. Not that he was as harsh as Thwackum; he always held out some hope for Tom's improvement, saying, “Surely the exceptional kindness shown by his uncle in this situation will lead to change in someone who isn't completely lost.” But he added, “if Mr. Jones does anything wrong in the future, I won’t be able to defend him.”
As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless when he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he would sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer too: for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea than he did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in all the physic in an apothecary's shop. He was, however, by much entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine; but from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the horn under his window, it was impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all companies, when he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being at that time either awake or asleep.
As for Squire Western, he was hardly ever out of the sickroom, unless he was either out in the field or enjoying a drink. In fact, he would sometimes come here just to have his beer, and it was quite a struggle to stop him from making Jones drink it too; no quack ever believed in their remedy more than he believed in this one, claiming it had more power than all the medicine in a pharmacist's shop. However, after much pleading, he was convinced to refrain from giving this treatment. But he couldn’t be stopped from serenading his patient every hunting morning with his horn under the window, nor did he ever drop that special greeting he used when visiting Jones, regardless of whether the sick person was awake or sleeping.
This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it effected none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as he was able to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire then brought to visit him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was able to attend her to the harpsichord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours together, to charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the squire thought proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon, or some other of his favourite pieces.
This lively behavior, since it was harmless, happily caused no trouble, and it was more than made up to Jones, as soon as he could sit up, by Sophia's company, whom the squire then brought to visit him; it didn't take long before Jones was able to accompany her to the harpsichord, where she would generously play enchanting music for hours, unless the squire decided to interrupt her by insisting on Old Sir Simon or some other favorite pieces.
Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set on her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and then slip forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this, that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out in another. What her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her blushes, and many little involuntary actions, betrayed.
Despite Sophia's best efforts to control her behavior, she couldn't help but let some signs slip through now and then. Love can be compared to an illness in that if it’s stifled in one area, it will inevitably find a way to express itself elsewhere. So, while her words kept her feelings hidden, her eyes, her blushes, and many little involuntary actions gave her away.
One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was attending, the squire came into the room, crying, “There, Tom, I have had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He hath been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a judgment upon thee. D—n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not come by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if he never doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the parsons in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to be ashamed of it.”—“Indeed, sir,” says Jones, “I have no reason for either; but if it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest accident of my life.”—“And to gu,” said the squire, “to zet Allworthy against thee vor it! D—n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and d—n me if there is anything in my power which I won't do for thee. Sha't take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.” Jones thanked him, but declined accepting the offer. “Nay,” added the squire, “sha't ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty guineas, and comes six years old this grass.” “If she had cost me a thousand,” cries Jones passionately, “I would have given her to the dogs.” “Pooh! pooh!” answered Western; “what! because she broke thy arm? Shouldst forget and forgive. I thought hadst been more a man than to bear malice against a dumb creature.”—Here Sophia interposed, and put an end to the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to him; a request which he never refused.
One day, while Sophia was playing the harpsichord and Jones was listening, the squire walked into the room, shouting, “There, Tom, I just had a showdown downstairs with that thick parson Thwackum. He told Allworthy, right in front of me, that your broken bone was a punishment for you. Damn it, I said, how can that be? Didn't he get hurt while defending a young woman? A punishment, really! Hell, if he never does anything worse, he’ll get to heaven faster than all the parsons in the country. He should be proud of it rather than ashamed!” — “Well, sir,” replied Jones, “I have no reason to feel either way; but if it saved Miss Western, I’ll always consider it the luckiest thing that ever happened to me.” — “And to make matters worse,” said the squire, “to make Allworthy turn against you for that! Damn him; if the parson had put on his petticoats, I would have given him a cuff; because I care about you, my boy, and damn me if there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you. You can pick any horse in my stable tomorrow morning, except for the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.” Jones thanked him but turned down the offer. “Come on,” added the squire, “you can have the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty guineas and is six years old this summer.” “Even if she had cost me a thousand,” Jones exclaimed passionately, “I’d have given her to the dogs.” “Oh please!” responded Western, “Just because she broke your arm? You should forget and forgive. I thought you were more of a man than to hold a grudge against a dumb animal.” — At this point, Sophia stepped in and ended the conversation by asking her father for permission to play for him, a request he always granted.
The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change during the foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an ear any more than without eyes, made some observations; which being joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly, gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an opinion which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward enough in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune which can be cured only by that early town education, which is at present so generally in fashion.
Sophia's expression had changed several times during the previous conversations, and she probably thought that the intense anger Jones showed towards the mare was based on something different than what her father believed. At that moment, her emotions were clearly unsettled, and she played so poorly that if Western hadn't soon fallen asleep, he would have certainly noticed. However, Jones, who was awake enough and had both good vision and hearing, made some observations. When he reflected on everything that had happened, he felt pretty sure that something was off in Sophia’s heart—an opinion that many young men would likely find surprising he hadn’t figured out sooner. The truth is, he had a bit too much self-doubt and wasn’t quick enough to recognize a young lady's interest, a problem that can only be fixed by the kind of early urban social education that's quite popular these days.
When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it assured him the adorable object returned his affection.
When these thoughts fully took over Jones, they caused a disturbance in his mind that, in someone less pure and strong than him, could have led to very serious consequences at such a time. He genuinely understood how valuable Sophia was. He really liked her looks, admired her skills, and loved her kindness deeply. In fact, since he had never once thought about actually having her for himself, and had never given in to his desires, he felt a much stronger passion for her than he even realized. His heart now revealed the whole truth, while also assuring him that the wonderful person he adored felt the same way about him.
Chapter iii. — Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about nothing.
The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them. They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet; than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.
The reader might imagine that the feelings Jones experienced were so sweet and delightful that they brought a cheerful calm to his mind, rather than the dangerous effects we’ve mentioned. But in reality, sensations like these, no matter how delightful, are quite tumultuous at first and lack any soothing quality. In this case, they were further soured by certain circumstances that, when mixed with sweeter elements, created a blend best described as bitter-sweet; and nothing could be more unpleasant to the palate, nor more harmful to the mind in a metaphorical sense.
For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in his diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever regarded his fortune; had the most violent affection for his only daughter, and had often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he proposed in seeing her married to one of the richest men in the county. Jones was not so vain and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western had professed for him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that fortune is generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes us warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which may result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father's consent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western's life, was to make a very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the many little favours received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw such a consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he shocked with what regarded Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than filial obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew the nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however ardent his wishes had been; but even these were contruoled by compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her for being a whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery, and would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the same rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw, unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought, loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the agonies its owner brought on another.
At first, even though he could easily convince himself of the affection he thought he saw in Sophia, he still had doubts about mistaking compassion or, at best, respect for something deeper. He wasn’t overly confident that Sophia felt any real love for him that would lead to the fulfillment of his desires, which, if nurtured, might eventually grow into something more. Additionally, while he hoped there would be no obstacles to his happiness from the daughter, he was sure he would face a significant challenge from the father. This father, although a country gentleman in his pastimes, was very much a worldly man when it came to his wealth; he had a fierce love for his only daughter and often hinted, especially when drinking, about his hopes of seeing her marry one of the richest men in the area. Jones wasn’t foolish enough to think that any affection Mr. Western had for him would lead to him abandoning those plans for his daughter. He understood well that wealth is usually the main, if not the only, concern for even the best parents in these situations: while friendship makes us strongly support others’ interests, it does little to satisfy their passions. To truly feel the happiness that could come from this, we need to share the same passion. Since he had no hope of winning the father's approval, he thought about trying to succeed without it, but doing so would cruelly frustrate Mr. Western’s life goal, and it would be a terrible misuse of his hospitality and an ungrateful response to the many small favors he had received, no matter how roughly they were given. If he felt horror and disdain at such an outcome, how much more appalled was he by the thought of Mr. Allworthy? He felt more than just a son’s obligation to him; he had a deep sense of duty and respect towards him too! He understood that this kind-hearted man was so against any form of dishonesty or betrayal that even the slightest attempt at such would make the sight of the guilty party repugnant to him forever, and their name would become unbearable to hear. The thought of these seemingly insurmountable obstacles could have easily filled him with despair, no matter how intense his hopes were; but even that was overshadowed by his concern for another woman. The image of beautiful Molly now popped into his mind. He had promised her everlasting loyalty, and she had often sworn she wouldn’t survive if he left her. He envisioned her in all sorts of terrible positions of suffering; he also thought about the horrifying outcomes of a life of shame she might face because of him—first by leading her astray and then abandoning her. He knew well the contempt with which her neighbors, and even her sisters, treated her, and how eager they would be to destroy her. In fact, he had put her in a position of more envy than shame, or perhaps made her shame worse because of the envy: many women insulted her for being promiscuous while secretly envying her looks and her finery, and would have gladly paid the same price to have those things. He foresaw that the poor girl’s ruin would be the inevitable result of his leaving her, and that thought pierced him to the core. He believed that poverty and hardship give no one the right to exacerbate those misfortunes. The lowliness of her status didn’t make her suffering seem insignificant to him, nor did it excuse or lessen his guilt for inflicting that suffering on her. But why discuss justification? His own heart wouldn’t allow him to harm a human being whom he believed loved him and who had sacrificed her innocence for that love. His own kind heart defended her; not like a cold, self-serving lawyer, but as someone deeply invested in the outcome and who would share in the pain he caused another.
When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones, by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it artfully called in the assistance of another passion, and represented the girl in all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as one greatly the object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good mind, from being, at the same time, the object of compassion.
When this persuasive advocate had effectively stirred Jones’s sympathy by depicting poor Molly in her sad circumstances, it cleverly appealed to another emotion and portrayed the girl in all the attractive aspects of youth, health, and beauty; someone who was greatly desired, and even more so—at least to a good person—because she was also someone to feel compassion for.
Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to think no more of Sophia.
Amid these thoughts, poor Jones spent a long sleepless night, and by morning, the outcome was to stick with Molly and forget about Sophia.
In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind, that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.
In this noble decision, he persisted the entire next day until evening, holding onto thoughts of Molly and pushing Sophia out of his mind. However, that fateful evening, a minor incident stirred all his emotions once again and caused such a complete shift in his mindset that we believe it's appropriate to share it in a new chapter.
Chapter iv. — A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.
Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps, when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard; but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the philosophical serenity of her temper.
Among the visitors who paid their respects to the young man during his confinement, Mrs. Honour was one of them. The reader might think that, based on some comments she made before, she had a special affection for Mr. Jones; however, that was not the case. Tom was a handsome young man, and Mrs. Honour had a certain admiration for attractive men, but it was completely indiscriminate. After being disappointed in love by a certain nobleman's footman, who had shamefully abandoned her after promising to marry her, she had managed to keep the shattered pieces of her heart together so well that no man had ever been able to claim even a small part of it since. She regarded all good-looking men with the same kindness and goodwill a sober and virtuous person shows to all that is good. She could indeed be called a lover of men, similar to how Socrates loved humanity, favoring one over another based on physical attributes, just as he favored others for their intellectual qualities; but she never let this preference disturb the calmness of her philosophical outlook.
The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and finding him alone, began in the following manner:—“La, sir, where do you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you neither.”—“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not be so barbarous to refuse me.”—“I don't know,” cries she, “why I should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for to be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:—“Why, you must know, sir, my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go, methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.—How could you undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?—So my lady bid me go and carry her some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady, says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness.”—“And was my Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,” answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all—indeed, if I was as Mr Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I knew all?” “I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don't you remember putting your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the hearing on't.” Jones then made several solemn protestations. And Honour proceeded—“Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and afterwards, upon hearing what you had done”—“Then you told her what I had done?” interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you need not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have had my lady told, if they had known,—for, to be sure, the biggest lord in the land might be proud—but, I protest, I have a great mind not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't—for she's a good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.”
The day after Mr. Jones had that internal conflict we saw in the previous chapter, Mrs. Honour came into his room and, finding him alone, began like this: “Oh, sir, guess where I’ve been! I bet you wouldn’t guess in fifty years; but even if you did, I can't tell you.”—“Well, if it's something you can't tell me,” said Jones, “I’ll definitely be curious to know, and I know you wouldn’t be cruel enough to deny me.”—“I don’t really know,” she replied, “why I should refuse you, since you definitely won’t mention it again. And honestly, if you knew where I’ve been, unless you knew what I was doing, it wouldn’t mean much. I don’t see why it should be a secret; she’s honestly the best lady in the world.” At this, Jones begged her earnestly to share the secret and promised not to reveal it. She continued: “Well, you should know, sir, my young lady sent me to check on Molly Seagrim and see if the girl needed anything; honestly, I didn’t want to go, but a servant has to do what they’re told. How could you underestimate yourself like that, Mr. Jones? So, my lady told me to take her some linen and other things. She’s too good. If such forward girls were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady, ‘Madam, you’re encouraging laziness.’”—“And was my Sophia so kind?” asked Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, goodness gracious,” replied Honour. “And yet if you knew the whole story—really, if I were you, I would aim a bit higher than someone like Molly Seagrim.” “What do you mean by that?” asked Jones. “I mean what I mean,” said Honour. “Don’t you remember putting your hands in my lady’s muff once? I honestly could almost bring myself to tell if I was sure my lady would never find out.” Jones made several serious promises. Then Honour continued, “So, my lady gave me that muff; but a day or two after I told her what happened, she got mad about her new muff, and honestly, it was the prettiest one ever seen. Honour, she said, this is an awful muff; it’s too big for me, I can’t wear it: until I get another, you must let me have my old one back, and you can have this one in its place—she’s a good lady and won’t give something and take something back, I promise you that. So, I brought it back to her, and I believe she’s worn it on her arm almost ever since, and I bet she’s given it many kisses when no one’s seen her.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went all pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs Honour, imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty curse between jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach up the game in his warren.
Here, the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Western himself, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord. The poor young man went, looking all pale and trembling. Western noticed this, but when he saw Mrs. Honour, he attributed it to the wrong reason. After giving Jones a good-natured curse, mixing joke and seriousness, he told him to go out and not to hunt in his own territory.
Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.
Sophia looked more beautiful than usual this evening, and we can assume that having this very muff on her right arm added to her charm in Mr. Jones's eyes.
She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he was leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from her, and with a hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with the utmost eagerness recovered it from the flames.
She was playing one of her dad's favorite songs, and he was leaning on her chair when her muff slipped over her fingers, interrupting her. This really threw the squire off, so he grabbed the muff from her and, with an angry curse, tossed it into the fire. Sophia immediately jumped up and eagerly retrieved it from the flames.
Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to many of our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted by injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost importance arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast machine, in which the great wheels are originally set in motion by those which are very minute, and almost imperceptible to any but the strongest eyes.
Although this incident might seem trivial to many of our readers, it had such a strong impact on poor Jones that we felt it was important to share it. In truth, there are many small details that are often overlooked by careless historians, from which significant events arise. The world can indeed be seen as a massive machine, where the larger gears are initially set in motion by those that are very small and nearly invisible to all but the sharpest eyes.
Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour, greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this little incident of the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy—
Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the dazzling brightness and soft allure of her eyes; the harmony of her voice and her figure; not all her wit, good humor, strength of character, or kind nature had been able to completely conquer and captivate the heart of poor Jones, like this little incident with the muff. Thus the poet sweetly sings of Troy—
—Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti
Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,
Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae.
What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done
False tears and fawning words the city won.
—Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles, Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae. What Diomede or Thetis' greater son, A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done False tears and fawning words the city won.
The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love marched in, in triumph.
The citadel of Jones was now caught off guard. All the thoughts of honor and caution that our hero had recently set up as defenses around his heart disappeared, and the god of love marched in, victorious.
Chapter v. — A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of poor Molly greatly disturbed and perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor girl; but compassion instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was convinced the girl had placed all her affections, and all her prospect of future happiness, in him only. For this he had, he knew, given sufficient occasion, by the utmost profusion of tenderness towards her: a tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he would always maintain. She, on her side, had assured him of her firm belief in his promise, and had with the most solemn vows declared, that on his fulfilling or breaking these promises, it depended, whether she should be the happiest or most miserable of womankind. And to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human being, was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a single moment. He considered this poor girl as having sacrificed to him everything in her little power; as having been at her own expense the object of his pleasure; as sighing and languishing for him even at that very instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she hath so ardently wished; shall my presence, which she hath so eagerly expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath flattered herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the love of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious, rushed upon his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it.
But even though this victorious god easily drove his declared enemies out of Jones's heart, he found it tougher to replace the feelings he had put there himself. To be straightforward, the worry about what would happen to poor Molly greatly troubled and confused the mind of the good young man. Sophia’s superior qualities completely overshadowed, or rather extinguished, all the attractiveness of the poor girl; yet, instead of contempt, compassion took the place of love. He was convinced that the girl had put all her feelings and hopes for future happiness in him alone. He knew he had given her plenty of reasons to believe this, showering her with affection and making it clear he would always feel that way. She had, on her part, assured him of her strong belief in his promises and had made the most serious vows, declaring that whether he kept or broke those promises would determine whether she would be the happiest or most miserable woman alive. The thought of being the cause of such deep misery for another person was something he couldn’t stand to dwell on for even a moment. He viewed this poor girl as someone who had sacrificed everything she could for him, having been the source of his happiness at her own expense, sighing and longing for him even at that very moment. So he thought, will my recovery, which she has wished for so fervently; will my presence, which she has eagerly awaited, instead of bringing her the joy she hoped for, plunge her into misery and despair? Can I really be so cruel? Just then, when poor Molly seemed to be triumphant, the love Sophia had for him, now clearly defined, surged into his mind and swept away every barrier before it.
At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make Molly amends another way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This, nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he recollected the frequent and vehement assurances he had received from her, that the world put in balance with him would make her no amends for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious vanity (somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the reader), gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with a fortune superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her vanity, by setting her above all her equals. He resolved therefore to take the first opportunity of making a proposal of this kind.
Eventually, it occurred to him that he might be able to make it up to Molly in another way—by giving her some money. However, he almost gave up hope that she would accept it when he remembered her frequent and strong claims that no amount of money could replace what she had lost with him. Still, her extreme poverty, along with her noticeable vanity (which has already been hinted at), gave him a glimmer of hope that, despite her professed affection, she might eventually be persuaded to accept a fortune greater than she expected, one that would satisfy her vanity by elevating her above her peers. Therefore, he decided to look for the first opportunity to make this kind of proposal.
One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when the squire was engaged in his field exercises, and visited his fair one. Her mother and sisters, whom he found taking their tea, informed him first that Molly was not at home; but afterwards the eldest sister acquainted him, with a malicious smile, that she was above stairs a-bed. Tom had no objection to this situation of his mistress, and immediately ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but when he came to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door fast; nor could he for some time obtain any answer from within; for Molly, as she herself afterwards informed him, was fast asleep.
One day, when his arm had healed enough for him to walk easily with it slung in a sash, he sneaked out while the squire was busy with his field training and went to visit his beloved. He found her mother and sisters having tea, and they first told him that Molly was not at home. But then the oldest sister, with a sly smile, let him know that she was upstairs in bed. Tom didn’t mind this situation and immediately climbed the ladder to her bedroom. However, when he reached the top, he was surprised to find the door locked, and he couldn't get a response for a while. As Molly later told him, she was sound asleep.
The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it is apt to create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are often thereby deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the unexpected sight of Mr Jones should so strongly operate on the mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her with such confusion, that for some minutes she was unable to express the great raptures, with which the reader will suppose she was affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed, and as it were enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose of his visit.
The extremes of grief and joy are known to have very similar effects; and when either hits us unexpectedly, it tends to throw us into complete chaos and confusion, often leaving us unable to use any of our abilities. So, it’s no surprise that the sudden appearance of Mr. Jones had such a strong effect on Molly’s mind, overwhelming her with so much confusion that she couldn’t express the immense joy she was feeling at that moment. As for Jones, he was so completely captivated, almost enchanted, by the presence of his beloved that he temporarily forgot about Sophia and, as a result, the main reason for his visit.
This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first transports of their meeting were over, he found means by degrees to introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him ever seeing her more, should discover that he still carried on this commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies gave him reason to think would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently in hers. Since therefore their hard fates had determined that they must separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he would never omit any opportunity, through the course of his life, of showing her the sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if ever that should be in his power; concluding at last, that she might soon find some man who would marry her, and who would make her much happier than she could be by leading a disreputable life with him.
This, however, quickly came back to his mind; and after the initial excitement of their reunion faded, he gradually found a way to bring up the serious consequences that would result from their relationship if Mr. Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him from seeing her again, were to discover that he was still involved with her. Such a discovery, which he had reason to believe his enemies would make happen, would undoubtedly lead to his downfall, and consequently to hers. Since their unfortunate circumstances had decided that they must part ways, he urged her to endure it with strength, and promised that he would always seize any chance throughout his life to prove the depth of his feelings for her by taking care of her in a way that exceeded her wildest expectations or even her desires, if he ever had the means to do so; ultimately concluding that she would likely soon find someone who would marry her and make her much happier than she could ever be by living an immoral life with him.
Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following words: “And this is your love for me, to forsake me in this manner, now you have ruined me! How often, when I have told you that all men are false and perjury alike, and grow tired of us as soon as ever they have had their wicked wills of us, how often have you sworn you would never forsake me! And can you be such a perjury man after all? What signifies all the riches in the world to me without you, now you have gained my heart, so you have—you have—? Why do you mention another man to me? I can never love any other man as long as I live. All other men are nothing to me. If the greatest squire in all the country would come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would not give my company to him. No, I shall always hate and despise the whole sex for your sake.”—
Molly stayed silent for a moment, and then, overwhelmed with tears, she began to shout at him, saying: “Is this your love for me? To abandon me like this when you’ve ruined me! How many times have I told you that all men are untrustworthy and just as false, getting bored with us as soon as they’ve had their way? How often did you swear you would never leave me? Can you really be such a liar after all? What does all the wealth in the world mean to me without you? Now that you’ve won my heart, why would you bring up another man? I can never love anyone else as long as I live. All other men mean nothing to me. If the richest man in the entire country came to court me tomorrow, I wouldn’t even consider him. No, I will always hate and look down on the entire male gender for your sake.”
She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue, before it had run out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in which Molly lay, being up one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the top of the house, was of a sloping figure, resembling the great Delta of the Greeks. The English reader may perhaps form a better idea of it, by being told that it was impossible to stand upright anywhere but in the middle. Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet, Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best apparel, such as the remains of that sack which we have formerly mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she had lately provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust.
She was in the middle of talking when an accident interrupted her before she could finish. The room, or rather the attic, where Molly was lying, was on the top floor of the house and had a sloping shape, resembling the Greek Delta. To give the English reader a better idea, it's important to note that standing upright was only possible in the middle of the room. Since this room didn’t have a closet, Molly had made do by nailing an old rug to the rafters, creating a little space where she hung her best clothes, including the remnants of that sack we mentioned earlier, some caps, and a few other items she had recently acquired, keeping them safe from dust.
This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which, indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage, pushed this rug with her feet; or Jones might touch it; or whether the pin or nail gave way of its own accord, I am not certain; but as Molly pronounced those last words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug got loose from its fastening, and discovered everything hid behind it; where among other female utensils appeared—(with shame I write it, and with sorrow will it be read)—the philosopher Square, in a posture (for the place would not near admit his standing upright) as ridiculous as can possibly be conceived.
This enclosed space was right at the foot of the bed, so close that the rug almost acted like curtains. Now, whether Molly, in her fit of rage, kicked the rug; or if Jones accidentally touched it; or if the pin or nail simply gave way on its own, I can’t say for sure. But as Molly said those last words recorded above, the naughty rug came loose and revealed everything hidden underneath it; among other feminine items was—(with shame I write this, and with sorrow it will be read)—the philosopher Square, in a position (since the space didn’t allow him to stand upright) as ridiculous as you can imagine.
The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of a soldier who is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the attitude in which we often see fellows in the public streets of London, who are not suffering but deserving punishment by so standing. He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head, and his two large eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; so that when the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained from immoderate laughter.
The way he stood was quite similar to a soldier who’s been bound hand and foot; or rather like the way we often see guys on the streets of London, who aren’t suffering but actually deserving punishment by standing that way. He had a nightcap that belonged to Molly on his head, and as soon as the rug fell, his two big eyes stared straight at Jones. So, with the thought of philosophy added to the picture now revealed, it would have been really hard for anyone watching not to burst out laughing.
I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one.
I have no doubt that the reader will be just as surprised as Jones is; the suspicions that arise from the presence of this wise and serious man in such a place may seem completely out of character for him, as everyone has surely viewed him until now.
But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as we have before hinted, that consists the difference: for though such great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily acquired; but the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and, therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches them to avoid carrying it into execution.
But to be honest, this inconsistency is more imagined than real. Philosophers are made of flesh and blood like everyone else; and no matter how elevated and refined their theories might be, a bit of human weakness is just as common for them as it is for other people. The difference lies only in theory, not in practice, as we've mentioned before. While such exceptional thinkers may have deeper and wiser thoughts, they behave just like everyone else. They know how to control their desires and emotions and to disregard both pain and pleasure; this understanding brings much enjoyable contemplation and is relatively easy to grasp. However, putting it into practice would be frustrating and challenging, so the same wisdom that helps them understand this also leads them to avoid actually doing it.
Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader may be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had caused all that disturbance. Here he first observed her, and was so pleased with her beauty, that he prevailed with the young gentlemen to change their intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a second chance of seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at that time mention to any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to the reader.
Mr. Square happened to be at church that Sunday when, as you may recall, Molly’s appearance in her sack created such a stir. It was there that he first noticed her and was so taken with her beauty that he convinced the young gentlemen to change their planned ride that evening so he could pass by Molly’s place and hopefully get a second chance to see her. However, he didn’t mention this reason to anyone at the time, and we also thought it best not to share it with the reader then.
Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in Mr Square's opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty therefore which he apprehended there might be in corrupting this young wench, and the danger which would accrue to his character on the discovery, were such strong dissuasives, that it is probable he at first intended to have contented himself with the pleasing ideas which the sight of beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a full meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of dessert: for which purpose, certain books and pictures find their way into the most private recesses of their study, and a certain liquorish part of natural philosophy is often the principal subject of their conversation.
Among other reasons that made things unsuitable in Mr. Square's view, danger and difficulty were two main concerns. The difficulty he feared in trying to corrupt this young woman, along with the danger it posed to his reputation if discovered, were such strong deterrents that he probably initially planned to simply enjoy the pleasurable thoughts that beauty provides us. Even the most serious individuals, after a hearty meal of deep thought, often indulge in these as a treat: for this reason, certain books and images often find their way into the most private corners of their study, and a particular indulgence in the more tantalizing aspects of natural philosophy is frequently the main topic of their discussions.
But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind which cannot feed on a dainty because another hath tasted it. In short, he liked the girl the better for the want of that chastity, which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his pleasures; he pursued and obtained her.
But when the philosopher heard a day or two later that the fortress of virtue had already been conquered, he started to broaden his desires. His appetite wasn't the picky kind that can't enjoy a treat just because someone else has had it. In short, he liked the girl even more for lacking that purity, which, if she had it, would have stood in the way of his pleasures; he pursued her and won her over.
The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the preference to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she been confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would undoubtedly have been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor was it solely the consideration that two are better than one (though this had its proper weight) to which Mr Square owed his success: the absence of Jones during his confinement was an unlucky circumstance; and in that interval some well-chosen presents from the philosopher so softened and unguarded the girl's heart, that a favourable opportunity became irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.
The reader will be mistaken if they think Molly chose Square over her younger lover. On the contrary, if she had to pick just one, Tom Jones would definitely have been the winner out of the two. It wasn't just the idea that two are better than one (though that did play a role) that helped Mr. Square succeed; Jones being away during his absence was an unfortunate turn of events. During that time, some well-considered gifts from the philosopher managed to soften and disarm the girl's heart, making the opportunity too tempting to resist, and Square ended up overcoming what little virtue Molly still had.
It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square were in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied her as we have seen; for as the old woman shared in the profits arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and protected her in it to the utmost of her power; but such was the envy and hatred which the elder sister bore towards Molly, that, notwithstanding she had some part of the booty, she would willingly have parted with this to ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence she had acquainted Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes that he might have caught her in Square's arms. This, however, Molly found means to prevent, as the door was fastened; which gave her an opportunity of conveying her lover behind that rug or blanket where he now was unhappily discovered.
It had been about two weeks since this conquest when Jones paid the visit to his mistress mentioned earlier, at a time when she and Square were in bed together. This was the real reason why the mother denied her, as we have seen; because the old woman benefited from her daughter's wrongdoing, she encouraged and protected her as much as she could. However, the older sister envied and hated Molly so much that, even though she received a share of the profits, she would have gladly given it up to ruin her sister and mess up her business. So, she had informed Jones that Molly was upstairs in bed, hoping he would catch her in Square's arms. Fortunately for Molly, she was able to prevent this since the door was locked, which allowed her to hide her lover behind the rug or blanket where he was unfortunately found.
Square no sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in her bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair. This poor girl, who was yet but a novice in her business, had not arrived to that perfection of assurance which helps off a town lady in any extremity; and either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who, from love of quiet, or out of fear of his reputation—and sometimes, perhaps, from fear of the gallant, who, like Mr Constant in the play, wears a sword—is glad to shut his eyes, and content to put his horns in his pocket. Molly, on the contrary, was silenced by this evidence, and very fairly gave up a cause which she had hitherto maintained with so many tears, and with such solemn and vehement protestations of the purest love and constancy.
As soon as Square showed up, Molly threw herself back on her bed, exclaimed that she was finished, and surrendered to despair. This poor girl, still new to her situation, hadn’t yet developed the confidence that helps a city woman navigate any crisis; she either comes up with an excuse or boldly faces her husband, who, out of a desire for peace or concern for his reputation—and sometimes, maybe, out of fear of a rival, like Mr. Constant in the play who carries a sword—is happy to look the other way and accept the situation. Molly, on the other hand, was silenced by this evidence and very clearly gave up a battle she had previously fought with so many tears and with such solemn and passionate vows of pure love and loyalty.
As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and seemed equally at a loss what to say, or whither to direct his eyes. Jones, though perhaps the most astonished of the three, first found his tongue; and being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly by her upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and then saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to relieve him from his place of confinement.
As for the man behind the curtain, he was just as shocked. He stood there for a moment, paralyzed, and didn't know what to say or where to look. Jones, although probably the most surprised of the three, was the first to speak; and as he shook off the uncomfortable feelings that Molly's accusations had caused, he broke into loud laughter. After greeting Mr. Square, he went to shake his hand and help him out of his spot of confinement.
Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only he could stand upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance, and said to him, “Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery, and, I dare swear, take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me; but if you will consider the matter fairly, you will find you are yourself only to blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I have done nothing for which that part of the world which judges of matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by the nature of things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws. Nothing is indeed unfit which is not unnatural.”—“Well reasoned, old boy,” answered Jones; “but why dost thou think that I should desire to expose thee? I promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in my life; and unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this affair may remain a profound secret for me.”—“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied Square, “I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame is a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it. Besides, to murder one's own reputation is a kind of suicide, a detestable and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal any infirmity of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly perfect), I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be fitting to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for by the perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent but laudable.”—“Right!” cries Jones: “what can be more innocent than the indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than the propagation of our species?”—“To be serious with you,” answered Square, “I profess they always appeared so to me.”—“And yet,” said Jones, “you was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl was first discovered.”—“Why, I must confess,” says Square, “as the matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I might condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was that—and that—: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances cause great alteration.”—“Well,” cries Jones, “be that as it will, it shall be your own fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any more of this adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never open my lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So saying, he took a hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much expedition.
Square, now in the middle of the room where he could stand tall, looked at Jones with a serious expression and said, “Well, sir, I see you’re enjoying this grand discovery and, I’m sure, take great pleasure in the thought of exposing me; but if you think about it fairly, you’ll realize that you’re the one to blame. I’m not guilty of corrupting innocence. I haven’t done anything that the part of the world that judges based on what’s right would condemn me for. What’s appropriate is determined by the nature of things, not by customs, forms, or laws. Nothing is actually inappropriate unless it’s unnatural.” — “Well argued, old friend,” Jones replied; “but why do you think I’d want to expose you? I promise, I’ve never been more pleased with you in my life; and unless you want to reveal it yourself, this matter can stay a complete secret for me.” — “No, Mr. Jones,” Square responded, “I wouldn’t want anyone to think I undervalue my reputation. Good fame is a kind of beauty, and it’s certainly important to maintain it. Besides, ruining one’s own reputation is like committing suicide, a despicable and disgusting vice. So, if you choose to keep any flaws of mine private (since I might have some, as no man is perfectly perfect), I promise I won’t expose myself. There are things that are appropriate to do but not appropriate to brag about; because, by the flawed judgment of the world, what is actually innocent can often be criticized when it’s really commendable.” — “Right!” exclaimed Jones: “what could be more innocent than satisfying a natural desire? Or what could be more commendable than continuing our species?” — “To be honest with you,” Square replied, “I’ve always thought so.” — “And yet,” Jones said, “you had a different opinion when my situation with the girl first came to light.” — “Well, I must admit,” Square said, “the way it was misrepresented to me by that parson Thwackum made me think I was condemning the corruption of innocence: that’s what it was—it was that—and that—: because you must understand, Mr. Jones, in considering what’s appropriate, very small details can cause great changes.” — “Well,” Jones replied, “whatever that may be, it will be your own fault, as I’ve promised, if you ever hear more about this incident. Treat the girl kindly, and I won’t say a word about it to anyone. And, Molly, you should be loyal to your friend, and I will not only forgive your betrayal of me, but I will help you as much as I can.” With that, he quickly took his leave and hurried down the ladder, leaving with great speed.
Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse conclusion; and as for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she began at first to upbraid Square with having been the occasion of her loss of Jones; but that gentleman soon found the means of mitigating her anger, partly by caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his purse, of wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill humours of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.
Square was glad to find that this adventure was probably going to end well; and as for Molly, now that she had recovered from her confusion, she initially started to blame Square for her losing Jones. However, that gentleman quickly found ways to calm her anger, partly through affection and partly with a little remedy from his wallet, which was known to be effective in clearing negative thoughts and restoring a good mood.
She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new lover; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into ridicule; and vowed, though he once had the possession of her person, that none but Square had ever been master of her heart.
She then showered her new lover with a lot of affection; mocked everything she had said to Jones and Jones himself; and insisted that although he once had her physically, no one but Square had ever truly owned her heart.
Chapter vi. — By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the application of the word love.
The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would, perhaps, have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he expressed on the occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from that moment, very few, I believe, would have blamed him.
The betrayal of Molly, which Jones had just found out about, might have justified a lot more anger than he showed at that moment; and if he had walked away from her right then, I think very few people would have criticized him.
Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion; and though his love to her was not of that kind which could give him any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was he not a little shocked on reflecting that he had himself originally corrupted her innocence; for to this corruption he imputed all the vice into which she appeared now so likely to plunge herself.
It is clear, however, that he saw her with compassion; and although his love for her wasn't the kind that would cause him significant distress over her inconsistency, he was still somewhat taken aback when he realized that he had originally tainted her innocence. He blamed this corruption for all the wrongdoing she now seemed likely to engage in.
This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him by a hint, that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had been the first seducer of Molly; and that the little child, which he had hitherto so certainly concluded to be his own, might very probably have an equal title, at least, to claim Barnes for its father.
This thought caused him a lot of anxiety until Betty, the older sister, kindly suggested later on that it was Will Barnes, not him, who had been the first to seduce Molly; and that the little child, which he had always assumed was his, might very well have just as much claim to call Barnes its father.
Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in a very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, but at last by that of Molly herself.
Jones eagerly followed this lead when he first got it; and in a very short time, he was confident that the girl had told him the truth, not just from the guy's confession, but eventually from Molly's confession as well.
This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many trophies of this kind as any ensign or attorney's clerk in the kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced several women to a state of utter profligacy, had broke the hearts of some, and had the honour of occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either drowned herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him.
This Will Barnes was a country flirt and had collected as many conquests as any low-ranking officer or apprentice in the kingdom. He had, in fact, led several women to complete ruin, broken the hearts of some, and was unfortunately responsible for the tragic death of one poor girl, who either took her own life by drowning or, more likely, was drowned by him.
Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart of Betty Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown to be a fit object of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her, and applied to her sister, with whom he had almost immediate success. Now Will had, in reality, the sole possession of Molly's affection, while Jones and Square were almost equally sacrifices to her interest and to her pride.
Among his other conquests, this guy had won over Betty Seagrim's heart. He had pursued her long before Molly was old enough for that kind of attention; but he later abandoned her and went after her sister, with whom he had nearly instant success. Now Will truly held Molly's affection, while Jones and Square both made sacrifices for her love and her pride.
Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen raging in the mind of Betty; though we did not think it necessary to assign this cause sooner, as envy itself alone was adequate to all the effects we have mentioned.
Thus, the intense hatred we saw before in Betty's mind had developed; however, we didn't feel it was necessary to mention this reason earlier, as her envy alone was enough to explain all the outcomes we discussed.
Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with regard to Molly; but as to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most violent perturbation; his heart was now, if I may use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and Sophia took absolute possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded passion, and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had for him; yet could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by any base or treacherous method.
Jones felt completely at ease knowing the secret about Molly; however, when it came to Sophia, he was anything but calm. In fact, he was extremely agitated; his heart, if I can put it this way, was entirely empty, and Sophia completely filled that space. He loved her with an intense passion and clearly recognized the affection she had for him; yet, this certainty didn't ease his despair over getting her father's approval, nor did it diminish the horrors of trying to win her over through any underhanded or deceitful means.
The injury which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which would accrue to Mr Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him all day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a constant struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house, and to see her no more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the forfeiture of what was much dearer to him.
The harm he would cause Mr. Western and the worry it would cause Mr. Allworthy tormented him all day and haunted him at night. His life was a constant battle between honor and desire, each taking turns winning in his mind. Often, when Sophia wasn't around, he decided to leave her father's house and never see her again; but whenever she was present, he forgot all those decisions and resolved to pursue her, even if it meant risking his life and losing something even more precious to him.
This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects: for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr Western's humour, the constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to conceal by such ostentation.
This conflict quickly started to have very strong and noticeable effects: he lost all his usual energy and cheerful demeanor, becoming not only sad when alone but also downcast and distracted when with others; in fact, whenever he tried to force a smile to please Mr. Western's mood, it was so obvious that he was struggling that it seemed like the most obvious proof of what he was trying to hide with that display.
It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue was sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame, trembled. And if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal from his bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to throw daily in his way.
It might be a question of whether the art he used to hide his feelings, or the honest nature that worked to reveal them, betrayed him more: because while art made him even more reserved around Sophia and prevented him from talking to her or even meeting her gaze, nature was just as determined to undermine him. So, whenever the young lady approached, he would turn pale, and if it happened suddenly, he would jump. If their eyes accidentally met, his cheeks would flush, and his face would turn bright red. If he had to speak to her out of common courtesy, like to toast her health at the table, his words would always stumble. If he touched her, his hand—his entire body—would shake. And if any conversation remotely hinted at love, an involuntary sigh would often escape him. Most of these occurrences were cleverly orchestrated by nature, presenting themselves to him every day.
All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her own breast. And this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which hath been so often noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her father.
All these symptoms went unnoticed by the squire, but not by Sophia. She quickly picked up on Jones's emotional turmoil and easily identified the cause; after all, she felt it herself. I suppose this awareness is that sympathy that's often observed in lovers, which explains why she was so much more perceptive than her father.
But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we must observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one which will serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others. From whence is it that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general sympathy among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign of communication. In reality, it is only because they have the same thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way. Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the idea of love never entered into the head of the father, whereas the daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
But truthfully, there's a simpler and clearer way to explain the incredible insight some people have over others. This understanding applies not just to lovers, but to everyone. Why is it that a sly person is usually so quick to notice the signs and schemes of deceit that often trick an honest person with better judgment? There's definitely no shared understanding among dishonest people, nor do they have any common signals like freemasons. The reality is, they think alike and have similar thoughts. So, it's not surprising that Sophia noticed the obvious signs of love in Jones while Western did not, considering the father never thought about love at all, while the daughter was focused solely on it.
When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her mind two of the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a mistress—these were, esteem and pity—for sure the most outrageously rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one who visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother a flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the most diligent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates; and wrought so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt for him all those gentle sensations which are consistent with a virtuous and elevated female mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man—indeed, all which the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to distraction.
When Sophia fully understood the intense feelings that troubled poor Jones, and was equally certain that she was the reason for them, she had no trouble figuring out the real reason for his current behavior. This made him even more endearing to her and sparked two of the best feelings a lover can inspire in a partner—esteem and pity. Surely, even the most rigid among her peers would excuse her pity for a man who appeared so miserable because of her; nor could they blame her for respecting someone who, for the most honorable reasons, tried to hide a passion in his heart that was consuming him from within, much like the infamous Spartan theft that gnawed at his very core. Thus, his reluctance, his avoidance of her, his distance, and his silence acted as the strongest, most devoted, warmest, and most eloquent advocates for his feelings. They deeply affected her sensitive and tender heart, awakening in her those gentle emotions that align with a virtuous and elevated woman. In short, everything that esteem, gratitude, and pity can inspire in response to a charming man—indeed, everything that the utmost delicacy could permit. In other words, she was madly in love with him.
One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones had formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia had there lost.
One day, this young couple randomly met in the garden, at the end of the two paths that were both lined by the canal where Jones had once risked drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia had lost there.
This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used to ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.
This place had recently been visited often by Sophia. Here she would reflect, with a mix of pain and pleasure, on an incident that, although minor in itself, may have planted the first seeds of the affection that had now grown so strong in her heart.
Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A bystander would have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the countenance of each; but they felt too much themselves to make any observation. As soon as Jones had a little recovered his first surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the ordinary forms of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning. Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him of that accident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little shuddering when you see that water.”—“I assure you, madam,” answered Jones, “the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will always appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in which I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment for his ingratitude.”—“Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance must affect you.”—“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not been a little deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.”—“Fie, Mr Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me. You would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured it for my sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a sigh, “He feared it was already too late for caution:” and then looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, “Oh, Miss Western! can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?” Sophia, looking down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I do not wish you ill.”—“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,” cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond every other charm.”—“Nay, now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can stay no longer.”—“I—I would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can't be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would rather have died—nay, the very thought would kill me.”—“You surprize me,” answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended me?”—“Fear, madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I speak then? Nay, don't look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me. I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it impossible for me ever to offend you more.”
Here, this young couple met. They were almost next to each other before either of them noticed the other's approach. A bystander would have seen enough confusion on each of their faces, but they were too caught up in their feelings to pay attention. Once Jones had recovered from his initial surprise, he greeted the young lady with some typical pleasantries, which she returned in the same way. Their conversation started, as usual, with compliments about the beautiful morning. From there, they moved on to praise the beauty of the location, and Jones spoke very highly of it. When they reached the tree where he had previously tumbled into the canal, Sophia couldn't help but bring up the incident, saying, “I imagine, Mr. Jones, you feel a bit uneasy when you see that water.” Jones replied, “I assure you, madam, my concern for the loss of your little bird will always be the most significant part of that adventure. Poor little Tommy! There's the branch he stood on. How could that little creature be foolish enough to fly away from the happiness I provided him? His fate was a fitting punishment for his ingratitude.” “Honestly, Mr. Jones,” she said, “your gallantry came very close to meeting a similar fate. Certainly, that memory must affect you.” “Indeed, madam,” he answered, “if I have any reason to feel sorrow about it, it’s maybe that the water hadn’t been a bit deeper, which might have spared me from many heartaches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.” “Oh, Mr. Jones!” replied Sophia, “I’m sure you can’t be serious. This feigned disregard for life is just a reflection of your affection for me. You’d try to diminish the debt of having risked your life twice for my sake. Be careful of a third time.” She said the last part with a smile and an indescribable softness. Jones responded with a sigh, “I fear it’s already too late for caution,” and then looking at her tenderly and intently, he exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Western! Can you ask me to live? Can you wish me that much misfortune?” Sophia, gazing at the ground, replied hesitantly, “Well, Mr. Jones, I do not wish you ill.” “Oh, I know all too well about that heavenly nature,” cried Jones, “that divine kindness, which surpasses every other charm.” “No, now,” she answered, “I don’t understand you. I can't stay any longer.” “I—I meant to be misunderstood!” he cried; “no, I can't be understood. I don’t know what I’m saying. Meeting you here so unexpectedly, I’ve been unguarded: for Heaven’s sake, forgive me if I said anything to upset you. I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I would rather die—just the thought of it would kill me.” “You surprise me,” she replied. “How can you think you’ve offended me?” “Fear, madam,” he said, “can easily lead to madness; and there's no fear like the one I have of offending you. How can I speak then? Please don’t look at me angrily: one frown would destroy me. I mean nothing. You can blame my eyes or blame your beauty. What am I saying? Forgive me if I’ve said too much. My heart overflowed. I’ve struggled with my love to the limit, and have tried to hide a fever that’s consuming me, and will, I hope, soon make it impossible for me to ever offend you again.”
Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his, answered in these words: “Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand you; indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven's sake, if you have any affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither.”
Mr. Jones now trembled as if he had just had a fit of chills. Sophia, who was in a situation not too different from his, replied, “Mr. Jones, I won’t pretend to misunderstand you; in fact, I understand you very well. But for Heaven's sake, if you care for me at all, let me make my way into the house. I hope I can manage to get there.”
Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm, which she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a word more to her of this nature at present. He promised he would not; insisting only on her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of his will, had forced from him: this, she told him, he knew how to obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his mistress, though it was locked in his.
Jones, who could barely take care of himself, offered her his arm, which she reluctantly accepted but asked him not to say anything more like that for now. He promised he wouldn’t, only insisting that she forgive him for what love had made him express without his control. She told him he could earn that forgiveness through his future actions. And so, this young couple wobbled and shook their way along, the lover not once daring to squeeze his mistress's hand, even though it was held tightly in his.
Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which, as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next chapter.
Sophia quickly went to her room, where she called for Mrs. Honour and the hartshorn to help her. As for poor Jones, the only thing that eased his troubled mind was some unwelcome news, which, since it introduces a different situation from what the reader has recently been engaged with, will be shared in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part with him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either from the love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy's; nay, without ever hearing from thence.
Mr. Western had grown so attached to Jones that he didn't want to let him go, even though his arm had healed a while ago. Jones, either because he enjoyed the fun or for some other reason, was easily convinced to stay at his house, sometimes for two weeks at a time without visiting Mr. Allworthy at all; in fact, he didn't even hear from him during that time.
Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had been attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not confine him to his bed, or prevent his several faculties from performing their ordinary functions;—a conduct which we would by no means be thought to approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the gentlemen of the Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that the moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician should be introduced at the other: what else is meant by that old adage, Venienti occurrite morbo? “Oppose a distemper at its first approach.” Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal conflict; whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army; so that the learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible, to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time the disease applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature over to his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late. Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late applications which were made to his skill, saying, “Bygar, me believe my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me till de physicion have kill dem.”
Mr. Allworthy had been feeling unwell for a few days with a cold that came with a slight fever. However, he had ignored it, as he usually did with any ailments that didn’t keep him in bed or stop him from doing his usual activities. This is not a behavior we would ever endorse or recommend, because surely medical professionals are right when they advise that as soon as an illness shows up, the doctor should be brought in immediately. What else could the old saying, Venienti occurrite morbo?, mean? “Address an illness at its first sign.” That way, the doctor and the disease can face off fairly. If we allow the illness time to establish itself, it can set up defenses like a French army, making it quite difficult, if not impossible, for the doctor to reach it. Sometimes, by delaying, the illness adopts tactics from the French military, gaining the upper hand and corrupting nature to its advantage, which means that all the medical interventions arrive too late. I recall the lament of the great Dr. Misaubin, who used to sorrowfully complain about the late calls for his expertise, saying, “Bygar, I believe my patients think I’m the undertaker, because they never call for me until the physician has killed them.”
Mr Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such ground, that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very imminent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human nature to be for the other, received this information with the utmost calmness and unconcern. He could, indeed, whenever he laid himself down to rest, say with Cato in the tragical poem—
Mr. Allworthy's illness, due to this neglect, became so serious that when his fever worsened and he had to call for help, the doctor arrived, shook his head, wished he had been contacted sooner, and suggested that Mr. Allworthy was in very real danger. Mr. Allworthy, who had sorted out all his matters in this life and was as ready as anyone could be for the next, took this news with complete calmness and indifference. He could, in fact, whenever he lay down to rest, recite with Cato from the tragic poem—
Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.
Let guilt or fear
Disrupt a person's peace: Cato knows neither;
Unbothered in his decision to sleep or to die.In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and confidence than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the antient or modern heroes; for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be considered as a faithful labourer, when at the end of harvest he is summoned to receive his reward at the hands of a bountiful master.
In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and confidence than Cato or any other arrogant person among the ancient or modern heroes; because he was not only fearless, but could also be seen as a dedicated worker, like a laborer called to receive his reward from a generous master at the end of the harvest.
The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned round him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs Blifil, who had been some time in London, and Mr Jones, whom the reader hath just parted from at Mr Western's, and who received this summons just as Sophia had left him.
The good man quickly ordered his entire family to come gather around him. None of them were away at the time, except for Mrs. Blifil, who had been in London for a while, and Mr. Jones, who the reader just left at Mr. Western's and received this call just as Sophia had walked away from him.
The news of Mr Allworthy's danger (for the servant told him he was dying) drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the coachman to drive with all imaginable haste; nor did the idea of Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the way.
The news of Mr. Allworthy's danger (since the servant told him he was dying) wiped any thoughts of love from his mind. He quickly jumped into the carriage that had been sent for him and instructed the driver to go as fast as possible; I don't think the thought of Sophia crossed his mind at all during the ride.
And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr Thwackum, Mr Square, and some of the servants (for such were Mr Allworthy's orders) being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was beginning to speak, when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to express very loud and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr Allworthy shook him by the hand, and said, “Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew, at the most ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal our friends we are justly grieved; for those are accidents which might often have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others; but death is certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot in which alone the fortunes of all men agree: nor is the time when this happens to us very material. If the wisest of men hath compared life to a span, surely we may be allowed to consider it as a day. It is my fate to leave it in the evening; but those who are taken away earlier have only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting, and much oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. One of the Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life to our departure from a feast;—a thought which hath often occurred to me when I have seen men struggling to protract an entertainment, and to enjoy the company of their friends a few moments longer. Alas! how short is the most protracted of such enjoyments! how immaterial the difference between him who retires the soonest, and him who stays the latest! This is seeing life in the best view, and this unwillingness to quit our friends is the most amiable motive from which we can derive the fear of death; and yet the longest enjoyment which we can hope for of this kind is of so trivial a duration, that it is to a wise man truly contemptible. Few men, I own, think in this manner; for, indeed, few men think of death till they are in its jaws. However gigantic and terrible an object this may appear when it approaches them, they are nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any distance; nay, though they have been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner cleared from this apprehension than even the fears of it are erased from their minds. But, alas! he who escapes from death is not pardoned; he is only reprieved, and reprieved to a short day.
And now the whole family—Mr. Blifil, Mr. Jones, Mr. Thwackum, Mr. Square, and some of the servants (as Mr. Allworthy had ordered)—had gathered around his bed. The good man sat up and was about to speak when Blifil started crying and expressed loud and bitter lamentations. Mr. Allworthy took his hand and said, “Don’t be so sad, my dear nephew, about the most common of all human experiences. When misfortunes strike our friends, we are rightly upset because those are events that could often be avoided, and they can make someone's situation seem more unhappy than others. But death is definitely unavoidable, and it’s the common fate that everyone shares; the timing of it doesn’t really matter. If the wisest of men has compared life to a span, we can certainly view it as a single day. It’s my destiny to leave this world in the evening; but those who are taken earlier have only lost a few hours, which are usually not worth lamenting and often just hours of labor, fatigue, pain, and sorrow. One of the Roman poets, I remember, likens our departure from life to leaving a feast; this has often come to mind when I’ve seen people trying to prolong a gathering, wanting to enjoy the company of their friends just a little longer. Alas! how short even the longest of these joys really are! How insignificant is the difference between the one who leaves first and the one who stays the longest! This is the best way to view life, and the reluctance to leave our friends is the most endearing reason we have for fearing death. Yet, the longest enjoyment we can hope to have is so brief that it truly becomes insignificant to a wise person. I admit, few people think this way; in reality, few people consider death until they’re facing it directly. No matter how daunting and terrible death may seem when it looms near, people still can't see it from afar; indeed, even if they’ve been greatly alarmed when they think they’re in danger of dying, as soon as that fear is gone, so too are the thoughts of it. But, alas! escaping from death doesn’t grant you a pardon; it’s merely a temporary reprieve, and it’s only for a short time.”
“Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: an event which may happen every hour; which every element, nay, almost every particle of matter that surrounds us is capable of producing, and which must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought neither to occasion our surprize nor our lamentation.
“Therefore, stop grieving, my dear child, about this situation: an event that can happen at any moment; which every element, and indeed, almost every particle of matter around us can create, and which will inevitably come for us all in the end, should neither surprise us nor cause us to mourn.”
“My physician having acquainted me (which I take very kindly of him) that I am in danger of leaving you all very shortly, I have determined to say a few words to you at this our parting, before my distemper, which I find grows very fast upon me, puts it out of my power.
“My doctor has informed me (which I really appreciate) that I’m in danger of leaving you all very soon, so I’ve decided to say a few words to you at this farewell, before my illness, which I see is progressing rapidly, makes it impossible for me to do so.”
“But I shall waste my strength too much. I intended to speak concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, I think proper to mention such heads of it as concern any of you, that I may have the comfort of perceiving you are all satisfied with the provision I have there made for you.
“But I will be exhausting myself too much. I meant to talk about my wishes, which I decided on a long time ago. I think it's appropriate to bring up certain points that involve any of you so that I can feel reassured knowing that you are all content with what I've arranged for you.”
“Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only £500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother, and except one other estate of £500 a-year, and the sum of £6000, which I have bestowed in the following manner:
“Nephew Blifil, I’m leaving you as the heir to my entire estate, except for £500 a year, which will go to you after your mother passes away, and one other estate of £500 a year, along with the sum of £6,000, which I have distributed as follows:
“The estate of £500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: and as I know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have added £1000 in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or fallen short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given you too little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for giving you too much; but the latter censure I despise; and as to the former, unless you should entertain that common error which I have often heard in my life pleaded as an excuse for a total want of charity, namely, that instead of raising gratitude by voluntary acts of bounty, we are apt to raise demands, which of all others are the most boundless and most difficult to satisfy.—Pardon me the bare mention of this; I will not suspect any such thing.”
"I've given you an estate of £500 a year, Mr. Jones, and knowing how tough it can be to have cash on hand, I've added £1,000 in actual money. I’m not sure if this meets your expectations. You might think I haven't given you enough, while others might say I've given too much; but I ignore that last criticism. As for the first, unless you believe in that common excuse I often hear— that instead of creating gratitude through generous actions, we tend to create endless demands that are hard to meet—know that I won’t assume that about you. Please forgive me for even bringing it up; I don't doubt your character."
Jones flung himself at his benefactor's feet, and taking eagerly hold of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now and all other times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit but his hopes, that no words could express his sense of it. “And I assure you, sir,” said he, “your present generosity hath left me no other concern than for the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father!” Here his words choaked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was starting from his eyes.
Jones threw himself at his benefactor's feet and eagerly grabbed his hand, expressing that his kindness, both now and in the past, had far surpassed not only what he deserved but also what he had hoped for, so much so that no words could capture his feelings. “And I assure you, sir,” he said, “your current generosity has left me with only one worry: this unfortunate situation. Oh, my friend, my father!” At that, his voice broke, and he turned away to hide a tear that was forming in his eyes.
Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus: “I am convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and honour, in your temper: if you will add prudence and religion to these, you must be happy; for the three former qualities, I admit, make you worthy of happiness, but they are the latter only which will put you in possession of it.
Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand and said, “I believe, my child, that you have a lot of goodness, generosity, and honor in your character. If you can add wisdom and faith to those, you will be happy; because while the first three qualities are certainly deserving of happiness, it's the latter two that will actually bring it to you."
“One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; a sum I am convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as well as your wants. However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship; and whatever superfluities may redound to you, that piety which you so rigidly maintain will instruct you how to dispose of them.
"I've given you one thousand pounds, Mr. Thwackum; I believe this amount is well beyond what you desire and need. However, you'll accept it as a symbol of my friendship, and any extra that comes your way, your strict sense of piety will guide you on how to handle it."
“A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, I hope, will enable you to pursue your profession with better success than hitherto. I have often observed with concern, that distress is more apt to excite contempt than commiseration, especially among men of business, with whom poverty is understood to indicate want of ability. But the little I have been able to leave you will extricate you from those difficulties with which you have formerly struggled; and then I doubt not but you will meet with sufficient prosperity to supply what a man of your philosophical temper will require.
"I've left you a similar amount, Mr. Square. I hope this will help you succeed in your profession better than you have before. I've often noticed with concern that distress tends to provoke contempt rather than sympathy, especially among business people, who see poverty as a sign of incompetence. But the little I've been able to leave you should help you overcome the challenges you've faced in the past; and I'm confident that you'll find enough success to meet the needs of a man with your philosophical mindset."
“I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will for my disposition of the residue. My servants will there find some tokens to remember me by; and there are a few charities which, I trust, my executors will see faithfully performed. Bless you all. I am setting out a little before you.”—
“I’m feeling a bit weak, so I’ll direct you to my will for how I want things handled after I’m gone. My servants will find some keepsakes to remember me by, and I hope my executors will make sure a few charities are taken care of. Bless you all. I’m heading out a bit ahead of you.”
Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there was an attorney from Salisbury who had a particular message, which he said he must communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: that he seemed in a violent hurry, and protested he had so much business to do, that, if he could cut himself into four quarters, all would not be sufficient.
A footman rushed into the room and said there was a lawyer from Salisbury with an important message that he needed to share with Mr. Allworthy directly. He appeared to be in a real rush and insisted he had so much work to do that even if he could split himself into four pieces, it still wouldn't be enough.
“Go, child,” said Allworthy to Blifil, “see what the gentleman wants. I am not able to do any business now, nor can he have any with me, in which you are not at present more concerned than myself. Besides, I really am—I am incapable of seeing any one at present, or of any longer attention.” He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps he should be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits in discourse.
"Go on, kid," Allworthy said to Blifil, "see what the gentleman needs. I can’t handle any business right now, and he can’t talk to me about anything that you aren't more involved in than I am. Besides, I really—I'm not able to see anyone right now or focus any longer." He then greeted them all, saying that maybe he would be able to see them again, but at the moment, he would be glad to take a little time to calm down, realizing he had worn himself out from talking too much.
Some of the company shed tears at their parting; and even the philosopher Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood. As to Mrs Wilkins, she dropt her pearls as fast as the Arabian trees their medicinal gums; for this was a ceremonial which that gentlewoman never omitted on a proper occasion.
Some of the company cried at their farewell; even the philosopher Square wiped his eyes, even though he wasn't used to feeling emotional. As for Mrs. Wilkins, she dropped her pearls as quickly as Arabian trees shed their medicinal resin; this was a ritual she never skipped on a fitting occasion.
After this Mr Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow, and endeavoured to compose himself to rest.
After this, Mr. Allworthy lay back down on his pillow and tried to calm himself to sleep.
Chapter viii. — Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny stream which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous cheek-bones of the housekeeper. She was no sooner retired, than she began to mutter to herself in the following pleasant strain: “Sure master might have made some difference, methinks, between me and the other servants. I suppose he hath left me mourning; but, i'fackins! if that be all, the devil shall wear it for him, for me. I'd have his worship know I am no beggar. I have saved five hundred pound in his service, and after all to be used in this manner.—It is a fine encouragement to servants to be honest; and to be sure, if I have taken a little something now and then, others have taken ten times as much; and now we are all put in a lump together. If so be that it be so, the legacy may go to the devil with him that gave it. No, I won't give it up neither, because that will please some folks. No, I'll buy the gayest gown I can get, and dance over the old curmudgeon's grave in it. This is my reward for taking his part so often, when all the country have cried shame of him, for breeding up his bastard in that manner; but he is going now where he must pay for all. It would have become him better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed, than to glory in them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a misbegotten child. Found in his bed, forsooth! a pretty story! ay, ay, those that hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I warrant he hath many more bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. One comfort is, they will all be known where he is a going now.—`The servants will find some token to remember me by.' Those were the very words; I shall never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall remember you for huddling me among the servants. One would have thought he might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but he is a gentleman forsooth, though he had not cloths on his back when he came hither first. Marry come up with such gentlemen! though he hath lived here this many years, I don't believe there is arrow a servant in the house ever saw the colour of his money. The devil shall wait upon such a gentleman for me.” Much more of the like kind she muttered to herself; but this taste shall suffice to the reader.
Besides mourning for her boss, there was another reason for the salty tears that streamed down the housekeeper's prominent cheekbones. As soon as she was alone, she began to mutter to herself in this favorable manner: “Surely my boss could have distinguished between me and the other servants. I guess he left me grieving; but honestly! if that's all, the devil can keep it for him, not me. I want him to know I’m no beggar. I’ve saved five hundred pounds during my time working for him, and after everything, to be treated like this—it's a great incentive for servants to be honest; and sure, if I’ve taken a little something here and there, others have taken ten times as much; and now we’re all lumped together. If this is how it’s going to be, the legacy can go to the devil with him who gave it. No, I won't give it up either, because that would please some people. No, I’ll buy the fanciest dress I can find and dance over the old miser's grave in it. This is my reward for defending him so often, when the whole country has condemned him for raising his illegitimate child like that; but he’s going where he must pay for everything. It would have suited him better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed than to take pride in them and give away his estate to a child not of his own blood. Found in his bed, indeed! A great story! Yes, yes, those who hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I bet he has many more bastards to account for, if the truth were known. One comfort is, they will all be known now that he’s going where he’s going.— ‘The servants will find some token to remember me by.’ Those were the exact words; I shall never forget them, even if I live a thousand years. Yes, yes, I’ll remember you for shoving me among the servants. One would think he could have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but he’s a gentleman, sure enough, even though he had no clothes on his back when he first arrived here. Goodness, what kind of gentlemen! Even though he’s lived here for so many years, I don’t believe a single servant in the house has ever seen the color of his money. The devil can serve such a gentleman for all I care.” She muttered much more of this sort to herself, but this taste will suffice for the reader.
Neither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied with their legacies. Though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from the discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from the following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in their minds.
Neither Thwackum nor Square were very pleased with their legacies. Although they didn't express their resentment as openly, the dissatisfaction shown on their faces and the conversation that followed suggest that there was no real happiness in their minds.
About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackum in the hall and accosted him thus: “Well, sir, have you heard any news of your friend since we parted from him?”—“If you mean Mr Allworthy,” answered Thwackum, “I think you might rather give him the appellation of your friend; for he seems to me to have deserved that title.”—“The title is as good on your side,” replied Square, “for his bounty, such as it is, hath been equal to both.”—“I should not have mentioned it first,” cries Thwackum, “but since you begin, I must inform you I am of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary favours and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you imagine I am therefore dissatisfied; for St Paul hath taught me to be content with the little I have. Had the modicum been less, I should have known my duty. But though the Scriptures obliges me to remain contented, it doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own merit, nor restrain me from seeing when I am injured by an unjust comparison.”—“Since you provoke me,” returned Square, “that injury is done to me; nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my friendship so light, as to put me in balance with one who received his wages. I know to what it is owing; it proceeds from those narrow principles which you have been so long endeavouring to infuse into him, in contempt of everything which is great and noble. The beauty and loveliness of friendship is too strong for dim eyes, nor can it be perceived by any other medium than that unerring rule of right, which you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have perverted your friend's understanding.”—“I wish,” cries Thwackum, in a rage, “I wish, for the sake of his soul, your damnable doctrines have not perverted his faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so unbecoming a Christian. Who but an atheist could think of leaving the world without having first made up his account? without confessing his sins, and receiving that absolution which he knew he had one in the house duly authorized to give him? He will feel the want of these necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that place where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find in what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and all other deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon his priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament the want of that absolution, without which no sinner can be safe.”—“If it be so material,” says Square, “why don't you present it him of your own accord?” “It hath no virtue,” cries Thwackum, “but to those who have sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to a heathen and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this lesson, for which you have been well rewarded in this world, as I doubt not your disciple will soon be in the other.”—“I know not what you mean by reward,” said Square; “but if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our friendship, which he hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise it; and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should prevail on me to accept it.”
About an hour after they had left the sick room, Square ran into Thwackum in the hallway and said, “Well, have you heard any news about your friend since we last saw him?”—“If you mean Mr. Allworthy,” Thwackum replied, “I think you should consider him more your friend; he seems to have earned that title.” —“That title fits you just as well,” Square responded, “since his generosity, such as it is, has been equal toward both of us.” —“I wouldn’t have brought it up first,” Thwackum exclaimed, “but since you mentioned it, I have to say I disagree. There's a big difference between voluntary favors and rewards. The work I’ve done for his family and the care I’ve taken in raising his two boys are services for which some people might expect more in return. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m unhappy because of it; St. Paul has taught me to be content with what I have. If I had received less, I would still know my duty. But while the Scriptures require me to stay content, they don’t ask me to ignore my own worth or stop me from seeing when I’m wronged by an unfair comparison.” —“Since you’re calling me out,” Square shot back, “that wrong is being done to me; nor did I ever think Mr. Allworthy valued my friendship so little as to compare me to someone who is compensated for their work. I know why this is happening; it stems from the narrow-minded ideas you’ve been trying to instill in him, disregarding everything that is great and noble. The beauty and value of friendship is too strong for dull eyes, and it can only be recognized by that unwavering standard of right, which you’ve tried so often to ridicule, so much that you’ve twisted your friend’s understanding.” —“I wish,” Thwackum shouted, furious, “that your vile teachings haven’t corrupted his faith for the sake of his soul. I blame this for his current behavior, which is so un-Christian. Who but an atheist would think of leaving the world without first settling his accounts? Without confessing his sins and receiving the absolution he knows he has someone here authorized to give him? He’ll realize how much he needs these essentials when it’s too late, once he arrives at that place of weeping and gnashing of teeth. It’s then he’ll understand how useless that so-called virtue, worshipped by you and all other deists of this age, will be for him. He’ll call for his priest when there’s no one around and will regret missing that absolution, without which no sinner can be safe.” —“If it’s so important,” Square said, “why don’t you offer it to him yourself?” —“It has no value,” Thwackum retorted, “except for those who have enough grace to seek it. But why am I even talking to a heathen and an unbeliever? You’re the one who taught him this lesson, and I have no doubt that you’ve been well rewarded in this life, just as your disciple soon will be in the next.” —“I don’t know what you mean by reward,” Square replied. “But if you’re hinting at that pathetic token of our friendship that he decided to leave to me, I disdain it; and only my unfortunate circumstances would push me to accept it.”
The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputants, how we all did above-stairs? “In a miserable way,” answered Thwackum. “It is no more than I expected,” cries the doctor: “but pray what symptoms have appeared since I left you?”—“No good ones, I am afraid,” replied Thwackum: “after what past at our departure, I think there were little hopes.” The bodily physician, perhaps, misunderstood the curer of souls; and before they came to an explanation, Mr Blifil came to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted them that he brought sad news, that his mother was dead at Salisbury; that she had been seized on the road home with the gout in her head and stomach, which had carried her off in a few hours. “Good-lack-a-day!” says the doctor. “One cannot answer for events; but I wish I had been at hand, to have been called in. The gout is a distemper which it is difficult to treat; yet I have been remarkably successful in it.” Thwackum and Square both condoled with Mr Blifil for the loss of his mother, which the one advised him to bear like a man, and the other like a Christian. The young gentleman said he knew very well we were all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his loss as well as he could. That he could not, however, help complaining a little against the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news of so great a calamity to him by surprize, and that at a time when he hourly expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the malice of fortune. He said, the present occasion would put to the test those excellent rudiments which he had learnt from Mr Thwackum and Mr Square; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to survive such misfortunes.
The doctor arrived and started to ask the two debaters how we were all doing upstairs. “Not well at all,” Thwackum replied. “That’s exactly what I expected,” said the doctor. “But tell me, what symptoms have shown up since I left you?” “Not any good ones, I’m afraid,” Thwackum responded. “After what happened when we left, I think there was little hope.” The physical doctor might have misunderstood the spiritual healer; before they could clarify, Mr. Blifil approached them with a very sad expression and informed them that he had bad news: his mother had died in Salisbury. She had been struck on the way home by gout in her head and stomach, which had taken her within a few hours. “Oh dear!” the doctor exclaimed. “You can’t predict everything; I only wish I had been there to help. Gout is a tricky condition to deal with, but I’ve had good success with it.” Thwackum and Square both expressed their condolences to Mr. Blifil for the loss of his mother, with Thwackum advising him to handle it like a man and Square suggesting he bear it like a Christian. The young man said he understood that we are all mortal, and he would try to cope with his loss as best he could. However, he couldn’t help but complain a bit about the harshness of his fate, bringing him the news of such a huge tragedy unexpectedly, especially when he was already bracing for the hardest blow he could take from fate’s cruelty. He mentioned that this situation would test the valuable lessons he had learned from Mr. Thwackum and Mr. Square, and it would be entirely thanks to them if he was able to withstand such misfortunes.
It was now debated whether Mr Allworthy should be informed of the death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I believe, the whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said, he had received such positive and repeated orders from his uncle, never to keep any secret from him for fear of the disquietude which it might give him, that he durst not think of disobedience, whatever might be the consequence. He said, for his part, considering the religious and philosophic temper of his uncle, he could not agree with the doctor in his apprehensions. He was therefore resolved to communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered (as he heartily prayed he might) he knew he would never forgive an endeavour to keep a secret of this kind from him.
There was now a debate about whether Mr. Allworthy should be told about his sister's death. The doctor strongly opposed this; I believe the entire medical team would support him. However, Mr. Blifil said he had received clear and repeated orders from his uncle never to keep any secrets from him, fearing the distress it might cause, so he couldn't consider disobeying, no matter the consequences. He said that, considering his uncle's religious and philosophical nature, he couldn't agree with the doctor's concerns. Therefore, he was determined to inform him; if his uncle recovered (which he sincerely hoped), he knew he would never forgive anyone for trying to keep such a secret from him.
The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr Blifil and the doctor toward the sick-room; where the physician first entered, and approached the bed, in order to feel his patient's pulse, which he had no sooner done, than he declared he was much better; that the last application had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the fever to intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as little danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes.
The doctor had to go along with these decisions, which the two other educated men praised highly. So Mr. Blifil and the doctor walked toward the sick room together; the doctor went in first and approached the bed to check the patient's pulse. As soon as he did that, he announced that the patient was much better; the last treatment had worked like a miracle and had made the fever intermittent. He said that now there seemed to be as little danger as he had previously thought there were hopes.
To say the truth, Mr Allworthy's situation had never been so bad as the great caution of the doctor had represented it: but as a wise general never despises his enemy, however inferior that enemy's force may be, so neither doth a wise physician ever despise a distemper, however inconsiderable. As the former preserves the same strict discipline, places the same guards, and employs the same scouts, though the enemy be never so weak; so the latter maintains the same gravity of countenance, and shakes his head with the same significant air, let the distemper be never so trifling. And both, among many other good ones, may assign this solid reason for their conduct, that by these means the greater glory redounds to them if they gain the victory, and the less disgrace if by any unlucky accident they should happen to be conquered.
To be honest, Mr. Allworthy's situation had never been as bad as the doctor had claimed. But just like a wise general never underestimates his enemy, no matter how weak they might be, a wise doctor never underestimates an illness, no matter how minor it is. The general keeps the same strict discipline, sets the same defenses, and uses the same scouts, even if the enemy is weak; similarly, the doctor maintains the same serious demeanor and shakes his head with the same meaningful gesture, regardless of how trivial the illness may be. Both can point to this solid reason for their approach: if they succeed, they achieve greater glory, and if they fail due to some unfortunate event, they face less disgrace.
Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew near, with a very dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye, either to wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses himself on another occasion
Mr. Allworthy had just lifted his eyes and thanked Heaven for the hope of his recovery when Mr. Blifil approached, looking very downcast. He put his handkerchief to his eye, either to wipe away tears or to imitate what Ovid describes in another instance.
Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,
If there be none, then wipe away that none,
If there is none, then erase that none,
If there is none, then wipe away that none,he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before acquainted with.
He informed his uncle about what the reader has just learned.
Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed his countenance, and at last cried, “The Lord's will be done in everything.”
Allworthy received the news with worry, patience, and acceptance. He shed a gentle tear, then composed his face, and finally said, “May the Lord’s will be done in all things.”
He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it had been impossible to detain him a moment; for he appeared by the great hurry he was in to have some business of importance on his hands; that he complained of being hurried and driven and torn out of his life, and repeated many times, that if he could divide himself into four quarters, he knew how to dispose of every one.
He asked about the messenger, but Blifil told him it was impossible to keep him even for a moment. From the way he rushed off, it was clear that he had some important business to take care of. He mentioned feeling overwhelmed, like he was being pushed and pulled away from his life, and he kept saying that if he could split himself into four parts, he knew exactly how to manage each one.
Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he would have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the particulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning the person whom he would have employed on this occasion.
Allworthy then asked Blifil to handle the funeral arrangements. He said he wanted his sister to be laid to rest in his own chapel, and he left the details up to Blifil’s judgment, only mentioning who he wanted to be in charge of the ceremony.
Chapter ix. — Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of Aeschines, that “drunkenness shows the mind of a man, as a mirrour reflects his person.”
The reader may perhaps wonder at hearing nothing of Mr Jones in the last chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so different from that of the persons there mentioned, that we chose not to confound his name with theirs.
The reader might be curious about why Mr. Jones wasn't mentioned in the last chapter. In reality, his behavior was so different from the others mentioned that we decided not to mix his name in with theirs.
When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the last who deserted the room. Thence he retired to his own apartment, to give vent to his concern; but the restlessness of his mind would not suffer him to remain long there; he slipped softly therefore to Allworthy's chamber-door, where he listened a considerable time without hearing any kind of motion within, unless a violent snoring, which at last his fears misrepresented as groans. This so alarmed him, that he could not forbear entering the room; where he found the good man in the bed, in a sweet composed sleep, and his nurse snoring in the above mentioned hearty manner, at the bed's feet. He immediately took the only method of silencing this thorough bass, whose music he feared might disturb Mr Allworthy; and then sitting down by the nurse, he remained motionless till Blifil and the doctor came in together and waked the sick man, in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and that the other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had Jones been apprized of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its way to Mr Allworthy's ear at such a season.
When the good man finished his speech, Jones was the last to leave the room. He then went to his own room to let out his worries, but the restlessness in his mind wouldn’t let him stay there long. He quietly slipped over to Allworthy's bedroom door, where he listened for quite a while without hearing anything, except for loud snoring, which he eventually mistook for groans. This alarmed him so much that he couldn’t help but enter the room, where he found the good man sleeping peacefully in bed, and his nurse snoring heartily at the foot of the bed. He immediately took the only way to silence this loud snoring, as he feared it might disturb Mr. Allworthy. Then, sitting by the nurse, he stayed still until Blifil and the doctor came in together and woke the sick man so the doctor could check his pulse, and Blifil could share some news that, had Jones been aware of it, would have been hard for Mr. Allworthy to learn at that moment.
When he first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones could hardly contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other's indiscretion, especially as the doctor shook his head, and declared his unwillingness to have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as his passion did not so far deprive him of all use of his understanding, as to hide from him the consequences which any violent expression towards Blifil might have on the sick, this apprehension stilled his rage at the present; and he grew afterwards so satisfied with finding that this news had, in fact, produced no mischief, that he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom, without ever mentioning it to Blifil.
When Jones first heard Blifil telling his uncle this story, he could barely hold back the anger that erupted in him at the other’s carelessness, especially since the doctor shook his head and said he didn’t want the matter brought up with his patient. However, his temper didn’t completely cloud his judgment, preventing him from seeing the potential consequences that any harsh words directed at Blifil could have on the sick person. This fear calmed his anger for the moment, and later, he felt so relieved to learn that this news hadn’t caused any harm that he allowed his anger to fade away quietly without ever bringing it up to Blifil.
The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy's; and having after dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company, and told them, that he had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his patient was out of all danger: that he had brought his fever to a perfect intermission, and doubted not by throwing in the bark to prevent its return.
The doctor had dinner that day at Mr. Allworthy's place; after dinner, he visited his patient, then returned to the group and confidently stated that his patient was out of danger. He mentioned that he had successfully lowered the fever to a complete break and was sure that by administering the bark, he could prevent it from coming back.
This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with joy—an intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and as he was very free too with the bottle on this occasion (for he drank many bumpers to the doctor's health, as well as to other toasts) he became very soon literally drunk.
This story made Jones so happy that you could really say he was drunk with joy—a feeling that can amplify the effects of wine; and since he was also quite liberal with the bottle this time (he toasted many times to the doctor's health, along with other toasts), he soon became truly drunk.
Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set on float and augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most extravagant effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him with the most passionate endearments; swearing that next to Mr Allworthy himself, he loved him of all men living. “Doctor,” added he, “you deserve a statue to be erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a man, who is not only the darling of all good men who know him, but a blessing to society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human nature. D—n me if I don't love him better than my own soul.”
Jones had a naturally wild and energetic disposition; when mixed with alcohol, it led to some pretty over-the-top behavior. He kissed the doctor and hugged him with affectionate enthusiasm, insisting that next to Mr. Allworthy himself, he loved him more than anyone else alive. “Doctor,” he continued, “you deserve a statue funded by the public for saving a man who is not only cherished by all good people who know him but also a benefit to society, the pride of his country, and a credit to humanity. Damn it if I don't love him more than my own soul.”
“More shame for you,” cries Thwackum. “Though I think you have reason to love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And perhaps it might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to see just reason of revoking his gift.”
“More shame on you,” yells Thwackum. “Though I think you have a reason to care for him, since he has taken good care of you. And maybe it would have been better for some people if he hadn’t lived to see the just reason for taking back his gift.”
Jones now looking on Thwackum with inconceivable disdain, answered, “And doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could weigh with me? No, let the earth open and swallow her own dirt (if I had millions of acres I would say it) rather than swallow up my dear glorious friend.”
Jones, now looking at Thwackum with utter disdain, replied, “Do you really think that any of that could matter to me? No, let the earth open up and swallow its own filth (even if I had millions of acres, I would still say this) rather than take away my dear, glorious friend.”
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam chari capitis?[*]
[*] “What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear
a friend?” The word desiderium here cannot be easily translated.
It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief
which attends that desire.
What modesty or limits can contain our longing for such a dear friend?[*] [*] “What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear a friend?” The word desiderium here cannot be easily translated. It encompasses our desire to enjoy our friend again, along with the sadness that comes with that desire.
The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which was kindling between Jones and Thwackum; after which the former gave a loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but so far was he from any disposition to quarrel, that he was ten times better humoured, if possible, than when he was sober.
The doctor stepped in and stopped the anger that was building up between Jones and Thwackum. After that, Jones laughed freely, sang a couple of romantic songs, and acted out every wild excitement that unchecked joy can cause. Yet, rather than wanting to fight, he was actually in an even better mood than he was when he was sober.
To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation, that men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are very worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth not reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in them before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently forces us to produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry temper, the amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious, and all other dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and exposed.
To be honest, nothing is more wrong than the common belief that men who are grumpy and combative when they drink are good people when they’re sober. The truth is, alcohol doesn’t change a person’s nature or create feelings that weren’t there before. It removes the filter of reason, which forces us to show those traits that many can cleverly hide when sober. It amplifies and intensifies our emotions (usually the one that’s already at the forefront), so whether it’s anger, love, generosity, humor, greed, or any other character trait, these are all magnified and revealed when we’re drinking.
And yet as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially among the lower people, as England (for indeed, with them, to drink and to fight together are almost synonymous terms), I would not, methinks, have it thence concluded, that the English are the worst-natured people alive. Perhaps the love of glory only is at the bottom of this; so that the fair conclusion seems to be, that our countrymen have more of that love, and more of bravery, than any other plebeians. And this the rather, as there is seldom anything ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured, exercised on these occasions: nay, it is common for the combatants to express good-will for each other even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth generally ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship.
And yet, no nation has as many drunken fights, especially among the lower classes, as England (because for them, drinking and fighting are pretty much the same thing). However, I wouldn't conclude that the English are the rudest people around. Maybe it all comes down to their love of glory; it seems our countrymen have more of that love and bravery than any other common folks. This is especially true since there's usually nothing mean, unfair, or nasty in these situations. In fact, it's common for fighters to show goodwill towards each other even while they're brawling; and while their drunken fun often leads to a fight, most of those fights end in friendship.
But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no design of giving offence, yet Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which was so inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own temper. He bore it too with the greater impatience, as it appeared to him very indecent at this season; “When,” as he said, “the house was a house of mourning, on the account of his dear mother; and if it had pleased Heaven to give him some prospect of Mr Allworthy's recovery, it would become them better to express the exultations of their hearts in thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and riots; which were properer methods to encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it.” Thwackum, who had swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on his brain, seconded the pious harangue of Blifil; but Square, for reasons which the reader may probably guess, was totally silent.
But back to our story. Although Jones didn't mean to offend anyone, Mr. Blifil was really upset by his behavior, which contrasted sharply with his own serious and careful nature. He was especially impatient about it because he thought it was very inappropriate given the circumstances; “When,” as he put it, “the house is in mourning for my dear mother; and if it had pleased Heaven to give me any hope of Mr. Allworthy's recovery, it would be better for us to show our gratitude through thanksgiving rather than through drunkenness and chaos; those are more likely to bring down Divine wrath than to keep it away.” Thwackum, who had drunk more than Jones but was still able to think clearly, supported Blifil's moral speech; however, Square, for reasons the reader might guess, remained completely silent.
Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his recollecting Mr Blifil's loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn his own errors, he offered to shake Mr Blifil by the hand, and begged his pardon, saying, “His excessive joy for Mr Allworthy's recovery had driven every other thought out of his mind.”
Wine had not completely clouded Jones's mind, as he immediately remembered Mr. Blifil's loss when it was brought up. Since no one was more willing to admit and criticize his own mistakes, he offered to shake Mr. Blifil's hand and apologized, saying, "My overwhelming joy for Mr. Allworthy's recovery made me forget everything else."
Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indignation answered, “It was little to be wondered at, if tragical spectacles made no impression on the blind; but, for his part, he had the misfortune to know who his parents were, and consequently must be affected with their loss.”
Blifil contemptuously pushed his hand away and replied with a lot of anger, “It’s not surprising that tragic performances don’t affect the blind; but as for me, I’m unfortunate enough to know who my parents are, so I can’t help but feel their loss.”
Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mixture of the irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair, and catching hold of Blifil's collar, cried out, “D—n you for a rascal, do you insult me with the misfortune of my birth?” He accompanied these words with such rough actions, that they soon got the better of Mr Blifil's peaceful temper; and a scuffle immediately ensued, which might have produced mischief, had it not been prevented by the interposition of Thwackum and the physician; for the philosophy of Square rendered him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly smoaked his pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when he apprehended some danger of having it broke in his mouth.
Jones, who, despite his good humor, had a bit of a temper, jumped up from his chair and grabbed Blifil's collar, shouting, “Damn you for a rascal, are you insulting me because of my unfortunate birth?” He backed up his words with such forceful actions that they quickly got under Mr. Blifil's skin, and a fight broke out, which could have led to trouble if Thwackum and the doctor hadn't stepped in. Square's philosophy made him above all emotions, and he calmly smoked his pipe, as was his usual routine during conflicts, unless he thought there was a chance it might get broken in his mouth.
The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on each other, betook themselves to the common resources of disappointed rage, and vented their wrath in threats and defiance. In this kind of conflict, Fortune, which, in the personal attack, seemed to incline to Jones, was now altogether as favourable to his enemy.
The fighters, now unable to take immediate revenge on each other, turned to the usual outlets for their frustrated anger, throwing around threats and defiance. In this type of struggle, Lady Luck, who had seemed to favor Jones in the personal confrontation, was now completely on the side of his opponent.
A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on, by the mediation of the neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the table; where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil to give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed in statu quo.
A truce was finally reached, thanks to the help of the neutral parties, and everyone sat back down at the table. Jones, encouraged to apologize, did so, and Blifil agreed to forgive him. Peace was restored, and everything seemed in statu quo.
But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled, the good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means restored. All merriment was now at an end, and the subsequent discourse consisted only of grave relations of matters of fact, and of as grave observations upon them; a species of conversation, in which, though there is much of dignity and instruction, there is but little entertainment. As we presume therefore to convey only this last to the reader, we shall pass by whatever was said, till the rest of the company having by degrees dropped off, left only Square and the physician together; at which time the conversation was a little heightened by some comments on what had happened between the two young gentlemen; both of whom the doctor declared to be no better than scoundrels; to which appellation the philosopher, very sagaciously shaking his head, agreed.
But even though the argument seemed completely resolved, the good mood that had been disrupted was far from restored. All fun had come to an end, and the conversations that followed were filled only with serious accounts of facts and equally serious commentary on them; a type of conversation that, while dignified and informative, lacked any entertainment. Since we aim to provide our reader with only the last, we’ll skip over everything that was said until the rest of the group gradually left, leaving only Square and the doctor together; at that point, the conversation picked up a bit with comments on what had happened between the two young men; the doctor declared both of them to be nothing but scoundrels; to which the philosopher, wisely shaking his head, agreed.
Chapter x. — Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of other more grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that wine is often the forerunner of incontinency.
Jones retired from the company, in which we have seen him engaged, into the fields, where he intended to cool himself by a walk in the open air before he attended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed those meditations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of his friend and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident happened, which with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will it be read; however, that historic truth to which we profess so inviolable an attachment, obliges us to communicate it to posterity.
Jones retired from the company he had been involved with and went out into the fields, planning to cool off with a walk in the fresh air before meeting Mr. Allworthy. While he resumed his thoughts about his beloved Sophia, which had been interrupted for a while due to the serious illness of his friend and benefactor, an unfortunate event occurred. We share this with sadness, and it will undoubtedly be read with sadness as well; however, our commitment to historical truth, which we hold so dearly, compels us to share it with future generations.
It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our heroe was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the most enchanting harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed unbounded over all her beauties, and his lively imagination painted the charming maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted with tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground, by the side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the following ejaculation:
It was a nice evening in late June when our hero was strolling through a beautiful grove, where the light breezes rustled the leaves, the soft sound of a flowing stream played, and the sweet songs of nightingales created the most captivating harmony. In this setting, perfect for romance, he thought about his beloved Sophia. As his playful thoughts wandered freely over all her beauty, and his vivid imagination painted her in various enchanting forms, his heart swelled with affection. Finally, lying down by a gently flowing brook, he exclaimed:
“O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest would be my condition! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us. Was I but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is there a man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the brightest Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies, appear to my eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, these hands should tear them from my head. No, my Sophia, if cruel fortune separates us for ever, my soul shall doat on thee alone. The chastest constancy will I ever preserve to thy image. Though I should never have possession of thy charming person, still shalt thou alone have possession of my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my fond heart is so wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties would for me have no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their embraces. Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures are in that name! I will engrave it on every tree.”
“O Sophia, if only Heaven would let me hold you in my arms, how blessed I would be! Curse the fate that keeps us apart. If I had you, even if you owned nothing but a single ragged outfit, there wouldn’t be a man on earth I would envy! The most beautiful woman adorned with all the jewels of India would seem so insignificant to me! But why even mention another woman? If I could ever gaze upon anyone else with affection, I might as well tear my eyes out. No, my Sophia, if cruel fate keeps us apart forever, my soul will only ever long for you. I will always keep the purest devotion to your memory. Even if I never have the pleasure of your beautiful presence, you will forever hold my thoughts, my love, my very soul. Oh! My loving heart is so wrapped up in you that the most dazzling beauties would have no appeal for me, nor would I feel more warmth with a hermit in their embrace. Sophia, you alone will be mine. What ecstasy is in that name! I will carve it into every tree.”
At these words he started up, and beheld—not his Sophia—no, nor a Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the grand Signior's seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that was somewhat of the coarsest, and none of the cleanest, bedewed likewise with some odoriferous effluvia, the produce of the day's labour, with a pitchfork in her hand, Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cryed out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”
At these words, he jumped up and saw—not his Sophia—no, nor a Circassian girl dressed richly and elegantly for the grand Signior's harem. No; without a dress, in a rather coarse and not very clean shift, also covered with some unpleasant smells from the day’s work, and holding a pitchfork, Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn to carve on the bark; when the girl got closer, she called out with a smile, “You don't plan to kill me, do you, squire?” — “Why would you think I would kill you?” Jones replied. “Well,” she responded, “after how you treated me the last time I saw you, killing me would, maybe, be too much kindness for me to expect.”
Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of the grove.
Here a discussion took place, which I don’t feel required to recount, so I’ll skip it. It’s enough to say that it lasted a full fifteen minutes, after which they went into the densest part of the grove.
Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event unnatural. However, the fact is true; and perhaps may be sufficiently accounted for by suggesting, that Jones probably thought one woman better than none, and Molly as probably imagined two men to be better than one. Besides the before-mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour of Jones, the reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his favour, that he was not at this time perfect master of that wonderful power of reason, which so well enables grave and wise men to subdue their unruly passions, and to decline any of these prohibited amusements. Wine now had totally subdued this power in Jones. He was, indeed, in a condition, in which, if reason had interposed, though only to advise, she might have received the answer which one Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked him, if he was not ashamed to be drunk? “Are not you,” said Cleostratus, “ashamed to admonish a drunken man?”—To say the truth, in a court of justice drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in a court of conscience it is greatly so; and therefore Aristotle, who commends the laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men received double punishment for their crimes, allows there is more of policy than justice in that law. Now, if there are any transgressions pardonable from drunkenness, they are certainly such as Mr Jones was at present guilty of; on which head I could pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I imagined it would either entertain my reader, or teach him anything more than he knows already. For his sake therefore I shall keep my learning to myself, and return to my history.
Some of my readers might think this event is unnatural. However, it’s true; and it can probably be explained by suggesting that Jones thought one woman was better than none, while Molly likely believed two men were better than one. Besides the reasons already mentioned for Jones's behavior, it's important to remember that he wasn't fully in control of that incredible power of reason that helps wise people manage their unruly passions and avoid prohibited pleasures. At this point, wine had completely taken away Jones's reasoning ability. He was in a state where, if reason had spoken up, even just to advise, she might have gotten a response similar to what Cleostratus said long ago to a foolish man who asked if he was ashamed to be drunk: “Aren't you ashamed to lecture a drunk person?” Truthfully, in a court of law, being drunk shouldn't be an excuse, but in a court of conscience, it often is; this is why Aristotle, who praises Pittacus's laws, which doubled the punishment for drunken offenders, points out that there’s more politics than justice in that law. Now, if there are any actions that can be forgiven due to drunkenness, they are undoubtedly those of Mr. Jones at the moment; I could share a wealth of knowledge on this topic, if I thought it would entertain my reader or teach him anything he doesn’t already know. For his sake, I’ll keep my knowledge to myself and get back to my story.
It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by halves. To say truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever she is disposed to gratify or displease. No sooner had our heroe retired with his Dido, but
It has been noted that Fortune rarely does things halfway. Honestly, she has no limit to her whims whenever she feels like pleasing or displeasing someone. Our hero had barely settled down with his Dido when
Speluncam Blifil dux et divinus eandem
Deveniunt—
Blifil becomes a leader and divine—
the parson and the young squire, who were taking a serious walk, arrived at the stile which leads into the grove, and the latter caught a view of the lovers just as they were sinking out of sight.
The parson and the young squire, who were having a serious walk, reached the stile that leads into the grove, and the latter caught a glimpse of the lovers just as they were disappearing from view.
Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred yards' distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his companion, though not to the individual person. He started, blessed himself, and uttered a very solemn ejaculation.
Blifil knew Jones very well, even though he was more than a hundred yards away, and he was sure of his companion's gender, though not of who he was specifically. He jumped, crossed himself, and made a very serious remark.
Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, and asked the reason of them. To which Blifil answered, “He was certain he had seen a fellow and wench retire together among the bushes, which he doubted not was with some wicked purpose.” As to the name of Jones, he thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.
Thwackum was surprised by these sudden emotions and asked what caused them. Blifil replied, “He was sure he saw a guy and a girl heading off together into the bushes, and he suspected it was for some bad reason.” Regarding the name Jones, he thought it best to keep it to himself, and the reason for this is left for the wise reader to figure out; we never like to guess the reasons behind people's actions when there's a chance we might be wrong.
The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own person, but a great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at this information. He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him immediately to the place, which as he approached he breathed forth vengeance mixed with lamentations; nor did he refrain from casting some oblique reflections on Mr Allworthy; insinuating that the wickedness of the country was principally owing to the encouragement he had given to vice, by having exerted such kindness to a bastard, and by having mitigated that just and wholesome rigour of the law which allots a very severe punishment to loose wenches.
The parson, who was not only completely pure himself but also a strong opponent of immorality in others, was furious at this news. He asked Mr. Blifil to take him directly to the location, and as he got closer, he expressed a mix of anger and sorrow. He couldn't help but make some pointed comments about Mr. Allworthy, suggesting that the corruption in the area was mainly due to the support he gave to wrongdoing by showing kindness to a bastard and softening the strict penalties imposed by the law on promiscuous women.
The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit of their game was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed their walk, and caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had sufficient warning of their arrival before they could surprize him; nay, indeed, so incapable was Thwackum of concealing his indignation, and such vengeance did he mutter forth every step he took, that this alone must have abundantly satisfied Jones that he was (to use the language of sportsmen) found sitting.
The path our hunters had to take to chase their game was so tangled with thorns that it made walking difficult and created so much noise that Jones knew they were coming long before they could catch him off guard. In fact, Thwackum was so bad at hiding his anger and muttered thoughts of revenge with every step he took that this alone must have made it clear to Jones that he was, to use a hunting term, caught sitting.
Chapter xi. — In which a simile in Mr Pope's period of a mile introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of steel or cold iron.
As in the season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, a couple of puppies, or any other beasts of hostile note, should wander so near the temple of Venus Ferina that the fair hind should shrink from the place, touched with that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of nicety or skittishness, with which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at least instructed them how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy of males, the Samean mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed eyes: for, at the celebration of these rites, the female priestess cries out with her in Virgil (who was then, probably, hard at work on such celebration),
As in the season of rutting (a crude term that the unrefined use to describe the gentle courtship that takes place among the wild animals in the wooded forests of Hampshire), if, while the proud stag is considering this romantic encounter, a couple of young dogs, or any other aggressive creatures, happen to stray too close to the sanctuary of Venus Ferina, the graceful doe may feel uneasy and retreat from the area, touched by that blend of fear or playfulness, delicacy or nervousness, that nature has adorned all females with, or at least taught them how to display; to prevent the indiscretion of males from allowing the Samean mysteries to be exposed to unholy eyes: for, during the celebration of these rituals, the female priestess calls out alongside Virgil (who was likely busy composing such verses at that time),
—Procul, o procul este, profani;
Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco.
—Far hence be souls profane,
The sibyl cry'd, and from the grove abstain.—DRYDEN.
[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.
—Procul, o procul este, profani;
Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco.
—Stay away, all you unholy souls,
The prophet shouted, and keep clear of the grove.—DRYDEN.
[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to genus omne animantium, are in agitation between the stag and his mistress, any hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by the frighted hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag to the entrance of the thicket; there stands he centinel over his love, stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.
If, I say, while these sacred rituals, which are shared among all living creatures, are underway between the stag and his mate, any dangerous animals get too close, at the first sign of alarm from the frightened doe, the stag fiercely and dramatically charges to the edge of the thicket; there he stands guard over his love, stamping the ground with his foot, and with his antlers raised high, boldly challenges the perceived enemy to fight.
Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the enemy's approach, leaped forth our heroe. Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to conceal the trembling hind, and, if possible, to secure her retreat. And now Thwackum, having first darted some livid lightning from his fiery eyes, began to thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr Jones. Is it possible you should be the person?”—“You see,” answered Jones, “it is possible I should be here.”—“And who,” said Thwackum, “is that wicked slut with you?”—“If I have any wicked slut with me,” cries Jones, “it is possible I shall not let you know who she is.”—“I command you to tell me immediately,” says Thwackum: “and I would not have you imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat abridged the purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the authority of the master. The relation of the master and scholar is indelible; as, indeed, all other relations are; for they all derive their original from heaven. I would have you think yourself, therefore, as much obliged to obey me now, as when I taught you your first rudiments.”—“I believe you would,” cries Jones; “but that will not happen, unless you had the same birchen argument to convince me.”—“Then I must tell you plainly,” said Thwackum, “I am resolved to discover the wicked wretch.”—“And I must tell you plainly,” returned Jones, “I am resolved you shall not.” Thwackum then offered to advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured to rescue, declaring, “he would not see his old master insulted.”
So, when he saw the enemy approaching, our hero jumped into action. He moved forward to hide the trembling hind and hopefully secure her escape. Then Thwackum, first shooting some furious glares, thundered, “Shame on you, Mr. Jones! Is it really you?”—“Well,” Jones replied, “it’s possible for me to be here.” —“And who,” asked Thwackum, “is that wicked woman with you?”—“If I have any wicked woman with me,” Jones shot back, “I’m not going to tell you who she is.” —“I command you to tell me right now,” Thwackum insisted, “and don’t think, young man, that your age, though it has shortened the time I can teach you, has erased my authority as your master. The relationship between master and student is everlasting, just like all other relationships, which all come from heaven. So, you should consider yourself just as obligated to obey me now as you were when I taught you the basics.” —“I believe you would,” Jones replied, “but that won’t happen unless you have the same kind of argument to convince me.” —“Then I must be clear,” Thwackum said, “I intend to expose the wicked person.” —“And I must be clear,” Jones countered, “I’m determined you won’t.” Thwackum then tried to step forward, and Jones grabbed his arms, while Mr. Blifil tried to intervene, declaring, “I won’t let you insult my old master.”
Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as possible. He therefore applied to the weakest first; and, letting the parson go, he directed a blow at the young squire's breast, which luckily taking place, reduced him to measure his length on the ground.
Jones, now dealing with two opponents, felt it was essential to get rid of one of them as quickly as possible. He chose to go after the weaker one first; so, letting the parson be, he focused a punch at the young squire's chest, which fortunately connected, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found himself at liberty, he stept forward directly into the fern, without any great consideration of what might in the meantime befal his friend; but he had advanced a very few paces into the thicket, before Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook the parson, and dragged him backward by the skirt of his coat.
Thwackum was so focused on the discovery that as soon as he was free, he stepped straight into the ferns without giving much thought to what might happen to his friend. However, he had only gone a few steps into the thicket when Jones, having beaten Blifil, caught up with the parson and pulled him back by the edge of his coat.
This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour by his fist, both at school and at the university. He had now indeed, for a great number of years, declined the practice of that noble art; yet was his courage full as strong as his faith, and his body no less strong than either. He was moreover, as the reader may perhaps have conceived, somewhat irascible in his nature. When he looked back, therefore, and saw his friend stretched out on the ground, and found himself at the same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly been only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which highly aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; he threw himself into a posture of offence; and collecting all his force, attacked Jones in the front with as much impetuosity as he had formerly attacked him in the rear.
This pastor had been a fighter in his younger days, winning a lot of respect for his boxing skills, both in school and at university. Although he had stopped practicing that noble sport for many years, his courage was just as strong as his faith, and his body was just as strong as both. Additionally, as you might have guessed, he had a bit of a temper. So, when he looked back and saw his friend lying on the ground and found himself being handled roughly by someone who had previously been passive in their conflicts (which made the situation even worse), his patience finally snapped; he positioned himself defensively and with all his strength, charged at Jones with as much force as he had previously attacked him from behind.
Our heroe received the enemy's attack with the most undaunted intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he presently returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the parson's breast; but he dexterously drove down the fist of Jones, so that it reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and as many of pudding were then deposited, and whence consequently no hollow sound could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more pleasant as well as easy to have seen, than to read or describe, were given on both sides: at last a violent fall, in which Jones had thrown his knees into Thwackum's breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had been no longer dubious, had not Blifil, who had now recovered his strength, again renewed the fight, and by engaging with Jones, given the parson a moment's time to shake his ears, and to regain his breath.
Our hero faced the enemy's attack with fearless bravery, and the impact echoed in his chest. He quickly retaliated with equal force, aiming for the parson's chest; however, the parson skillfully redirected Jones's punch, so it landed on his stomach, where he was carrying two pounds of beef and just as much pudding, which produced no resonant sound. Both sides exchanged many vigorous blows, which were much more enjoyable to watch than to read or describe. Eventually, a powerful fall, where Jones had driven his knees into Thwackum's chest, weakened Thwackum so much that victory seemed certain, if not for Blifil, who had recovered his strength and reentered the fight, giving the parson a moment to recover his composure and catch his breath.
And now both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain that force with which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by his combat with Thwackum; for though the pedagogue chose rather to play solos on the human instrument, and had been lately used to those only, yet he still retained enough of his antient knowledge to perform his part very well in a duet.
And now both attacked our hero together, whose strikes didn't have the same force they had at first, as he had been weakened by his fight with Thwackum. Although the teacher preferred to play solo on the human instrument and had recently focused on that, he still had enough of his old skills to play his part really well in a duet.
The victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by numbers, when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the battle, and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the owner of them at the same time crying out, “Are not you ashamed, and be d—n'd to you, to fall two of you upon one?”
The victory, in keeping with today's standards, seemed likely to be determined by numbers, when unexpectedly, a fourth set of fists joined the fight, immediately greeting the parson; and their owner shouted, “Aren’t you ashamed, and damn you for ganging up on one person?”
The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction's sake is called royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes; till Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum condescended to apply for quarter to his new antagonist, who was now found to be Mr Western himself; for in the heat of the action none of the combatants had recognized him.
The battle, which was known for its distinction as royal, now raged with incredible intensity for a few minutes; until Blifil was knocked down again by Jones, Thwackum reluctantly asked for mercy from his new opponent, who was revealed to be Mr. Western himself; in the heat of the moment, none of the fighters had recognized him.
In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon's walk with some company, to pass through the field where the bloody battle was fought, and having concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two of them must be on a side, he hastened from his companions, and with more gallantry than policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By which generous proceeding he very probably prevented Mr Jones from becoming a victim to the wrath of Thwackum, and to the pious friendship which Blifil bore his old master; for, besides the disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered the former strength of his broken arm. This reinforcement, however, soon put an end to the action, and Jones with his ally obtained the victory.
Actually, that honest squire, while out for an afternoon walk with some friends, happened to pass through the field where the bloody battle took place. Seeing three men fighting, he figured that two of them must be on one side, so he quickly left his friends and, more out of bravery than strategy, decided to support the weaker side. This noble action likely saved Mr. Jones from becoming a victim of Thwackum’s anger and the so-called friendship Blifil had for his old master. Besides being outnumbered, Jones hadn’t fully regained the strength in his broken arm yet. However, this support quickly ended the fight, and Jones and his ally secured the victory.
Chapter xii. — In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the blood in the bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is capable of producing.
The rest of Mr Western's company were now come up, being just at the instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman, whom we have formerly seen at Mr Western's table; Mrs Western, the aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.
The rest of Mr. Western's group had just arrived, right as the action wrapped up. This included the sincere clergyman we previously saw at Mr. Western's table, Mrs. Western, Sophia's aunt, and finally, the beautiful Sophia herself.
At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered with blood, part of which was naturally his own, and part had been lately the property of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the conqueror. The last figure in the piece was Western the Great, most gloriously forbearing the vanquished foe.
At this moment, the scene of the bloody battlefield looked like this. In one spot lay the defeated Blifil, pale and barely breathing. Close by stood the victorious Jones, nearly covered in blood—some of it his own and some belonging to the Reverend Mr. Thwackum. In another spot stood Thwackum himself, like King Porus, grimly accepting defeat from the conqueror. Finally, there was Western the Great, proudly showing mercy to his defeated enemy.
Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the attention of the whole company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any such design, might have now taken an opportunity of stealing off to the other world, without any ceremony.
Blifil, who showed very little sign of life, was initially the main focus of everyone's concern, especially Mrs. Western, who had pulled out a bottle of hartshorn and was about to apply it to his nostrils. Suddenly, everyone’s attention shifted away from poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any intention of leaving, might have now found a chance to slip away to the other world without any fuss.
For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless before them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who, from the sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some other reason, had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to her assistance.
For now, a more sorrowful and beautiful sight lay still before them. This was none other than the lovely Sophia herself, who, either from seeing blood, worrying about her father, or some other reason, had collapsed in a faint before anyone could reach her to help.
Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three voices cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.
Mrs. Western saw her for the first time and screamed. Instantly, two or three voices shouted, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every remedy was requested almost all at once.
The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose than to murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook with a higher honour than any of those which wash the plains of Arcadia ever deserved.
The reader might recall that when we described this grove, we mentioned a babbling brook, which didn’t just flow here like the gentle streams in ordinary romances, merely to make soft sounds. No! Fate had decided to give this little brook a greater honor than any of those that run through the plains of Arcadia ever deserved.
Jones was rubbing Blifil's temples, for he began to fear he had given him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to Sophia, whom, while all the rest were running against each other, backward and forward, looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up in his arms, and then ran away with her over the field to the rivulet above mentioned; where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived to besprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully.
Jones was massaging Blifil's temples because he started to worry that he might have hit him a bit too hard, when he suddenly heard the words, "Miss Western and Dead." He jumped up, left Blifil behind, and rushed over to Sophia, whom he scooped up in his arms while everyone else was rushing around, bumping into each other, searching for water in the dry paths. He then ran with her across the field to the nearby stream, where he jumped into the water and splashed her face, head, and neck generously.
Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her other friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways before they knew what he was doing, and he had actually restored her to life before they reached the waterside. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes, and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the parson came up.
Happy for Sophia that the same mix-up that kept her other friends from helping her also kept them from stopping Jones. He had taken her part of the way before they realized what he was up to, and he had actually brought her back to life before they got to the water's edge. She stretched out her arms, opened her eyes, and exclaimed, “Oh! heavens!” just as her father, aunt, and the minister arrived.
Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not have escaped her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently recovered from her swoon at the time.
Jones, who had been holding this lovely burden in his arms, now let go; but at the same moment, he gave her a gentle caress that, if she had fully regained her senses, she definitely would have noticed. Since she didn’t express any displeasure at this gesture, we assume she hadn’t fully recovered from her fainting spell at that moment.
This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In this our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he probably felt more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she herself received from being saved, so neither were the congratulations paid to her equal to what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr Western himself, who, after having once or twice embraced his daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or his estate, which he would not give him; but upon recollection, he afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch (for so he called his favourite mare).
This tragic scene suddenly turned into one of joy. In this moment, our hero was definitely the main character; for while he likely felt more ecstatic happiness in saving Sophia than she did in being saved, the congratulations directed at her didn’t compare to those given to Jones, especially from Mr. Western himself. After hugging his daughter a couple of times, he started hugging and kissing Jones. He called him the savior of Sophia and declared that there was nothing he wouldn’t give him, except for her and his estate; but upon thinking it over, he later excluded his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch (which is what he called his favorite mare).
All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the squire's consideration.—“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d'off thy quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we'l zee to vind thee another quoat.”
All worries for Sophia are now put to rest, so Jones became the focus of the squire's attention. "Come on, my boy," says Western, "take off your coat and wash your face; you're in quite a mess, I assure you. Come on, wash yourself, and let’s go home with me; we’ll make sure to find you another coat."
Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much exposed and as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear off the blood, it could not remove the black and blue marks which Thwackum had imprinted on both his face and breast, and which, being discerned by Sophia, drew from her a sigh and a look full of inexpressible tenderness.
Jones quickly agreed, took off his coat, went down to the water, and washed his face and chest; the latter was just as exposed and bloody as the former. But while the water could wash away the blood, it couldn't get rid of the bruises that Thwackum had left on his face and chest, which Sophia noticed and caused her to sigh and look at him with deep tenderness.
Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that, had all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have prevented his feeling their smart.
Jones took this all in and it hit him way harder than all the hits he had taken before. This effect was completely different; it was so gentle and soothing that, if all his previous injuries had been stabs, he wouldn't have felt their pain for a few minutes.
The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish, that all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which Nature, knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold iron was to be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then would war, the pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles between great armies might be fought at the particular desire of several ladies of quality; who, together with the kings themselves, might be actual spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be this moment well strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead men, or infinitely the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr Bayes's troops, and march off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle, as should be previously agreed on.
The company now walked back and soon reached the spot where Thwackum had helped Mr. Blifil to stand again. Here, we can't help but wish that all disputes were settled using only the tools that Nature, knowing what's best for us, has given us; and that cold steel was only used to dig into the earth, not into each other. Then war, the favorite activity of kings, could be nearly harmless, and battles between large armies could be fought at the request of various noble ladies, who, along with the kings themselves, could actually watch the action unfold. The battlefield could be covered with bodies one moment, and the next, most of the dead could rise up, like Mr. Bayes's troops, and march off at the sound of a drum or a fiddle, just as they agreed beforehand.
I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest grave men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may cry pish at it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided by the greater number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes, as by the greater heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might not towns be contended for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be thought too detrimental a scheme to the French interest, since they would thus lose the advantage they have over other nations in the superiority of their engineers; but when I consider the gallantry and generosity of that people, I am persuaded they would never decline putting themselves upon a par with their adversary; or, as the phrase is, making themselves his match.
I would prefer not to treat this issue lightly, for I know that serious men and politicians, whom I expect might be offended by a joke, could dismiss it; however, isn’t it possible that a battle could be decided just as much by the number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes as by the larger piles of mangled and dead bodies? Could towns not also be contested in this way? Admittedly, this might be seen as too harmful to French interests, as they would lose the advantage they have over other nations with their superior engineers; but considering the bravery and generosity of that people, I believe they would never shy away from matching themselves against their opponent; or, in other words, making themselves his equal.
But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my narrative.
But such changes are more to be desired than expected: I will be satisfied with this brief note and return to my story.
Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel. To which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said surlily, “I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes well you may find her.”—“Find her?” replied Western: “what! have you been fighting for a wench?”—“Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat there,” said Thwackum: “he best knows.” “Nay then,” cries Western, “it is a wench certainly.—Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But come, gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final peace over a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum: “it is no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done my duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot; but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself; for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will soon rid the country of these vermin.”
Western started to investigate how this argument originated. Neither Blifil nor Jones responded, but Thwackum grumbled, “I think the reason isn’t too far away; if you search thoroughly, you might discover her.” “Discover her?” replied Western. “What! Have you been fighting over a girl?” “Ask the gentleman in the waistcoat there,” Thwackum said. “He knows best.” “Well then,” cried Western, “it must be about a girl. Ah, Tom, Tom, you’re quite the greedy one. But come, gentlemen, let’s all be friends, go home with me, and resolve this over a drink.” “I apologize, sir,” said Thwackum. “It’s not a minor issue for someone like me to be treated so poorly and pushed around by a boy, simply because I tried to do my duty by exposing and bringing to justice a lewd harlot; but really, the main fault lies with Mr. Allworthy and you, because if you enforced the laws as you should, you’d quickly clear this country of such pests.”
“I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. “I think we ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we are every day losing in the war.—But where is she? Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then began to beat about, in the same language and in the same manner as if he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is not far off. Here's her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry stole away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now discovered the place whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the fray, stolen away, upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in travelling.
“I would just as soon get rid of the foxes,” exclaims Western. “I think we should focus on recruiting more people to replace the ones we’re losing in the war. —But where is she? Come on, Tom, show me.” He then started searching around, using the same words and tone as if he were hunting a hare; and finally shouted, “Soho! The cat isn’t far off. Here’s her spot, I swear; I think I can say she slipped away.” And indeed he could; for he had now found the place where the poor girl had, at the start of the commotion, quietly slipped away, using as many feet as a hare typically does while traveling.
Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied with his daughter's request (for he was the fondest of parents). He earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup with him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former saying, there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly) that it was not proper for a person of his function to be seen at any place in his present condition.
Sophia now wanted her father to come home, saying she felt very weak and feared a relapse. The squire immediately agreed with his daughter's request (as he was the most loving of parents). He earnestly tried to convince the whole group to come and have dinner with him, but Blifil and Thwackum completely refused; Blifil saying there were more reasons than he could mention as to why he must decline this invitation, and Thwackum declaring (perhaps correctly) that it wasn’t appropriate for someone in his position to be seen in any place under his current circumstances.
Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia; so on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his brother Thwackum, professing his regard for the cloth would not permit him to depart; but Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no great civility, pushed him after Mr Western.
Jones couldn't resist the joy of being with his Sophia; so he followed along with Squire Western and the ladies, while the parson brought up the rear. He had actually offered to stay with his brother Thwackum, saying that his respect for the clergy wouldn't allow him to leave; but Thwackum declined the offer and, rather rudely, sent him after Mr. Western.
Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this history.
Thus ended this bloody conflict; and this concludes the fifth book of this history.
BOOK VI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
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.
In our last book, we had to focus a lot on the topic of love, and in our upcoming book, we will have to discuss it even more extensively. So, it might be fitting here to look into the modern idea proposed by some philosophers who claim, among many other remarkable findings, that love is not a real emotion that exists in humans.
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.
Whether these philosophers are the same as that surprising group, who were honorably mentioned by the late Dr. Swift, as having, through sheer genius alone, without any help from learning or even reading, discovered the profound and invaluable secret that there is no God; or whether they are rather the same as those who, some years ago, greatly alarmed the world by demonstrating that virtue or goodness doesn't really exist in human nature, and who traced our best actions back to pride, I won't presume to decide. In reality, I'm inclined to suspect that all these various truth seekers are actually the same people who are referred to by others as gold diggers. The approach taken in both searches for truth and for gold is indeed the same: the searching, rummaging, and examining in a dirty place; in fact, in the former cases, into the dirtiest place of all, 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.
But while in this specific aspect, and maybe in their level of success, the truth-seeker and the gold-seeker can be reasonably compared; there’s no way to compare them when it comes to humility. Who has ever heard of a gold-seeker who had the audacity or foolishness to claim, due to the failure of their search, that gold doesn't exist in the world? On the other hand, the truth-seeker, having dug through the mess of their own mind and finding no signs of divinity or anything virtuous, good, lovely, or loving, quite fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that none of these things exist in all of 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.
To avoid any arguments, if we can, with these philosophers—if that's what we want to call them—and to show that we’re open to settling things peacefully, we’re going to make some concessions here that might help resolve the disagreement.
First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a passion.
First, let's acknowledge that many minds, and maybe even the philosophers', are completely free from any signs 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.
Secondly, what people usually call love—specifically, the urge to satisfy an intense craving for a certain amount of attractive human flesh—is definitely not the kind of passion I’m talking about here. This is more accurately described as hunger; and just as no glutton feels embarrassed using the term love to describe his cravings and claims he LOVES certain dishes, so too can this kind of lover, with the same justification, say he HUNGERS for certain 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.
Thirdly, I will admit, which I think will be a very welcome concession, that this love I'm advocating for, while it fulfills itself in a much more refined way, still seeks its own satisfaction just as much as our most basic desires.
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.
And finally, this love, when it’s directed towards someone of the opposite sex, tends to rely on that desire I mentioned earlier for full satisfaction; and instead of diminishing it, it actually intensifies all its pleasures to a level that’s hard to imagine for those who have only experienced emotions driven by basic appetite.
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.
In exchange for all these concessions, I ask the philosophers to acknowledge that there exists in some (I believe in many) people a kind and generous nature that finds joy in contributing to the happiness of others. This joy, like that found in friendship, parental and child affection, and overall kindness, brings great and profound pleasure. If we don't call this kind of feeling love, we have no other term for it. While the joy from such pure love can be enhanced by romantic desires, it can exist on its own and isn't diminished by the presence of those desires. Finally, respect and gratitude are the true foundations of love, just as youth and beauty are for desire; therefore, although that desire may naturally fade as age or illness affects its object, these things do not impact love itself, nor do they ever weaken or eliminate the feelings of gratitude and respect that form its basis in a good heart.
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?”
Denying the existence of a passion we frequently see in action seems really strange and absurd; it can only come from that self-deception we mentioned earlier. But how unfair is that! Does a person who doesn’t see any signs of greed or ambition in their own heart conclude that such passions don’t exist in humanity? Why can’t we apply the same standard when judging the good in others, just like we do with the bad? Or, as Shakespeare puts it, why do we “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.
I'm afraid that excessive vanity is a big issue here. This is just one example of the self-praise we often give ourselves, and it's something that nearly everyone does. There's hardly anyone, no matter how much he may look down on the idea of being a flatterer, who won't lower himself to flatter his own ego in the slightest way.
To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above observations, whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have advanced.
To those, I turn to confirm the truth of my earlier observations, whose own minds can testify to what I’ve stated.
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.
Examine your heart, my dear reader, and decide if you believe these ideas like I do. If you do, you can continue to the examples in the following pages; if you don’t, I assure you, you’ve already read more than you understood, and it would be smarter to focus on your work or your fun (whatever that may be) rather than waste any more time reading something you can neither appreciate nor understand. Discussing the effects of love with you would be as ridiculous as talking about colors to someone who was born blind; your understanding of love might be just as absurd as the idea such a blind person once had about the color red, which he thought was very much like the sound of a trumpet; and in your view, love might very well resemble a bowl of soup or a slice of roast beef.
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.
The reader has seen Mr. Western, his sister, and daughter, along with young Jones and the parson, heading to Mr. Western's house, where most of the group spent the evening filled with joy and celebration. Sophia was indeed the only serious one; as for Jones, although love had completely taken over his heart, the happy news of Mr. Allworthy's recovery and the presence of his beloved, combined with some affectionate looks she occasionally couldn't help but give him, lifted our hero's spirits, making him join the laughter of the other three, who were probably some of the most good-natured people 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, &c., 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.
Sophia maintained a serious expression the next morning at breakfast, which caused her to leave earlier than usual, leaving her dad and aunt together. The squire didn't notice this change in his daughter's behavior. To be honest, even though he had some interest in politics and had run twice as a candidate for the country party, he wasn’t very observant. His sister, however, was quite different. She had spent time at court and seen the world. Because of this, she had gained all the knowledge that the world typically shares, and she was an expert on manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Her education didn’t stop there. She had greatly expanded her mind through study; she had read all the modern plays, operas, oratorios, poems, and romances—and she was a critic of all of them—plus she had gotten through Rapin's History of England, Eachard's Roman History, and many French Mémoires pour servir à l'Histoire: in addition to this, she had read most of the political pamphlets and journals published in the past twenty years. Because of this, she had developed a solid understanding of politics and could speak intelligently about European affairs. She was also highly knowledgeable about matters of love and knew better than anyone about romantic relationships; she was able to gather this information easily, as she was never distracted by her own romantic interests; either she wasn’t interested, or no one had ever pursued her, which is very likely considering her tall, masculine build, standing close to six feet high. This, along with her demeanor and education, likely made her less noticeable to men, regardless of her skirts, as they might not view her as a woman. However, she had studied the subject seriously and knew, even if she had never used them herself, all the tactics that fashionable women employ when they want to show interest or hide their feelings, including the long list of smiles, glances, and flirtation techniques as they are currently practiced in high society. In summary, she had noticed every type of disguise or pretense; however, since she had never encountered the genuine, straightforward expressions of true nature, she knew very little about 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.
With her keen insight, Mrs. Western believed she had uncovered something in Sophia's mind. She first noticed this from the young woman's behavior during the confrontation, and her suspicions were strongly reinforced by some observations she made that evening and the following morning. However, being very careful not to be wrong, she kept the secret to herself for two whole weeks, giving only subtle hints through smiles, winks, nods, and occasionally dropping a vague word, which certainly alarmed Sophia but had no effect on her brother at all.
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:—
Being completely convinced of the truth of her observation, she seized the chance one morning, when she was alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles like this:—
“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.
“Come on, brother, haven't you noticed something quite strange about my niece lately?”—“No, I haven’t,” replied Western; “is something wrong with the girl?”—“I think there is,” she said; “and it’s quite serious.” “Well, she hasn’t said anything,” cried Western; “and she has had the small-pox.” “Brother,” she responded, “girls can suffer from other illnesses besides small-pox, and sometimes far worse.” Here Western interrupted her, quite earnestly, begging her to tell him immediately if anything was wrong with his daughter, adding, “You know I love her more than my own life, and I’d go to the ends of the earth to find the best doctor for her.” “Oh, not to worry,” she replied with a smile, “the illness isn’t that terrible; but I believe, brother, you trust that I understand the world, and I swear I've never been more mistaken in my life if my niece isn’t hopelessly in love.” “What? In love!” shouted Western, in a frenzy; “in love without telling me! I’ll disinherit her; I’ll throw her out on the street, completely naked, without a penny to her name. Is all my kindness for her worth nothing, just for her to fall in love without asking me first?”—“But you won’t,” Mrs. Western replied, “throw out this daughter whom you love more than your own life, before you know whether or not you'll approve of her choice. Suppose she chooses the very person you would want her to marry; I hope you wouldn’t be angry then?”—“No, of course not,” Western exclaimed, “that would make a difference. If she marries the man I want her to, she can love whoever she likes; I won't care about that.” “That’s fair,” replied his sister, “but I believe the very person she has chosen is who you would choose for her. I'll give up all knowledge of the world if it’s not true; and I think, brother, you have to admit I know a little.” “Well, sister,” said Western, “I do think you have as much sense as any woman; and that’s certainly women’s business. You know I don’t like hearing you talk about politics; they belong to us, and women shouldn't meddle in them: so come on, who is the man?”—“Well!” she said, “you can figure it out yourself if you want. You, who are such a great politician, shouldn’t have a hard time. The judgment that can uncover the secrets of princes and understand what makes the big political machines of Europe run shouldn’t have much trouble figuring out what’s going on in the simple, uninformed mind of a girl.” “Sister,” cried the squire, “I’ve told you many times not to talk politics with me. I don’t understand that stuff: but I can read a newspaper or the London Evening Post. Sure, there might be a line or two I can’t understand because half the letters are missing; yet I know very well what they mean, and that our affairs aren’t going as well as they should because of bribery and corruption.” “I truly pity your rural ignorance,” the lady replied. “Oh, do you?” answered Western; “and I pity your city knowledge; I’d rather be anything than a courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, like some people I know.” “If you’re talking about me,” she said, “you know I’m a woman, brother; it doesn’t matter what I am. Besides—“—“I know you’re a woman,” argued the squire, “and it’s a good thing for you; if you were a man, I’d have given you a slap long ago.” “There, you see,” she said, “in that slap lies all your imagined superiority. Your bodies, not your brains, are stronger than ours. Believe me, it's good for you that you can overpower us; otherwise, given the superiority of our minds, we would turn all of you into what the brave, wise, witty, and polite already are—our slaves.” “I’m glad to know what you think,” the squire answered. “But we’ll discuss this another time. Right now, tell me who this man is you mean about my daughter?”—“Wait a moment,” she said, “while I digest the utter contempt I have for your sex; or else I should be angry with you too. There—I’ve managed to swallow it down. So now, good wise sir, what do you think of Mr. Blifil? Didn’t she swoon when she saw him lying breathless on the ground? Didn’t she, once he recovered, turn pale the moment we approached him in that part of the field? And what else could be the reason for all her sadness that night at dinner, the next morning, and indeed ever since?”—“By George!” shouted the squire, “you just reminded me of it; I remember it all. It’s certainly so, and I’m glad of it with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl and wouldn’t fall in love to upset me. I’ve never been happier; because nothing fits together so well as our two estates. I’ve been thinking about this for a while: those two estates are practically married already, and it would be a shame to separate them. It’s true that there are larger estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I’d rather give up something than marry my daughter to strangers. Besides, most of those big estates belong to lords, and I loathe the very name of them. But, sister, what do you suggest I do; because I tell you women understand these things better than we do?”—“Oh, your humble servant, sir,” the lady replied: “we appreciate you acknowledging we can understand anything. Since you’re pleased, then, most wise sir, to ask my advice, I think you should propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There’s nothing improper about a proposal coming from either parent. King Alcinous, in Mr. Pope’s Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses. I won’t need to remind such a wise man not to mention that your daughter is in love; that would be against all conventions.”—“Well,” said the squire, “I’ll propose it; but I’ll definitely give him a slap if he refuses.” “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Western said, “the match is too good to be turned down.” “I’m not so sure,” replied the squire: “Allworthy is a queer fish, and money doesn’t affect him.” “Brother,” the lady said, “your political views astonish me. Are you truly going to be fooled by sayings? Do you really think Mr. Allworthy has less respect for money than other men just because he claims to? Such gullibility would be more fitting for us weak women than for that wise sex designed for politics. Honestly, brother, you’d make a fine ambassador to negotiate with the French. They’d soon convince you that they capture towns purely out of defensive needs.” “Sister,” replied the squire with much disdain, “let your friends at court answer for the towns taken; since you’re a woman, I’ll blame no one but you; because I assume they’re wiser than to trust women with secrets.” He accompanied this with such a sarcastic laugh that Mrs. Western could stand it no longer. She had been feeling hurt all this time (for she was indeed very knowledgeable about these matters and very passionate about them), and therefore exploded in anger, calling her brother a both a fool and a blockhead, declaring 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, &c., 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.
The squire, even though he probably had never read Machiavelli, was, in many ways, a great politician. He firmly believed in all those wise principles taught by the Politico-Peripatetic school of Exchange Alley. He understood the true value and main purpose of money: to save it. He was also well-versed in the precise value of inheritances, expectations, etc., and had often thought about the amount of his sister's fortune and the chances he or his descendants had of inheriting it. He was far too wise to risk that for a petty grudge. So, when he realized he had pushed things too far, he started to think about making up with her; this was not too hard since the lady had a strong affection for her brother and even more for her niece. Although she was quite sensitive about any affront to her political skills, which she took great pride in, she was a woman of exceptionally good and sweet nature.
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.
First, then, he forcefully grabbed the horses, since the only escape route from the stable was the window. Next, he turned his attention to his sister, calming her down by retracting everything he had previously said and making statements completely opposite to those that had upset her. Finally, he called on Sophia's persuasive skills to help him, as she had a charming and appealing way of speaking and was very well-liked 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.”
The result was a kind smile from Mrs. Western, who said, “Brother, you’re truly an ideal Croat; just as they serve a purpose in the empress queen’s army, you have some good in you too. So, I’ll sign a peace agreement with you once more, and I expect you won’t break it on your end; at least, since you’re such a skilled politician, I can assume you’ll keep your agreements, like the French, until it serves your interests to break them.”
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.
The squire, after sorting things out with his sister, as we saw in the last chapter, was extremely eager to share the proposal with Allworthy, so much so that Mrs. Western had a tough time keeping him from visiting that gentleman during his illness for this reason.
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.
Mr. Allworthy had planned to have dinner with Mr. Western when he fell ill. So, as soon as he was free from medical care, he immediately thought about keeping his commitment, as he always did, no matter the situation, whether it was major or minor.
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 suspicion, and for that purpose to put an entire constraint on her behaviour.
In the time between the conversation in the last chapter and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had picked up on some vague suggestions from her aunt that made her worry that her clever aunt suspected her feelings for Jones. She now decided to use this chance to clear up any such suspicions and planned to completely control her behavior for that reason.
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.
First, she tried to hide her aching sadness with the brightest smile on her face and the happiest attitude. Second, she directed all her conversation to Mr. Blifil, completely ignoring poor Jones the entire 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.
The squire was so thrilled with his daughter's behavior that he barely touched his dinner and spent almost all his time looking for chances to silently show his approval to his sister with winks and nods. She wasn't quite as pleased with what she saw as her brother was at first.
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.
In short, Sophia overacted her role so much that her aunt was initially taken aback and started to suspect some pretentiousness in her niece; but since she herself was a woman of great charm, she quickly attributed this to Sophia's extreme talent. She recalled the many hints she had dropped about her niece being in love and thought the young lady was trying to tease her out of that belief with an exaggerated politeness—an idea that was strongly supported by the excessive cheerfulness that accompanied the whole scene. We can't help but note that this guess would have been more valid if Sophia had spent ten years in Grosvenor Square, where young women learn a remarkable skill for teasing and playing with feelings that are a serious matter in the woods and groves a hundred miles 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.
To be honest, when uncovering the deceit of others, it’s really important that our own tactics align with theirs: because cunning people sometimes fail by assuming others are smarter or, in other words, more dishonest than they actually are. Since this is quite a profound observation, let me illustrate it with a brief story. Three farmers were chasing a thief from Wiltshire through Brentford. The simplest among them noticed “The Wiltshire House” on a sign and suggested they go in, thinking they might find their fellow countryman there. The second, who was a bit wiser, laughed at his naivety, but the third, who was even sharper, replied, “Let’s go in anyway, because he might think we wouldn’t suspect him of mingling with his own people.” So, they went in and searched the house, which caused them to miss catching the thief, who was just a little ahead of them and, as they all knew but had never considered, couldn’t 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.
The reader will excuse a little side note where such a valuable secret is shared, since every gambler knows how crucial it is to understand another's play in order to outsmart them. This also explains why the more knowledgeable person often ends up being fooled by the less savvy one, and why many straightforward and innocent people are frequently misunderstood and misrepresented; but most importantly, this will clarify the trickery that Sophia played on her scheming 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.
Dinner ended, and the group moved into the garden. Mr. Western, who was completely convinced of the truth of what his sister had told him, pulled Mr. Allworthy aside and straightforwardly suggested a marriage 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.
Mr. Allworthy wasn’t the kind of man who got excited by unexpected news of financial gain. His mindset was shaped by the kind of philosophy that suits both a man and a Christian. He didn’t pretend to be completely above all pleasure and pain, joy and grief; however, he also wasn’t easily disturbed by every little setback or the ups and downs of fortune. So, when Mr. Western proposed the alliance, he did so without showing any noticeable emotion or change in expression. He stated that he genuinely liked the idea of the alliance, then gave a well-deserved compliment on the young lady's qualities, recognized that the offer was beneficial financially, and after thanking Mr. Western for his good opinion of his nephew, concluded that if the young couple liked each other, he would be very eager to finalize the arrangement.
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.”
Western was a bit let down by Mr. Allworthy's response, which wasn't as warm as he had hoped. He dismissed the idea that the young people might not like each other with great disdain, saying, “Parents are the best judges of suitable matches for their children: as for me, I will demand complete obedience from my daughter: and if any young man could turn down such a partner, he’s my humble servant, and I hope no harm is 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 tried to ease this resentment by praising Sophia, stating that he was sure Mr. Blifil would happily accept the offer; however, it was all in vain. The only response he could get from the squire was, “I won’t say anymore—I sincerely hope there’s no harm done—that’s all.” He repeated those words at least a hundred times before they went their separate ways.
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.
Allworthy knew his neighbor well enough not to be upset by this behavior. Although he strongly opposed the harshness that some parents show their children regarding marriage and had decided never to impose his nephew's choices, he was still quite pleased about the possibility of this union. The whole area sang Sophia's praises, and he had personally admired the extraordinary qualities of both her character and appearance.
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.
I believe we should also consider her immense wealth, which, although he was too rational to be swayed by it, he was too wise to disregard.
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.
And here, despite all the barking critics out there, I have to and will take a moment to discuss true wisdom, of which Mr. Allworthy was not only a great example of goodness but also of wisdom.
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.
True wisdom, despite everything Mr. Hogarth's unfortunate poet might have written against wealth and regardless of what any wealthy clergyman may have preached against enjoyment, doesn't come from despising either of these. A person can be just as wise with a comfortable fortune as any beggar on the streets; or can enjoy a beautiful spouse or a good friend and still be as wise as any bitter recluse who locks away all his social skills and starves himself while punishing his body.
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.
To be honest, the wisest person is most likely to have all the worldly blessings in abundance; just as the moderation that wisdom suggests is the best path to gaining valuable wealth, it also allows us to enjoy many pleasures. The wise person satisfies every desire and every passion, while the fool gives up everything else to indulge in just 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.
It might be argued that very intelligent people have been known to be greedy. I respond, they weren't wise in that case. It could also be mentioned that the smartest people have been excessively taken with pleasure in their youth. I reply, they weren't wise at that time.
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.
Wisdom, in short, whose lessons are seen as tough to grasp by those who’ve never attended her class, only teaches us to expand a simple rule that is universally known and followed even in the lowest levels of life, a bit further than that life reaches. And that is, don’t pay too much.
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.
Now, anyone who takes this principle with them into the vast marketplace of the world and consistently applies it to honors, wealth, pleasures, and all the other goods that market offers is, I dare say, a wise person and should be recognized as such in a practical sense. They make the best deals, as they are essentially acquiring everything for just a little effort, bringing home all the good things I’ve mentioned while maintaining their health, integrity, and reputation—prices that others pay in full for themselves.
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.
From this moderation, he also learns two other lessons that complete his character. First, never to be drunk when he has made the best deal, nor to feel down when the market is empty or when the prices are too high for him to buy.
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.
But I need to keep in mind what I'm writing about and not push the limits of a kind critic's patience. So, I'll end the chapter here.
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.
As soon as Mr. Allworthy got home, he took Mr. Blifil aside and, after a brief introduction, shared the proposal made by Mr. Western. He also let him know how much he liked the idea of this match.
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.
The charms of Sophia hadn’t affected Blifil at all; it’s not that he was already taken, nor was he completely unaware of beauty or averse to women. However, his desires were naturally so restrained that he could easily suppress them through philosophy, study, or some other approach. As for the passion we discussed in the first chapter of this book, he didn’t possess even a hint of it in his entire being.
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.
But even though he was completely free from that mixed emotion we discussed earlier, where the virtues and beauty of Sophia played such a significant role, he was still equipped with other feelings that promised him substantial satisfaction in the young lady's wealth. These included greed and ambition, which competed for control over his thoughts. He had often thought about how desirable it would be to have this fortune and had entertained some long-term plans regarding it; however, his own youth, the young lady's youth, and, most importantly, the thought that Mr. Western might remarry and have more children, had held him back from acting too quickly or eagerly.
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.
This final and most significant objection was mostly resolved, as the proposal came from Mr. Western himself. Blifil, after a brief moment of hesitation, told Mr. Allworthy that marriage was something he hadn't considered yet, but he was so appreciative of his caring and fatherly support that he would defer to his wishes in all matters.
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.
Allworthy was naturally a spirited man, and his current seriousness came from genuine wisdom and philosophy, not from any inherent dullness in his character; he had been quite passionate in his youth and had married a beautiful woman out of love. Because of this, he was not very pleased with his nephew's cold response; he couldn't help but rave about Sophia and express some surprise that a young man's heart could be immune to such charms unless it was already protected by some previous 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.
Blifil assured him he had no such restrictions; and then began to speak so wisely and passionately about love and marriage that he could have silenced a parent much less devoted than his uncle. In the end, the good man was convinced that his nephew, far from having any objections to Sophia, held her in such high regard, which in serious and honorable people is the true foundation of friendship and love. And since he had no doubt that the lover would soon become just as appealing to his mistress, he anticipated great happiness for everyone involved from such a fitting and desirable union. With Mr. Blifil's approval, he therefore wrote the next morning to Mr. Western, informing him that his nephew had very gratefully and eagerly accepted the proposal and would be ready to visit the young lady whenever she was willing to receive him.
Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately returned an answer; in which, without having mentioned a word to his daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for opening the scene of courtship.
Western was very pleased with this letter and quickly replied; in his response, without mentioning anything to his daughter, he set that very afternoon for starting the 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.”
As soon as he sent off this messenger, he went looking for his sister, who he found reading and explaining the Gazette to Parson Supple. He had to listen to her for almost fifteen minutes, which was really hard for him because he was so eager to talk, before he was allowed to speak. Finally, he managed to let her know that he had something very important to tell her; to which she replied, “Brother, I’m completely at your service. Everything seems to be going well in the north, and I’ve never felt better.”
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.
The parson then stepped back, and Western filled her in on everything that had happened, asking her to share the details with Sophia, which she happily agreed to do. However, her brother was probably somewhat grateful for that charming northern demeanor that had pleased her so much, as he received no remarks about his actions, which were definitely a bit too rushed and forceful.
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:
Sophia was in her room reading when her aunt walked in. As soon as she saw Mrs. Western, she closed the book so quickly that the good lady couldn't help but ask her what book she seemed so afraid to show. “Honestly, madam,” Sophia replied, “it’s a book that I’m neither ashamed of nor afraid to admit I've read. It’s by a young woman of high status, whose good sense honors her gender, and whose kind heart is an honor to humanity.” Mrs. Western then picked up the book, but immediately dropped it, saying, “Yes, the author comes from a good family, but she doesn’t socialize much with people we know. I’ve never read it; the best critics say there isn’t much substance in it." “I can't, madam, argue my own opinion against the best critics,” Sophia said, “but I find a lot of human nature in it, and there are parts that have so much genuine tenderness and delicacy that it's made me cry many times.” “Oh, so you like to cry then?” asked the aunt. “I enjoy a tender feeling,” Sophia answered, “and I’d pay the price of a tear for it any day.” “Well, show me,” said the aunt, “what you were reading when I came in; I believe there was something very tender and loving in it. You’re blushing, my dear Sophia. Oh! Child, you should read books that would teach you a bit of hypocrisy, how to hide your feelings better.” “I hope, madam,” Sophia replied, “I have no feelings that I should be ashamed to reveal.” “Ashamed? No,” the aunt exclaimed, “I don’t think you have any feelings you should be ashamed of; and yet, child, you blushed just now when I said the word loving. Dear Sophy, rest assured, you have not one feeling that I’m not already well aware of; just like how the French know our actions long before we actually do them. Did you think, child, that because you could fool your father, you could fool me? Do you think I didn’t realize the reason for your overacting that friendship for Mr. Blifil yesterday? I’ve seen enough of the world to not be so easily deceived. No, no, don’t blush again. I tell you, it’s a feeling you don’t need to feel embarrassed about. It’s a feeling I support, and I have already gotten your father to approve of it. Honestly, I’m only focusing on your happiness; I want that to be fulfilled, even if it means sacrificing higher ambitions. Come, I have news that will make you ecstatic. Trust me, and I’ll make sure you’re as happy as you wish.” “Oh my,” said Sophia, looking more foolish than she ever had in her life, “I don’t know what to say—why, madam, would you suspect?”—“No dishonesty,” responded Mrs. Western. “Remember, you’re talking to one of your own kind, to an aunt, and I hope you know you’re speaking to a friend. Just think, you’re only revealing to me what I already know, and what I clearly saw yesterday, through that clever disguise you put on, which could have fooled anyone who didn’t know the world well. Lastly, remember it’s a feeling I wholeheartedly endorse.” “Oh my,” said Sophia, “you catch one off guard so suddenly. Of course, madam, I'm not blind—and certainly, if it’s a fault to see all human qualities gathered together—but could my father and you really see with my eyes?” “I assure you,” replied the aunt, “we absolutely approve; and this very afternoon your father has arranged for you to meet your lover.” “My father, this afternoon?” cried Sophia, her face turning red. “Yes, dear,” said the aunt, “this afternoon. You know how impulsive my brother can be. I told him about the feelings I first noticed in you that evening when you fainted in the field. I saw it in your fainting. I noticed it right after you recovered. I saw it at supper that evening, and the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I’ve observed the world). Well, as soon as I mentioned it to my brother, he wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He brought it up yesterday, Allworthy agreed (as he surely must have been happy to), and this afternoon, I tell you, you should put on your best show.” “This afternoon!” cried Sophia. “Dear aunt, you're scaring me to death.” “Oh, my dear,” said the aunt, “you’ll quickly regain your composure; he’s a charming young man, that’s the truth.” “I won’t deny,” said Sophia, “I don’t know anyone with such qualities. So brave yet so gentle; so witty, yet so harmless; so kind, so polite, so refined, so handsome! What does it matter if he’s of low birth compared to such qualities?” “Low birth? What do you mean?” said the aunt, “Mr. Blifil is of low birth?” Sophia instantly turned pale at the mention of this name and weakly repeated it. The aunt responded, “Mr. Blifil—yes, Mr. Blifil, who else have we been talking about?” “Oh my goodness,” Sophia replied, nearly collapsing, “I thought we were talking about Mr. Jones; I’m sure I know no one else who deserves—” “I swear,” cried the aunt, “you’re scaring me now. Is it Mr. Jones, and not Mr. Blifil, who you have feelings for?” “Mr. Blifil!” Sophia repeated. “It’s impossible that you can be serious; if you are, I am the most miserable woman alive.” Mrs. Western stood silent for a moment, as fiery rage flickered in her eyes. Finally, gathering her voice, she thundered forth in the following articulate words:
“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.”
“And is it really possible you would shame your family by joining with a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns accept such contamination? If you don’t have enough sense to control such monstrous inclinations, I thought our family’s pride would have stopped you from encouraging such a lowly affection; I never imagined you would have the audacity to admit 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.
“Ma'am,” Sophia replied, trembling, “what I said, you forced out of me. I don’t remember ever speaking about Mr. Jones positively to anyone before; nor would I now if I hadn’t thought you approved of him. Whatever I thought of that poor, unhappy young man, I intended to take those thoughts to my grave—to that grave where I’ve just realized I’m supposed to find peace.” She then sank down in her chair, crying, and, in the heavy silence of deep sorrow, presented a sight that would have touched even 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.
All this heartfelt sorrow, however, stirred no sympathy in her aunt. On the contrary, she broke into a furious rage. “I would rather follow you to your grave than watch you disgrace yourself and your family with such a relationship! Oh my goodness! Could I have ever imagined that I would live to hear my niece express feelings for such a man? You are the first—yes, Miss Western, you are the first in our family to have such a lowly thought. A family that is so known for the wisdom of its women”—she went on for a full fifteen minutes, until, having run out of breath rather than anger, she finished by threatening to go tell her brother immediately.
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.
Sophia then fell to her feet, grasping her hands, and begged her with tears to keep secret what she had revealed; stressing her father's angry nature and insisting that none of her own desires would ever lead her to do anything that might upset 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.”
Mrs. Western paused for a moment, looking at her, and then, remembering herself, said, “There's only one reason I’ll keep the secret from my brother; and that is, Sophia must promise to treat Mr. Blifil as her lover this very afternoon and to see him as the man who is 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.”
Poor Sophia was too much under her aunt's control to refuse her anything outright; she had to promise that she would meet Mr. Blifil and be as polite to him as possible. However, she asked her aunt not to rush the engagement. She said, “Mr. Blifil is not at all pleasant to me, and I hope my father can be persuaded not to make me the most miserable woman.”
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.”
Mrs. Western assured her, “The engagement is completely settled, and nothing can or should stop it. I have to admit,” she said, “I considered it a matter of indifference; actually, I might have had some doubts about it before, but I got over those when I thought about how much it suits your own wishes. But now I see it as the best thing possible, and I will make sure that no time is wasted on this matter.”
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.”
Sophia replied, “At least give me some time, ma'am, as I can rely on both your kindness and my father's. Surely you’ll allow me the chance to overcome the strong dislike I currently have for 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.”
The aunt replied, “She was too aware of the world to be so easily fooled; knowing that another man had her heart, she should convince Mr. Western to speed up the marriage as much as possible. It would be really bad strategy,” she added, “to drag out a siege when the enemy’s forces are nearby and ready to break the siege. No, no, Sophy,” she said, “since I'm convinced you have a strong passion that you can never fulfill with honor, I will do everything I can to take your honor out of your family’s hands: because once you’re married, those concerns will only belong to your husband. I hope, dear, that you’ll always be wise enough to act as you should; but if you don’t, marriage has saved many women from disaster.”
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.
Sophia understood what her aunt was getting at but didn’t think it was right to respond. Still, she decided to meet Mr. Blifil and treat him as politely as she could, since that was the only way she could get her aunt to promise to keep her feelings, which had come about due to her bad luck rather than any plan of Mrs. Western’s, a secret.
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, i-fackins! 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.
Mrs. Western got the promise from her niece that we saw in the last chapter and then left; shortly after, Mrs. Honour arrived. She had been working in a nearby room and had been called to the keyhole by the loud voices in the previous conversation, where she stayed for the rest of it. When she entered the room, she found Sophia standing still, tears streaming down her face. In response, she quickly made herself cry and asked, “Oh my gosh, my dear lady, what’s wrong?”—“Nothing,” Sophia replied. “Nothing? Oh dear Madam!” Honour exclaimed, “You can’t tell me that when you’re in such a state, especially after what just happened between you and Madam Western.” —“Don’t tease me,” Sophia said; “I’m telling you nothing is wrong. Good heavens! Why was I born?” —“Well, madam,” said Mrs. Honour, “you’ll never convince me that you can be this upset for no reason. Sure, I’m just a servant, but I’ve always been loyal to you, and I’d serve you with my life.” —“My dear Honour,” Sophia replied, “it’s beyond your power to help me. I am hopelessly lost.” —“Heaven forbid!” said the maid; “But if I can't help you, please tell me what’s wrong—it would comfort me to know. Please, dear ma'am, tell me what’s happening.” —“My father,” Sophia exclaimed, “is trying to marry me off to a man I both despise and hate.” —“Oh dear, ma'am,” Honour responded, “who’s this horrible man? He must be very bad, otherwise you wouldn't despise him.” —“His name is poison to my tongue,” Sophia said, “and you'll find out soon enough.” Honestly, she already knew it and wasn’t very curious about that. She continued, “I don’t pretend to give you advice since you know so much more than I ever could as just a servant; but honestly, no father in England should marry me against my will. And surely, the squire is such a good man that if he knew you despised and hated the young man, he wouldn’t want you to marry him. And if you’d just let me tell my master so. It would be better if it came from you, but since you don’t want to say his awful name—” — “You’re mistaken, Honour,” Sophia said; “my father had made up his mind before he even thought to mention it to me.” —“Shame on him,” Honour exclaimed; “you’ll be stuck with him, and not every woman finds every man attractive, even if he’s a decent guy. I’m sure my master wouldn’t act this way on his own. I wish some people would only mind their own business; they wouldn’t like it if they were in your position. Though I’m a maid, I can certainly believe that not all men are equally appealing. And what good is your fortune if you can't be happy with the man you think is the best? Well, I won't say more; but it's a pity some folks weren’t better off by birth; not that I would mind myself; but there isn’t as much money involved; and what of that? You have plenty of money for both, where could you spend your fortune better? Everyone must agree he is the handsomest, most charming, finest, tallest, and noblest man in the world.” —“What are you getting at by talking to me like this?” Sophia said with a very serious expression. “Have I ever given you a reason to say such things?” —“No, ma'am, I apologize; I meant no offense,” Honour replied; “but honestly, the poor man has been on my mind ever since I saw him this morning. If you had just seen him, you would have felt sorry for him. Poor man! I hope nothing unfortunate has happened to him; he was wandering around with his arms crossed and looking so sad all morning—I must say it almost made me cry to see him.” —“See whom?” Sophia asked. “Poor Mr. Jones,” Honour answered. “See him? Where did you see him?” Sophia asked. “By the canal, ma'am,” Honour said. “He’s been walking there all morning, and finally he lay down; I believe he’s still there. Honestly, if I weren’t modest—being a maid—I would have gone to speak to him. Please, let me just go and check if he’s still there.” —“Oh please!” said Sophia. “No, no: what would he be doing there? He’s long gone by now, I’m sure. Besides, why would you go to see him? I need you for something else. Go get my hat and gloves. I’m going for a walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner.” Honour immediately did as she was asked, and Sophia put on her hat; when she looked in the mirror, she thought the ribbon holding her hat wasn't right, so she sent her maid back to get a ribbon of a different color. After that, she reminded Mrs. Honour repeatedly not to leave her work for any reason since it was urgent and needed to be finished that day. She muttered something more about going to the grove and then quickly went the other way, walking as fast as her delicate, trembling legs could carry her, straight 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.
Jones was there as Mrs. Honour had told her; he had actually spent two hours that morning lost in sad thoughts about his Sophia and had left the garden just as she entered through another door. So those unfortunate minutes spent changing the ribbons kept the lovers from meeting this time—a truly unlucky coincidence, from which my lovely readers will certainly take an important lesson. And here, I strictly prohibit all male critics from interfering with a detail I've shared solely for the ladies, who are the only ones allowed to comment on it.
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.
It has often been said that misfortunes don’t come alone. This saying was demonstrated by Sophia, who was not only upset about not seeing the man she loved but also frustrated at having to get dressed to meet 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.”
That afternoon, Mr. Western told his daughter his plans for the first time, aware that she had already heard about it from her aunt. Sophia looked very serious at this, and she couldn’t stop a few tears from forming in her eyes. “Come on,” says Western, “no need for the shy act; I know everything; I assure you, my sister has filled me in on everything.”
“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.”
“Is it possible,” says Sophia, “that my aunt has already betrayed me?”—“Yes, yes,” says Western; “betrayed you! Of course. You betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You made your feelings pretty clear, I think. But you young girls never know what you really want. So you’re upset because I’m going to marry you to the man you love! Your mother, I remember, complained and cried just like this; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we got married: Mr. Blifil is a lively young man, and he’ll quickly get rid of your fussiness. Come on, cheer up, cheer up; I expect him any 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.
Sophia was now sure that her aunt had treated her well, and she decided to get through that unpleasant afternoon with as much determination as she could, without giving her father the slightest hint of what was going on.
Mr Blifil soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after withdrawing, left the young couple together.
Mr. Blifil soon arrived, and Mr. Western quickly left, leaving the young couple alone 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.
A long silence of nearly fifteen minutes followed, as the gentleman who was supposed to start the conversation had an awkward shyness about him. He tried to speak several times but kept holding back his words just before saying them. Finally, he let loose a flood of exaggerated and overly formal compliments, which she responded to with downcast eyes, half-bows, and polite one-word answers. Blifil, due to his lack of experience with women and his inflated self-esteem, mistook her reactions as a shy acceptance of his flirting. When Sophia stood up and left the room to escape a situation she could no longer tolerate, he attributed that to her shyness as well and reassured himself that he would soon have plenty 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.
He was definitely confident about his chances of success; because as for that complete and total possession of his mistress's heart that romantic lovers want, the idea never crossed his mind. Her wealth and her looks were the only things he truly desired, and he had no doubt that he would soon have full ownership of both; Mr. Western was very much in favor of the match, and he knew very well how obedient Sophia was to her father's wishes, with even greater obedience expected if necessary. This authority, along with the charms he believed he possessed in his looks and conversation, he thought would surely work with a young lady whose feelings, he was sure, were completely free.
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.
He definitely had no jealousy towards Jones; in fact, I often thought it was amazing that he didn’t. Maybe he thought that Jones’s reputation as one of the wildest guys in England (however accurate, the reader can decide) would make him unappealing to a woman known for her exemplary modesty. Perhaps his doubts were calmed by how Sophia and Jones acted when they were all together. Most importantly, he was confident there was no competition. He believed he understood Jones completely and actually looked down on his lack of self-interest. He wasn’t worried that Jones had feelings for Sophia; he figured any financial motives wouldn’t matter much to such a foolish guy. Additionally, Blifil thought that Jones was still involved with Molly Seagrim and genuinely believed they would end up getting married; Jones had loved her since childhood and hadn’t kept anything from him until Jones’s behavior during Mr. Allworthy’s illness completely turned him against him. It was because of the quarrel that arose from that situation, which hadn’t been resolved yet, that Mr. Blifil was unaware of the change in Jones's feelings for 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.
From these reasons, Mr. Blifil saw no obstacles to his success with Sophia. He thought her behavior was just like that of any other young woman on her first visit from a suitor, and it completely met 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.
Mr. Western made sure to confront the lover as he was leaving his mistress's place. He found him completely thrilled with his success, totally in love with his daughter, and very pleased with how she received him. This made the old gentleman start to dance around his hall, performing all sorts of silly antics to show just how happy he was; he had no control over any of his emotions, and whatever feeling dominated his mind drove him to the wildest extremes.
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.
As soon as Blifil left, after many warm kisses and hugs from Western, the kind squire immediately went to find his daughter. The moment he found her, he expressed his overwhelming joy, telling her to choose whatever clothes and jewelry she wanted, insisting that he had no other purpose for his wealth except to make her happy. He then showered her with affection, calling her all the sweetest names, and declared that she was his only happiness in the world.
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.
Sophia, noticing her father's sudden display of affection, which she didn't completely understand (since he was often affectionate, though this was more intense than usual), thought this was her best chance to reveal herself, especially regarding Mr. Blifil. She anticipated that she would soon need to explain everything fully. After thanking her father for all his kind words, she added, with a gaze full of deep emotion, “Is it really possible for my dad to be so good as to base all his joy on Sophy's happiness?” After he confirmed this with a strong promise and a kiss, she took his hand, knelt before him, and, with many warm and passionate expressions of love and duty, begged him “not to make her the most miserable person on earth by forcing her to marry a man she despised. I ask this of you, dear sir,” she said, “for your sake as well as mine, since you are so kind to say your happiness depends on mine.” —“What? How?” exclaimed Western, staring in disbelief. “Oh! sir,” she continued, “not only does your poor Sophy’s happiness depend on this; her very life, her existence, relies on you agreeing to her request. I cannot live with Mr. Blifil. Forcing me into this marriage would be like killing me.” —“You can’t live with Mr. Blifil?” asked Western. “No, I absolutely can’t,” Sophia replied. “Then die and be damned,” he shouted, pushing her away. “Oh! sir,” cried Sophia, clutching the edge of his coat, “please have pity on me. Don’t say such cruel things—Can you really be unaffected when you see your Sophy in this terrible state? Can the best of fathers truly break my heart? Will he kill me with the most painful, cruel, lingering death?” —“Nonsense!” shouted the squire; “all nonsense; all these girlish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill you?” —“Oh! sir,” Sophia replied, “that kind of marriage is worse than death. I don’t just dislike him; I hate and loathe him.” —“No matter how much you hate him,” Western declared, “you shall have him.” He sealed this with an oath too shocking to repeat, and after many fervent assertions, he concluded, “I am determined about this match, and unless you agree to it, I won’t give you a penny, not a single farthing; no, even if I saw you starving in the street, I wouldn’t give you a crumb of bread. This is my firm decision, and I’ll leave you to think about it.” He then pulled away from her so forcefully that her face hit the floor, and he stormed out of the room, leaving poor Sophia lying 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.
When Western walked into the hall, he found Jones there. Seeing his friend looking wild, pale, and nearly breathless, Jones couldn’t help but ask what was causing all these sad feelings. In response, the squire immediately filled him in on everything, ending with harsh complaints about Sophia and a heartfelt lament about the misery of all fathers who are unlucky enough 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.
Jones, who was still unaware of all the resolutions made in favor of Blifil, was initially taken aback by this news; however, after regaining some composure, he claimed that sheer despair drove him to bring up a topic with Mr. Western that seemed to demand more audacity than anyone could muster. He asked for permission to see Sophia so he could try to win her support for her father's wishes.
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.
If the squire had been as perceptive as he was known for the opposite, his feelings might have completely overwhelmed him right now. He thanked Jones for agreeing to take on the task and said, “Come on, please, go see what you can do;” and then he swore a bunch of terrible oaths that he would kick her out unless she agreed to the marriage.
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.”
Jones left immediately in search of Sophia, who he found just getting up from the ground, where her father had left her, with tears streaming down her face and blood running from her lips. He quickly ran to her and, with a voice filled with both tenderness and fear, exclaimed, “Oh my Sophia, what is this terrible sight?” She looked at him gently for a moment before replying, “Mr. Jones, please, how did you find me?—Leave me, I beg you, this instant.” “Don’t,” he said, “give me such a harsh command—my heart hurts more than those lips. Oh Sophia, how easily could I bleed to save even a drop of that precious blood.” “I already owe you too much,” she answered, “I’m sure you meant it that way.” She gazed at him tenderly for almost a minute, and then, overwhelmed with emotion, cried, “Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you save my life? My death would have been better for us both.” “Better for us both!” he exclaimed. “Could any torture be as painful as Sophia’s suffering—I can’t handle the terrible thought. Do I live only for her?” Both his voice and expression were filled with indescribable tenderness as he spoke, and he gently took hold of her hand, which she didn’t pull away from him; to be honest, she hardly knew what she was doing or feeling. A few moments passed in silence between the two, while his eyes were fixated on Sophia and hers were cast down to the ground; finally, she regained enough strength to ask him again to leave her, as their being found together would definitely lead to her ruin, adding, “Oh, Mr. Jones, you have no idea, no idea what has happened this cruel afternoon.” “I know everything, my Sophia,” he replied; “your cruel father has told me everything, and he sent me here to you.” “My father sent you to me!” she said in disbelief: “surely this is a dream.” “I wish to Heaven it was just a dream!” he cried, “Oh Sophia, your father sent me to be a spokesperson for my loathsome rival, to plead his case on his behalf. I went to great lengths to reach you. Oh, speak to me, Sophia! Ease my aching heart. No one has ever loved, ever adored like I do. Please don’t cruelly withhold this dear, gentle hand—one moment apart could tear you forever from me—only this cruel situation could ever overcome the respect and awe you inspire in me.” She stood for a moment in silence, blushing with embarrassment; then, lifting her eyes gently towards him, she asked, “What would you like me to say, Mr. Jones?” “Oh, just promise,” he begged, “that you will never give yourself to Blifil.” “Don’t mention,” she replied, “that detestable name. You can be sure I will never give him what I can keep from him.” “Then,” he said, “while you are being so kind, go a little further and add that I may hope.” “Alas!” she said, “Mr. Jones, where are you leading me? What hope can I possibly offer? You know my father’s intentions.” “But I know,” he answered, “your compliance with them cannot be forced.” “What,” she asked, “will be the terrible consequences of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least concern. I can’t bear to think of being the cause of my father’s misery.” “He is the cause himself,” Jones exclaimed, “by demanding a power over you that nature has not given him. Think of the misery I will suffer if I lose you, and see where pity will weigh the balance.” “Think of it!” she replied: “can you imagine that I don’t feel the disaster I would bring upon you if I agree to your wish? It is that thought that strengthens my resolve to tell you to leave me forever and avoid your own destruction.” “I fear no destruction,” he said, “except the loss of Sophia. If you want to save me from the deepest agony, take back that cruel sentence. Truly, I can never part with you, I truly 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.
The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia unable to pull her hand away from Jones, and he almost as unable to let it go; when the moment, which I believe some of my readers might think had gone on for long enough, was interrupted by something so different that we’ll save the details for another chapter.
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.
Before we move on to what happened next with our lovers, it might be a good idea to describe what took place in the hall during their heartfelt conversation.
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.
Soon after Jones left Mr. Western as described above, his sister came to him and soon learned everything that had happened between her brother and Sophia regarding 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.
This behavior from her niece, the good lady interpreted as a complete violation of the condition she had agreed to in order to keep her feelings for Mr. Jones a secret. She felt completely free to tell the squire everything she knew, which she did right away in the most direct way, without any formality or introduction.
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.
The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter had never even crossed the squire's mind, whether during the most affectionate moments he felt for that young man, out of suspicion, or at any other time. He truly believed that a similarity in wealth and circumstances was just as important for marriage as the difference in genders or any other essential factor; he was no more worried about his daughter 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.
He was left stunned by what his sister said. At first, he couldn't respond at all because he was almost breathless from the shock. However, his breath soon returned, and like in other situations after a pause, it came back with even greater intensity and anger.
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.
The first thing he did when he regained his ability to speak after being shocked was to let out a string of curses and threats. Then he quickly moved to the room where he thought he would find the couple, grumbling, or rather shouting, about his plans for revenge with every step he took.
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.
Just like when two doves or two wood-pigeons, or like when Strephon and Phyllis (which is the closest comparison) are in a nice quiet grove, enjoying a sweet conversation about Love, that shy boy who can't speak in public and isn't great company for more than two people at once; here, while everything is calm, if suddenly loud thunder crashes through the broken clouds and rolls ominously across the sky, the startled girl jumps up from the soft mossy bank or green grass, her cheeks turn pale as fear replaces the rosy color that Love had given her before, and she trembles all over, barely held up by her lover as she wobbles unsteadily.
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.
Or like when two gentlemen, unfamiliar with the amazing humor of the place, are sharing a drink at some inn or tavern in Salisbury. If the great Dowdy, who plays the part of a madman just as well as some of his followers play the fool, starts rattling his chains and singing the gloomy song down the hallway, the terrified strangers are left in shock. Afraid of the horrifying noise, they look for any way to escape the looming danger. If the securely locked windows offered a chance to get out, they would risk everything to flee from the impending wrath about to descend on 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 otherways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake whatever affected her.
So poor Sophia trembled, turning pale at the sound of her father, who, in a voice that was terrifying to hear, came storming in, swearing, cursing, and promising to destroy Jones. To be honest, I think the young man would have preferred to be somewhere else at that moment, if his fear for Sophia hadn’t made him focus solely on her concerns, rather than thinking about his own situation.
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.
And now the squire, having burst open the door, saw something that instantly stopped all his anger towards Jones; this was the pale and lifeless appearance of Sophia, who had fainted in her lover's arms. As soon as Mr. Western saw this tragic sight, his rage left him completely; he shouted for help with all his might, first rushing to his daughter, then back to the door calling for water, and then back again to Sophia, never thinking about who was holding her, nor perhaps even remembering that Jones existed; because, honestly, I believe the state of his daughter was the only thing on his mind at that moment.
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.
Mrs. Western and a large number of servants quickly came to help Sophia with water, drinks, and everything else she needed in that situation. They applied everything successfully, and in just a few minutes, Sophia began to recover, with all signs of life returning. She was then taken away by her maid and Mrs. Western. That kind lady didn’t leave without giving her brother some serious advice about the terrible consequences of his passion, which she liked to call 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 squire probably didn’t get this good advice, since it was given in vague hints, shrugs, and expressions of admiration. At the very least, even if he did understand it, he didn’t benefit much from it; as soon as he was relieved of his immediate worries about his daughter, he fell back into his old frenzy, which would have led to an immediate fight with Jones if it hadn’t been for Parson Supple, who was a very strong man and physically held the squire back from being hostile.
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.
The moment Sophia left, Jones approached Mr. Western in a very submissive way, as the parson held him in his arms, and asked him to calm down; because as long as he stayed angry, it would be impossible to make him happy.
“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.
“I want satisfaction from you,” the squire replied; “so take off your clothes. At least I'm half a man, and I’ll beat you like you’ve never been beaten in your life.” He then showered the young man with a lot of that talk that happens between country gentlemen who are on opposite sides of an argument, frequently urging him to acknowledge that part of the body which usually comes up in all the disputes among the lower classes of English gentry at horse races, cockfights, and other public events. References to this part are also often made just for the joke. And here, I think, the humor is usually misunderstood. The joke actually lies in wanting someone else to kiss your ass after you’ve just threatened to kick theirs; because I've noticed very carefully that no one ever asks you to kick what belongs to them, nor do they offer to kiss that part on another person.
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.
It might be surprising that out of the thousands of kind invitations like this that anyone who has talked with country gentlemen must have heard, I don't think anyone has ever seen a single case where the request was actually fulfilled. This shows a significant lack of politeness on their part because in the city, it's very common for even the most refined gentlemen to extend this courtesy daily to their superiors without ever being asked for it.
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.”
To all that cleverness, Jones replied very calmly, “Sir, this behavior may cancel every other obligation you’ve imposed on me; but there’s one you can never take away; nor will I let your insults provoke me into raising 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.”
At these words, the squire became even more outrageous than before; so the parson asked Jones to leave, saying, “You can see how angry he is at your presence here; so please don’t stay any longer. His anger is too intense for you to talk to him right now. It would be better for you to end your visit and bring up any issues you have at another time.”
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.”
Jones accepted this advice gratefully and left right away. The squire was now free to use his hands and had enough composure to show some satisfaction with the restraint that had been placed on him, stating that he definitely would have done something impulsive and adding, “It would have really annoyed me to be hanged for such a jerk.”
The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peace-making 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 parson was now feeling proud of his success in making peace and started to give a talk about anger, which might have stirred up the emotion rather than calmed it in some quick-tempered people. He filled this talk with many valuable quotes from ancient sources, especially from Seneca, who really tackled this emotion so well that only a very angry person could read him without enjoying it and gaining insight. The doctor wrapped up his speech with the well-known story of Alexander and Clitus, but since I have that noted in my collection under the title Drunkenness, I won’t include 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.
The squire paid no attention to this story, or maybe anything else he said; he interrupted him before he could finish by asking for a tankard of beer, noting (which might be as true as any comment on this craze of the mind) that anger makes a person thirsty.
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 practice, 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.
As soon as the squire downed a big drink, he went back to talking about Jones and said he was planning to go see Mr. Allworthy early the next morning. His friend tried to talk him out of it, just out of kindness, but that only led to a storm of swearing and cursing that greatly shocked the pious Supple; however, he didn’t dare complain about a right the squire claimed as a freeborn Englishman. To be honest, the parson tolerated the swearing to enjoy his meals at the squire’s table, even if it meant putting up with the occasional offense to his ears. He consoled himself by thinking he wasn’t encouraging this bad behavior and that the squire wouldn’t swear any less if he never stepped foot in his house. Still, even though he wasn't rude enough to scold a gentleman in his own home, he managed to get back at him indirectly from the pulpit: which, though it didn’t change the squire’s behavior, did weigh on his conscience enough that he enforced the laws harshly against others, while the magistrate was the only person in the parish who could swear without consequences.
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:—
Mr. Allworthy had just finished breakfast with his nephew, feeling quite pleased with the news of the young man’s successful visit to Sophia (since he was very keen on the match, largely because of the young lady's character rather than her wealth), when Mr. Western suddenly interrupted them and, without any introduction, started speaking:—
“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.
“There, you’ve done a great job, truly! You’ve raised your bastard for a fine purpose; not that I think you had anything to do with it on purpose, but there’s a real mess going on up at our house.” “What’s wrong, Mr. Western?” asked Allworthy. “Oh, there’s plenty of trouble, I assure you: my daughter has fallen in love with your bastard, that’s it; but I won’t give her a penny, not even a fraction of a farthing. I always wondered what would come of raising a bastard like a gentleman and letting him come around to people’s houses. It’s a good thing I couldn’t get my hands on him; I’d have knocked him around; I’d have stopped his whining; I’d have taught the son of a whore not to get too cozy with his master. He won’t ever get a bite of my meat, or a penny to buy it: if she wants him, one dress will be her portion. I’d sooner give my estate to the sinking fund, so it can be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation.” “I’m truly sorry,” cries Allworthy. “Damn your sorrow,” says Western; “it will do me no good when I lose my only child, my poor Sophy, who was the joy of my life, and all the hope and comfort of my old age; but I’m determined to throw her out on the street; she can beg, starve, and rot in the streets. Not a penny, not a penny will she ever have of mine. The son of a bitch was always good at sniffing out a hare, and may he rot for it; I never thought what little creature he was after; but it will be the worst he ever found in his life. She’ll be no better than carrion: the skin is all he'll get, and you can tell him that.” “I’m amazed,” cries Allworthy, “by what you’re telling me, considering what happened between my nephew and the young lady just yesterday.” “Yes, sir,” replied Western, “it was after what happened between your nephew and her that everything came to light. Mr. Blifil left, and then the son of a whore started lurking around the house. I never thought, when I used to like him as a sportsman, that he was all the while trying to poach my daughter.” “Well, honestly,” says Allworthy, “I wish you hadn’t given him so many chances with her; and you’ll do me the courtesy of admitting that I’ve always been against him spending so much time at your house, though I admit I had no suspicion of this sort.” “Good lord,” cries Western, “who would have thought it? What on earth did she have to do with him? He wasn’t there to court her; he was there to hunt with me.” “But was it really possible,” says Allworthy, “that you never noticed any signs of love between them when you saw them together so often?” “Never in my life, as I hope to be saved,” exclaims Western: “I never even saw him kiss her; and far from courting her, he tended to be quieter around her than anyone else. And as for the girl, she was always less polite to him than to any other young man who came to the house. As for that, I’m not more easily deceived than anyone else; I wouldn’t want you to think I am, neighbor.” Allworthy could barely hold back his laughter at this; but he decided to restrain himself because he understood human nature too well and had too much manners and kindness to upset the squire in his current situation. He then asked Western what he wanted him to do about it. Western replied, “That he’d like him to keep the rascal away from his house, and that he’d go and lock up the girl; because he was determined to make her marry Mr. Blifil, no matter what.” He then shook Blifil’s hand and swore he’d have no other son-in-law. Shortly after, he took his leave, saying his house was in such chaos that he needed to hurry home to ensure his daughter didn’t slip away; and as for Jones, he swore that if he caught him at his house, he would make sure he was fit 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.
When Allworthy and Blifil were left alone again, a long silence hung between them; during this time, the young man filled the gap with sighs, which came from a mix of disappointment, but mostly from hatred. The fact that Jones was succeeding bothered him much more than losing 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 which 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.”
Finally, his uncle asked him what he intended to do, and he replied: “Alas! sir, can there be any question about what a lover will do when reason and passion pull them in opposite directions? I’m afraid it’s pretty clear he will, in that situation, always follow passion. Reason tells me to stop thinking about a woman who has feelings for someone else; my passion urges me to hope that over time she might change her mind in my favor. However, I think there’s an objection that, if not fully addressed, would completely deter me from pursuing her further. I’m referring to the unfairness of trying to take the place of someone who seems already to have her heart. But Mr. Western’s firm decision shows that, in this case, my actions would actually bring happiness to everyone involved; not just the parent, who would thus be spared from immense misery, but also both others, who would be harmed by this match. I’m sure the lady would be devastated in every sense; she would not only lose most of her own fortune, but she would also end up married to a beggar, and whatever little inheritance her father can’t keep from her will be wasted on that woman he still sees. That’s actually small potatoes, though, because I know him to be one of the worst men around; if my dear uncle had known what I have tried to hide from him, he would have long ago disowned such a wretched person.” “What!” exclaimed Allworthy; “has he done anything worse than what I already know? Please tell me!” “No,” Blifil replied; “it’s in the past, and maybe he has regretted it.” “I command you, on your duty,” said Allworthy, “to tell me what you mean.” “You know, sir,” Blifil said, “I have never disobeyed you; but I regret bringing it up, as it may now appear to be revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, I have never had such a motive in my heart; and if you make me reveal it, I will have to ask for your forgiveness on his behalf.” “I won’t accept any conditions,” Allworthy answered; “I believe I have shown enough kindness to him, perhaps even more than you should thank me for.” “More than he deserves, that’s for sure,” Blifil exclaimed; “because on the very day of your greatest danger, when I and the whole family were in tears, he filled the house with revelry and debauchery. He drank, sang, and made a racket; and when I gently pointed out how indecent his behavior was, he flew into a rage, swore a lot, called me a rascal, and struck me.” “What!” Allworthy shouted; “did he dare to hit you?” “I can assure you,” Blifil said, “I forgave him for that a long time ago. I wish I could so easily forget his ingratitude towards the best benefactor; and I hope you will forgive him for that, since he must have truly been possessed by the devil: for that very evening, while Mr. Thwackum and I were enjoying a walk in the fields and feeling optimistic about the positive signs we were beginning to see, we unfortunately caught him in a compromising position with a woman, in a way that shouldn’t be mentioned. Mr. Thwackum, with more courage than sense, went up to scold him, and (I regret to say) he attacked the good man and beat him so badly that I hope he has recovered from the bruises. I also felt the effects of his malice while I tried to protect my tutor; but I’ve long since forgiven that; in fact, I persuaded Mr. Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to tell you a secret that I feared might be disastrous for him. And now, sir, since I’ve carelessly let this matter slip and your orders have forced me to reveal the truth, let me plead with you for him.” “Oh child!” said Allworthy, “I don’t know whether to be angry or to commend your kindness for concealing such wickedness for even a moment: but where is Mr. Thwackum? Not that I want confirmation of what you’ve said, but I want to investigate all the facts of this situation to justify the example I’m determined 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.”
Thwackum was called in and soon showed up. He confirmed everything the other person had stated; in fact, he even revealed the note he had tucked under his robe, where Mr. Jones's handwriting was still very clear in black and blue ink. He finished by telling Mr. Allworthy that he would have informed him about this issue a long time ago if Mr. Blifil hadn't strongly urged him not to. “He is,” he said, “a fine young man; although forgiving enemies goes a bit 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.
In reality, Blifil worked hard to win over the parson and keep the situation from being uncovered at that moment, for several reasons. He understood that sickness often makes people more lenient and less harsh than usual. Plus, he thought that if the story came out while the fact was still fresh and with the doctor around, who could reveal the true details, he wouldn’t be able to twist it into the malicious narrative he wanted. He also decided to hold onto this situation until Jones made some additional mistakes, believing that the combined weight of multiple issues would be more likely to bring him down. So, he looked for an opportunity like the one fortune had just given him. Finally, by persuading Thwackum to keep the matter secret for a while, he knew he could strengthen the perception of his friendship with Jones, which he had worked hard to establish with Mr. Allworthy.
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.
It was Mr. Allworthy's habit never to punish anyone, not even to fire a servant, in anger. He decided to wait until the afternoon to make a judgment on Jones.
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.”
The poor young man joined the dinner, as usual, but he was too weighed down by his emotions to eat. His sorrow was worsened by the unkind looks from Mr. Allworthy, leading him to believe that Western had found out about everything that happened between him and Sophia. As for Mr. Blifil's story, he felt no concern because he was innocent of most of it, and for the parts he was involved in, he had already forgiven and forgotten, so he assumed the other side had done the same. After dinner, when the servants left, Mr. Allworthy started to speak. He went on in a long speech about all the wrongdoings Jones had committed, especially the ones that had come to light that day, and concluded by telling him, “Unless you can clear yourself of this accusation, I am determined to banish you from my sight forever.”
Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c., 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 acknowledged 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.”
Poor Jones faced a lot of disadvantages in defending himself; in fact, he barely understood what he was being accused of. Mr. Allworthy, while recounting the drunkenness and other incidents from when Jones was ill, left out everything that directly related to him out of modesty, which was really at the heart of the crime. Jones couldn’t deny the accusations. His heart was nearly broken, and he felt so low that he couldn't defend himself; he just accepted everything and, like a desperate criminal, pleaded for mercy. He concluded, “While I have to admit I’ve been guilty of many mistakes and carelessness, I hope I haven't done anything that would result in what would be the greatest punishment for me 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.”
Allworthy replied, “I’ve already forgiven you too many times out of compassion for your youth and in hopes of your improvement. Now I see that you’re a lost cause, and it would be wrong for anyone to support or encourage you. Besides,” Mr. Allworthy continued, “your reckless attempt to run off with the young lady forces me to defend my own integrity in punishing you. The world, which has already criticized the kindness I’ve shown you, may justifiably think that I’m ignoring such a vile and cruel act—something you must know I detest. If you had any concern for my comfort and honor, as well as for our friendship, you would never have even thought to attempt such a thing. Shame on you, young man! Honestly, there’s hardly any punishment severe enough for your crimes, and I can barely justify what I’m about to do. However, since I’ve raised you like my own child, I won’t cast you out into the world with nothing. When you open this paper, you’ll find something that can help you make an honest living if you work hard. But if you use it for bad purposes, I will not feel obligated to help you any longer, as I’ve decided, starting today, to have no further contact with you for any reason. I must also say, there’s nothing about your behavior that angers me more than how poorly you’ve treated that good young man (referring to Blifil), who has shown you so much kindness and integrity.”
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.
These final words were almost too harsh to take in. A torrent of tears poured from Jones's eyes, and he felt completely unable to speak or move. It took him a while to follow Allworthy's firm orders to leave; eventually, he did, but not before passionately kissing his hands in a way that was hard to imitate and even harder to explain.
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.
The reader must be really naive if, when considering how Jones looked to Mr. Allworthy at that moment, they would criticize the harshness of his judgment. Yet, the entire neighborhood, either out of this naivety or for some worse reason, condemned this fairness and strictness as the worst kind of cruelty. In fact, the very people who had previously criticized the good man for his kindness and compassion towards a bastard (his own child, according to popular belief) were now shouting just as loudly against throwing his own child out on the street. The women, in particular, were united in supporting Jones and created more rumors about the situation than I can fit in this chapter.
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.
One thing shouldn't be overlooked: in their criticisms on this occasion, no one ever mentioned the amount of money in the paper that Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds; instead, everyone agreed that he was sent away broke, and some even said he left his inhuman father's house without clothes.
Chapter xii. — Containing love-letters, &c.
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.
Jones was ordered to leave the house right away and was told that his clothes and everything else would be sent to him wherever he instructed.
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!”
He set off and walked over a mile, not really paying attention and barely knowing where he was going. Finally, a small stream blocked his path, so he laid down next to it; he couldn't help but mutter with some irritation, “Surely my father won't deny me this spot to rest!”
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.
Here he suddenly fell into intense pain, pulling his hair out and engaging in other actions that usually come with 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.
When he had expressed the initial rush of his emotions, he started to regain his composure. His grief shifted in nature and was released in a milder manner, until he ultimately became calm enough to think clearly about his feelings and to consider what actions were appropriate in his unfortunate situation.
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 benefactor, 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.
And now the big question was how to deal with Sophia. The thought of leaving her nearly broke his heart; but the idea of dragging her into ruin and poverty tormented him even more. Even if the intense desire to have her could have pushed him to consider that option, he wasn’t sure if she would actually agree to his wishes at such a great cost. Mr. Allworthy's anger and the harm it would cause to his peace of mind strongly argued against that choice; and finally, the apparent impossibility of succeeding, even if he sacrificed all those factors, helped his decision. Thus, a sense of honor, mixed with despair, gratitude to his benefactor, and true love for his mistress, overcame his burning desire, and he decided it would be better to leave Sophia than to lead 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.
It’s hard for anyone who hasn’t experienced it to imagine the warm glow that filled his heart when he first thought about his victory over his desires. Pride flattered him so satisfyingly that he might have felt pure happiness; but this was only temporary: Sophia quickly came back to his mind, damping the joy of his triumph with pain just as intense as a kind general feels when he looks at the bleeding bodies that paid the price for his glory; for there were countless tender thoughts lying wasted before our victor.
Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour, as the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewel letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off, where, being furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:—
Being determined to follow the paths of this great honor, as the massive poet Lee puts it, he decided to write a farewell letter to Sophia. He then went to a nearby house, where, having the right materials, he wrote the following:—
“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!”
“MADAM, “When you think about the situation in which I’m writing, I’m sure your kind nature will forgive any inconsistencies or absurdities in my letter; for everything here comes from a heart so full that no words can express its feelings. “I have decided, madam, to follow your wishes and flee forever from your dear, lovely presence. Those wishes are indeed cruel; but this cruelty comes from fate, not from my Sophia. Fate has made it necessary, essential for your well-being, for me to be forgotten as if I never existed. “Believe me, I wouldn’t share all my suffering with you if I thought it could possibly go unnoticed. I know the kindness and compassion of your heart, and I want to spare you from any of the pain you always feel for the unfortunate. Oh, let nothing you hear about my hard fate cause you even a moment of worry; for after losing you, everything else is trivial to me. “Oh Sophia! it’s hard to leave you; it’s even harder to ask you to forget me; yet the truest love compels me to do both. Forgive me for thinking that any memory of me could trouble you; but if I am so hopelessly wretched, please sacrifice me in every way for your peace. Think of me as someone who never loved you; or recognize how little I deserve you; and learn to scorn me for a presumption that deserves harsh punishment.—I can’t say more.—May guardian angels protect you forever!”
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.
He was now searching his pockets for his wax but found none, nor anything else for that matter; in his frantic state, he had thrown everything away, including his pocketbook that he received from Mr. Allworthy, which he had never opened and which now suddenly came to mind.
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.
The house provided him with a wafer for his current task, and after sealing his letter, he quickly headed back to the brook to look for the things he had lost. On his way, he ran into his old friend Black George, who sincerely expressed sympathy for his misfortune; this news had already spread to him and indeed to everyone in the neighborhood.
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.
Jones informed the gamekeeper about what he had lost, and the gamekeeper quickly agreed to go back with him to the stream, where they searched every patch of grass in the meadow, both in areas Jones had already checked and in those he hadn’t. But it was all for nothing, as they found nothing. In reality, the items were indeed in the meadow, but they didn’t search the one place where they were actually stored: in George's pockets. He had just found them before and, knowing their worth, had carefully saved them for himself.
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.
The gamekeeper, having put in a lot of effort to search for the lost items, as if he genuinely believed he would find them, asked Mr. Jones to think back if he had been anywhere else: “I mean,” he said, “if you lost them here recently, they should still be around; this is not a place where people just walk by.” And in truth, it was only by chance that he had come through that field to set traps for hares, which he was supposed to deliver to a supplier in 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?
Jones now gave up all hope of recovering his loss and almost all thoughts about it. Turning to Black George, he earnestly asked if he would do him the greatest favor 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.
George replied hesitantly, “Sir, you know you can ask me for anything within my power, and I truly wish I could do you any service.” The question really threw him off; he had made a decent amount of money selling game during his time working for Mr. Western and was worried that Jones wanted to borrow a little from him. However, he quickly felt relieved when he was asked to deliver a letter to Sophia, which he eagerly agreed to do. In fact, I believe there are very few favors he wouldn’t have gladly done for Mr. Jones; he felt as much gratitude toward him as he could and was as honest as most people who love money more than anything else in the world 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.
Mrs. Honour was agreed upon by both as the right way for this letter to reach Sophia. They then parted ways; the gamekeeper went back to Mr. Western's, and Jones walked to a pub half a mile away to wait for his messenger to 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.
George had barely arrived at his employer's house when he ran into Mrs. Honour. After asking her a few questions to gauge her, he gave her the letter for her mistress and received another letter from her for Mr. Jones. Honour mentioned that she had been carrying it in her bosom all day and was starting to lose hope 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:—
The gamekeeper rushed back to Jones happily, who, after getting Sophia's letter from him, quickly stepped away and eagerly opened it to read the following:—
“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.”
“SIR, “I can’t even put into words what I’ve felt since I saw you. The fact that you endured such harsh insults from my father for my sake puts me in your debt forever. Since you know his temper, I ask you to please stay away from him for my sake. I wish I had something comforting to offer you; but believe me, only the most extreme circumstances would ever lead me to give my hand or heart to someone you would regret seeing them with.”
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.
Jones read this letter a hundred times and kissed it just as many. His feelings now brought back all his tender desires. He regretted writing to Sophia the way he did; but he regretted even more that he had taken advantage of the time while his messenger was away to write and send a letter to Mr. Allworthy, in which he had sincerely promised to give up all thoughts of his love. However, when he reflected calmly, he realized that Sophia's note hadn’t really changed anything for him, except maybe to give him a tiny bit of hope for a future favorable turn, thanks to her loyalty. So, he stuck to his decision, said goodbye to Black George, and headed towards a town about five miles away, where he had asked Mr. Allworthy, unless he chose to cancel his decision, to send his belongings after him.
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.
Sophia had spent the last twenty-four hours in a rather unpleasant way. For a big part of that time, her aunt had entertained her with lectures on being cautious, urging her to follow the example of polite society, where love (according to her aunt) is currently laughed off, and where women see marriage, just like men view public positions, mainly as a way to secure their financial future and improve their status in life. Mrs. Western had showcased her eloquence on this topic for 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.
These wise lectures, although not really aligned with Sophia's preferences or interests, were still less bothersome to her than her own thoughts, which occupied her throughout the night while 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 she should betray her trust.
But even though she couldn't sleep or rest in her bed, she was still found there by her father when he returned from Allworthy's, which wasn’t until after ten o'clock in the morning. He went straight up to her room, opened the door, and seeing she wasn’t up, exclaimed, “Oh! You're alright then, and I've decided to keep it that way.” He then locked the door and handed the key to Honour, having first given her strict instructions along with generous promises of rewards for her loyalty, and serious threats of punishment if she betrayed his 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.
Honour's instructions were to not let her mistress leave her room without the squire's permission and to only allow him and her aunt to see her. However, she was supposed to assist her with anything Sophia wanted, except for pen, ink, and paper, which she was not allowed to 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.
The squire told his daughter to get dressed and join him for dinner; she complied, and after spending the usual time there, she was taken back to her room.
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 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.”
In the evening, the jailer Honour brought her the letter from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it carefully two or three times, then collapsed on the bed and started crying uncontrollably. Mrs. Honour was very surprised by her mistress's behavior and eagerly begged to know what was causing her distress. Sophia didn’t respond for a while, then suddenly sat up, grabbed her maid's hand, and exclaimed, “O Honour! I am finished.” “Heaven forbid,” cries Honour. “I wish I had burned the letter before bringing it to you. I thought it would comfort you; otherwise, I would have tossed it aside.” “Honour,” says Sophia, “you’re a good friend, and it’s pointless to hide my weakness from you any longer; I’ve wasted my heart on a man who has abandoned me.” “And is Mr. Jones,” the maid replied, “such a treacherous man?” “He has said goodbye to me,” says Sophia, “forever in that letter. In fact, he asked me to forget him. Could he have asked that if he loved me? Could he have thought that? Could he have written such a thing?” “No, certainly not, ma'am,” exclaims Honour. “And honestly, if the best man in England asked me to forget him, I would take him at his word. Good heavens! You’ve done him too much honor to think of him; you’re a young lady who could choose from all the young men in the country. And honestly, if I may be so bold as to offer my opinion, there’s young Mr. Blifil, who comes from a good family and will be one of the biggest landowners around here. He’s, in my humble opinion, far more handsome and polite, plus he has a good character and no one can say anything bad about him; he doesn’t associate with any loose women, and no illegitimate children can be linked to him. Forget him, really! Thank God I’m not so desperate as to let any man tell me to forget him twice. If the best man alive tried to say such an insulting thing to me, I wouldn’t give him my company again, even if there was another young man in the kingdom. And as I was saying, there is young Mr. Blifil.” “Don’t even mention his detested name,” cries Sophia. “Well, ma’am,” says Honour, “if you don’t like him, there are many other handsome young men who would court you if they had the slightest encouragement. I don’t believe there’s a single young gentleman in this county, or even the next one, who wouldn’t make his intentions known if you just looked like you were interested.” “What a wretch you think I am,” cries Sophia, “to insult me with such nonsense! I despise all men.” “Well, certainly, ma'am,” replies Honour, “you’ve had enough to give you a disgust for them. To be mistreated by such a poor, lowly, illegitimate fellow—” “Hold your blasphemous tongue,” cries Sophia. “How dare you mention his name so disrespectfully in front of me? He mistreats me? No, his poor, broken heart suffered more when he wrote those cruel words than mine did reading them. O! He embodies all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I am ashamed of the weakness of my own feelings for blaming what I should admire. O, Honour! It’s only for my own good that he acts. He sacrifices both himself and me to serve my interests. The fear of ruining me has driven him to despair.” “I’m very glad,” says Honour, “to hear you considering that; because it can’t be anything less than ruin to fix your mind on someone who’s been cast out and is worth nothing.” “Cast out!” cries Sophia hastily. “What do you mean?” “Well, ma’am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr. Jones trying to woo you than the squire stripped him completely naked and threw him out!” “Ha!” says Sophia, “I have been the cursed, wretched cause of his destruction! Thrown out naked! Here, Honour, take all the money I have; take the rings from my fingers. Here, my watch: go give him everything. Go find him immediately.” “For heaven’s sake, ma’am,” answered Mrs. Honour, “please consider, if my master notices any of these things missing, I’ll have to answer for it. So please let me ask you not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, I think the money is more than enough; and as for that, my master can never know about it.” “Here, then,” cries Sophia, “take every last penny I have, find him right away, and give it to him. Go, go, don’t lose 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.
Mrs. Honour left as instructed, and when she found Black George downstairs, she gave him the purse, which held sixteen guineas—this was actually all of Sophia's money; even though her father was very generous to her, she was way too kind-hearted to be wealthy.
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.
Black George, after receiving the purse, headed towards the pub. However, on the way, he had a thought about whether he should keep this money for himself too. His conscience immediately reacted to this idea and started accusing him of being ungrateful to his benefactor. Avarice, on the other hand, responded by saying that his conscience should have thought about this earlier when he deprived poor Jones of his £500. Since he had calmly accepted something so much more significant, it was ridiculous, if not outright hypocritical, to feel any guilt over this small amount. In response, Conscience, like a good lawyer, tried to make a distinction between an outright breach of trust, as with this case where the money was given, and merely hiding something that was found, as in the earlier case. Avarice dismissed this with mockery, claiming it was a distinction without a difference, insisting that once someone gives up all claims to honor and virtue in one instance, there’s no basis for expecting them in another. In short, poor Conscience would have surely lost the argument if Fear hadn't stepped in to help, strongly arguing that the real difference between the two actions wasn't about levels of honor, but rather about safety: keeping the £500 was low-risk, while holding onto the sixteen guineas involved a significant chance of being found out.
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.
With the help of Fear, Conscience completely defeated Black George’s mind, and after giving him a few compliments on his honesty, made him hand over the money to Jones.
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.”[*] “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 round-heads 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 had been busy abroad all day. The squire met her when she returned home, and when she asked about Sophia, he informed her that he had kept her safe enough. “She’s locked up in her room,” he exclaimed, “and Honour has the key.” Given the wise and sagacious look on his face when he shared this news, it’s likely he expected her to praise him for what he had done. But he was sorely disappointed when she scoffed and said, “Honestly, brother, you’re the weakest man alive. Why won’t you trust me with managing my niece? Why do you have to interfere? You’ve completely ruined everything I’ve been trying to accomplish. While I’ve been working to fill her head with wise ideas, you’ve been pushing her to ignore them. Thank goodness English women aren’t slaves, brother. We shouldn’t be locked up like Spanish or Italian wives. We have just as much right to freedom as you do. We should be convinced by reason and persuasion, not by force. I’ve seen the world, brother, and I know which arguments to use; if your foolishness hadn’t interfered, I could have convinced her to live by the principles of prudence and discretion that I taught her before.” “Of course,” said the squire, “I’m always wrong.” “Brother,” she replied, “you’re not wrong, except when you meddle in things you don’t understand. You must admit that I’ve seen most of the world, and it would have been better for my niece if she hadn’t been taken from my care. Living at home with you, she’s learned ridiculous ideas about love and nonsense.” “You don’t seriously think I taught her that, do you?” replied the squire. “Your ignorance, brother,” she shot back, “as the great Milton said, almost tests my patience.” “Damn Milton!” retorted the squire. “If he had the nerve to say that to my face, I’d give him a smack, even if he were a great man. Patience? If we’re talking about that, sister, I have plenty of reason to be patient, being treated like an overgrown schoolboy by you. Do you really think no one has any sense unless they’ve been around the court? Good grief! The world is in a sad state indeed if we’re all fools, except for a bunch of roundheads and Hanover rats. I hope the time will come when we can outsmart them, and every man can have his own way. That’s it, sister; every man should enjoy his own. I hope to see it before the Hanover rats have devoured all our corn and left us with nothing but turnips to eat.” “I must say, brother,” she exclaimed, “you’ve now gone beyond my comprehension. Your talk about turnips and Hanover rats makes no sense to me.” “I believe,” he said, “you don't want to hear about it; but the country’s interests may one day succeed, regardless.” “I wish,” the lady replied, “you’d think a bit more about your daughter’s interests because, believe me, she’s in greater danger than the country.” “Just a moment ago,” he remarked, “you scolded me for thinking of her, insisting she should be left to you.” “And if you promise not to interfere anymore,” she said, “I’ll gladly take on the responsibility for my niece, out of concern for her.” “Well then, go ahead,” the squire agreed, “because I always thought women are best suited to handle other women.”
[*] The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches for this in Milton.]
[*] The reader might need to exercise some patience while looking for this in Milton.
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.
Mrs. Western then left, grumbling with a sense of contempt about women and the management of the country. She quickly went to Sophia's room, where Sophia had just been freed again from her confinement after a day.
BOOK VII. — CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — A comparison between the world and the stage.
The world hath been often compared to the theatre; and many grave writers, as well as the poets, have considered human life as a great drama, resembling, in almost every particular, those scenical representations which Thespis is first reported to have invented, and which have been since received with so much approbation and delight in all polite countries.
The world has often been compared to a theater; and many serious writers, as well as poets, have viewed human life as a grand drama, similar in almost every way to those performances that Thespis is said to have created, which have since been embraced with great approval and enjoyment in all cultured nations.
This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that some words proper to the theatre, and which were at first metaphorically applied to the world, are now indiscriminately and literally spoken of both; thus stage and scene are by common use grown as familiar to us, when we speak of life in general, as when we confine ourselves to dramatic performances: and when transactions behind the curtain are mentioned, St James's is more likely to occur to our thoughts than Drury-lane.
This idea has been pushed so far and has become so common that some words originally meant for the theater, which were first used metaphorically to describe the world, are now used interchangeably and literally for both. So, terms like stage and scene have become just as familiar to us when we talk about life in general as when we're referring to plays. And when we think about backstage happenings, St. James's is more likely to come to mind than Drury Lane.
It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that the theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, or, as Aristotle calls it, an imitation of what really exists; and hence, perhaps, we might fairly pay a very high compliment to those who by their writings or actions have been so capable of imitating life, as to have their pictures in a manner confounded with, or mistaken for, the originals.
It might seem straightforward to understand all of this by considering that the theater stage is just a portrayal, or as Aristotle puts it, an imitation of what actually exists. Therefore, we could justifiably give a high compliment to those whose writings or actions are so adept at mimicking life that their representations can be confused with or mistaken for the real thing.
But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these people, whom we use as children frequently do the instruments of their amusement; and have much more pleasure in hissing and buffeting them, than in admiring their excellence. There are many other reasons which have induced us to see this analogy between the world and the stage.
But, in reality, we don't really like giving compliments to these people, whom we treat like kids do their toys for fun; we actually get a lot more enjoyment from booing and criticizing them than from appreciating their talent. There are many other reasons that have led us to see this comparison between the world and the stage.
Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the light of actors, as personating characters no more their own, and to which in fact they have no better title, than the player hath to be in earnest thought the king or emperor whom he represents. Thus the hypocrite may be said to be a player; and indeed the Greeks called them both by one and the same name.
Some people have viewed most of humanity as actors, playing roles that aren't really theirs, similar to how an actor has no true claim to being the king or emperor they portray. In this way, a hypocrite can be seen as an actor; in fact, the Greeks used the same term for both.
The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison. So the immortal Shakespear—
The shortness of life has also led to this comparison. So the immortal Shakespeare—
—Life's a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
—Life's a bad actor,
Who shows off and worries for a brief time on stage,
And then is gone for good.For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a very noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a poem called the Deity, published about nine years ago, and long since buried in oblivion; a proof that good books, no more than good men, do always survive the bad.
For which overused quote I will make it up to the reader with a much better one, which I believe few have actually read. It's from a poem called the Deity, published about nine years ago, and has long since been forgotten; a reminder that good books, just like good people, always outlast the bad ones.
From Thee[*] all human actions take their springs,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
See the vast Theatre of Time display'd,
While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
With pomp the shining images succeed,
What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
Perform the parts thy providence assign'd,
Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:
Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that remembrance says—The things have been!
[*] The Deity.
From You all human actions begin,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
Look at the vast Stage of Time displayed,
While over the scene, heroic figures parade!
With grandeur, the shining images follow,
What leaders triumph and what kings are hollow!
Play the parts that your plan assigned,
Their pride, their passions, to your ends aligned:
For a time they shine in the light of day,
Then at your command, the phantoms fade away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that memory says—The things have been! In all these, however, and in every other similitude of life to the theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from the stage only. None, as I remember, have at all considered the audience at this great drama.
In all these situations, and in every other similarity between life and the theatre, the comparison has always been drawn from the stage alone. As far as I can recall, no one has ever considered the audience in this grand performance.
But as Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very full house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit the above-mentioned comparison than that of her actors. In this vast theatre of time are seated the friend and the critic; here are claps and shouts, hisses and groans; in short, everything which was ever seen or heard at the Theatre-Royal.
But just as Nature often puts on her best shows for a packed audience, the behavior of her spectators can be compared just as much as that of her performers. In this grand theater of time, you'll find friends and critics; there are cheers and applause, boos and groans; in short, everything you'd ever see or hear at the Theatre-Royal.
Let us examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour of the great audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to exhibit in the twelfth chapter of the preceding book, where she introduced Black George running away with the £500 from his friend and benefactor.
Let's look at this through one example; for instance, in the actions of the large crowd during that moment Nature chose to showcase in the twelfth chapter of the previous book, where she presented Black George fleeing with the £500 from his friend and supporter.
Those who sat in the world's upper gallery treated that incident, I am well convinced, with their usual vociferation; and every term of scurrilous reproach was most probably vented on that occasion.
Those who sat in the upper gallery of the world probably reacted to that incident with their typical loudness, and I'm sure they unleashed a barrage of insulting remarks at that time.
If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we should have found an equal degree of abhorrence, though less of noise and scurrility; yet here the good women gave Black George to the devil, and many of them expected every minute that the cloven-footed gentleman would fetch his own.
If we had gone down to the next group of spectators, we would have found the same level of disgust, though with less noise and rudeness; still, the kind women condemned Black George, and many of them expected any moment that the devil would come to take him away.
The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic virtue and perfect character objected to the producing such instances of villany, without punishing them very severely for the sake of example. Some of the author's friends cryed, “Look'e, gentlemen, the man is a villain, but it is nature for all that.” And all the young critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices, &c., called it low, and fell a groaning.
The pit, as usual, was definitely divided; those who value heroic virtue and flawless character protested against showcasing such acts of villainy without punishing them harshly as a warning. Some of the author's friends said, “Hey, guys, the man is a villain, but that’s just human nature.” And all the young critics of the time, the clerks, apprentices, etc., deemed it beneath them and started groaning.
As for the boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness. Most of them were attending to something else. Some of those few who regarded the scene at all, declared he was a bad kind of man; while others refused to give their opinion, till they had heard that of the best judges.
As for the boxes, they acted with their usual politeness. Most of them were focused on something else. Some of the few who actually paid attention to the scene said he was a bad man; while others held off on sharing their opinions until they heard what the best critics had to say.
Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of Nature (and no author ought to write anything besides dictionaries and spelling-books who hath not this privilege), can censure the action, without conceiving any absolute detestation of the person, whom perhaps Nature may not have designed to act an ill part in all her dramas; for in this instance life most exactly resembles the stage, since it is often the same person who represents the villain and the heroe; and he who engages your admiration to-day will probably attract your contempt to-morrow. As Garrick, whom I regard in tragedy to be the greatest genius the world hath ever produced, sometimes condescends to play the fool; so did Scipio the Great, and Laelius the Wise, according to Horace, many years ago; nay, Cicero reports them to have been “incredibly childish.” These, it is true, played the fool, like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but several eminent characters have, in numberless instances of their lives, played the fool egregiously in earnest; so far as to render it a matter of some doubt whether their wisdom or folly was predominant; or whether they were better intitled to the applause or censure, the admiration or contempt, the love or hatred, of mankind.
Now we, who get to see behind the scenes of this great theater of Nature (and no author should write anything besides dictionaries and spelling books without having this privilege), can judge the actions without harboring complete dislike for the person, who perhaps Nature didn’t intend to play a bad role in all her dramas; because, in this scenario, life closely resembles the stage, as it’s often the same person portraying both the villain and the hero; and the one who wins your admiration today will likely earn your contempt tomorrow. Just as Garrick, whom I consider the greatest genius in tragedy the world has ever seen, sometimes lowers himself to play the fool; so did Scipio the Great and Laelius the Wise, according to Horace, many years ago; indeed, Cicero mentions that they were “incredibly childish.” It’s true that they played the fool, like my friend Garrick, just for laughs; but many notable figures have, throughout their lives, acted foolishly in all seriousness; so much so that it’s questionable whether their wisdom or folly was more prominent; or whether they deserved the applause or criticism, the admiration or disdain, the love or hate of mankind.
Those persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the scenes of this great theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted not only with the several disguises which are there put on, but also with the fantastic and capricious behaviour of the Passions, who are the managers and directors of this theatre (for as to Reason, the patentee, he is known to be a very idle fellow and seldom to exert himself), may most probably have learned to understand the famous nil admirari of Horace, or in the English phrase, to stare at nothing.
Those people, in fact, who have spent any time behind the scenes of this great theater and are well-acquainted not only with the various disguises worn there but also with the quirky and unpredictable behavior of the Passions, who run the show (because as for Reason, the one in charge, he's known to be quite lazy and rarely makes an effort), have likely come to grasp the famous nil admirari of Horace, or in simpler English, to not be surprised by anything.
A single bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a single bad part on the stage. The passions, like the managers of a playhouse, often force men upon parts without consulting their judgment, and sometimes without any regard to their talents. Thus the man, as well as the player, may condemn what he himself acts; nay, it is common to see vice sit as awkwardly on some men, as the character of Iago would on the honest face of Mr William Mills.
A single bad action doesn’t make someone a villain in real life any more than one bad role makes an actor terrible. Our emotions, like the directors of a theater, often push people into roles without asking for their input or considering their skills. So, just like an actor, a person can criticize their own behavior; in fact, it’s not uncommon to see some people struggle with vice as awkwardly as the character of Iago would on the honest face of Mr. William Mills.
Upon the whole, then, the man of candour and of true understanding is never hasty to condemn. He can censure an imperfection, or even a vice, without rage against the guilty party. In a word, they are the same folly, the same childishness, the same ill-breeding, and the same ill-nature, which raise all the clamours and uproars both in life and on the stage. The worst of men generally have the words rogue and villain most in their mouths, as the lowest of all wretches are the aptest to cry out low in the pit.
Overall, a person who is sincere and truly understands things is never quick to judge. They can criticize a flaw or even a wrongdoing without feeling angry towards the person at fault. In short, it’s the same foolishness, the same immaturity, the same lack of manners, and the same bad character that create all the noise and chaos in both life and on stage. Generally, the worst of people are the ones who often use the terms rogue and villain, just as the most miserable individuals are usually the quickest to shout from the bottom of the pit.
Chapter ii. — Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with himself.
Jones received his effects from Mr Allworthy's early in the morning, with the following answer to his letter:—
Jones got his belongings from Mr. Allworthy early in the morning, along with this response to his letter:—
“SIR, “I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as he did not proceed to those measures he had taken with you, without the greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence of your unworthiness, so will it be always out of your power to cause the least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great surprize at your presumption in saying you have resigned all pretensions to a young lady, to whom it is impossible you should ever have had any, her birth and fortune having made her so infinitely your superior. Lastly, I am commanded to tell you, that the only instance of your compliance with my uncle's inclinations which he requires, is, your immediately quitting this country. I cannot conclude this without offering you my advice, as a Christian, that you would seriously think of amending your life. That you may be assisted with grace so to do, will be always the prayer of “Your humble servant, “W. BLIFIL.”
“SIR, “My uncle has asked me to inform you that he did not take the steps he did with you without careful consideration and clear evidence of your unworthiness. Therefore, you will never be able to change his decision. He is quite surprised by your boldness in claiming that you have given up any claim to a young lady, to whom you could never have had any real claim, as her background and wealth make her vastly superior to you. Finally, I must tell you that the only thing my uncle asks from you is to leave this country immediately. I can’t end this message without giving you some advice, as a Christian, to seriously consider improving your life. I will always pray that you receive the grace to do so. “Your humble servant, “W. BLIFIL.”
Many contending passions were raised in our heroe's mind by this letter; but the tender prevailed at last over the indignant and irascible, and a flood of tears came seasonably to his assistance, and possibly prevented his misfortunes from either turning his head, or bursting his heart.
Many conflicting emotions were stirred in our hero's mind by this letter; but in the end, tenderness won out over anger and irritation, and a flood of tears came just in time to help him, possibly preventing his misfortune from driving him mad or breaking his heart.
He grew, however, soon ashamed of indulging this remedy; and starting up, he cried, “Well, then, I will give Mr Allworthy the only instance he requires of my obedience. I will go this moment—but whither?—why, let Fortune direct; since there is no other who thinks it of any consequence what becomes of this wretched person, it shall be a matter of equal indifference to myself. Shall I alone regard what no other—Ha! have I not reason to think there is another?—one whose value is above that of the whole world!—I may, I must imagine my Sophia is not indifferent to what becomes of me. Shall I then leave this only friend—and such a friend? Shall I not stay with her?—Where—how can I stay with her? Have I any hopes of ever seeing her, though she was as desirous as myself, without exposing her to the wrath of her father, and to what purpose? Can I think of soliciting such a creature to consent to her own ruin? Shall I indulge any passion of mine at such a price? Shall I lurk about this country like a thief, with such intentions?—No, I disdain, I detest the thought. Farewel, Sophia; farewel, most lovely, most beloved—” Here passion stopped his mouth, and found a vent at his eyes.
He soon felt ashamed for indulging in this way; and jumping up, he said, “Well, then, I will give Mr. Allworthy the only example he needs of my obedience. I will go right now—but where to?—let Fortune decide; since no one else cares about what happens to this miserable person, it will matter just as little to me. Should I be the only one to care about what no one else does—Ha! Do I not have reason to believe there’s someone else?—someone whose worth is greater than the entire world!—I can, I must believe my Sophia cares about what happens to me. Should I then leave this only friend—and such a friend? Shouldn’t I stay with her?—Where—how can I stay with her? Do I have any hope of ever seeing her, even if she wanted to just as much as I do, without putting her at risk of her father’s anger, and for what reason? Can I really ask someone like her to agree to her own destruction? Should I indulge any of my feelings at such a cost? Should I sneak around this country like a criminal, with such intentions?—No, I disdain that thought, I detest it. Farewell, Sophia; farewell, most beautiful, most beloved—” At this point, his emotions stopped his words and flowed from his eyes.
And now having taken a resolution to leave the country, he began to debate with himself whither he should go. The world, as Milton phrases it, lay all before him; and Jones, no more than Adam, had any man to whom he might resort for comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance were the acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and he had no reason to expect any countenance from them, as that gentleman had withdrawn his favour from him. Men of great and good characters should indeed be very cautious how they discard their dependents; for the consequence to the unhappy sufferer is being discarded by all others.
And now that he had decided to leave the country, he started to think about where he should go. The world, as Milton put it, was wide open to him; and just like Adam, Jones had no one to turn to for comfort or help. All his acquaintances were associated with Mr. Allworthy, and he had no reason to expect any support from them since that gentleman had withdrawn his favor. People of great character should be very careful about how they dismiss those who depend on them; the unfortunate individual often ends up being shunned by everyone else too.
What course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply himself, was a second consideration: and here the prospect was all a melancholy void. Every profession, and every trade, required length of time, and what was worse, money; for matters are so constituted, that “nothing out of nothing” is not a truer maxim in physics than in politics; and every man who is greatly destitute of money, is on that account entirely excluded from all means of acquiring it.
What path to take in life or what job to focus on was a second concern: and here the future looked completely bleak. Every profession and every trade needed time, and even worse, money; because the truth is, “nothing comes from nothing” applies just as much in politics as it does in physics; and anyone who is really short on money is completely shut out from any chance of making it.
At last the Ocean, that hospitable friend to the wretched, opened her capacious arms to receive him; and he instantly resolved to accept her kind invitation. To express myself less figuratively, he determined to go to sea.
At last, the Ocean, that welcoming friend to the unfortunate, opened her vast arms to take him in; and he immediately decided to accept her generous offer. To put it more straightforwardly, he decided to go out to sea.
This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he eagerly embraced it; and having presently hired horses, he set out for Bristol to put it in execution.
This idea popped into his head, and he quickly jumped on it; after hiring horses right away, he headed to Bristol to make it happen.
But before we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort awhile to Mr Western's, and see what further happened to the charming Sophia.
But before we join him on this adventure, let's take a moment to check in on Mr. Western and see what else happened to the lovely Sophia.
Chapter iii. — Containing several dialogues.
The morning in which Mr Jones departed, Mrs Western summoned Sophia into her apartment; and having first acquainted her that she had obtained her liberty of her father, she proceeded to read her a long lecture on the subject of matrimony; which she treated not as a romantic scheme of happiness arising from love, as it hath been described by the poets; nor did she mention any of those purposes for which we are taught by divines to regard it as instituted by sacred authority; she considered it rather as a fund in which prudent women deposit their fortunes to the best advantage, in order to receive a larger interest for them than they could have elsewhere.
The morning Mr. Jones left, Mrs. Western called Sophia into her room. After telling her that she had gotten her father's permission, she launched into a lengthy lecture about marriage. She didn’t treat it as a romantic idea for happiness stemming from love, like poets often describe it; nor did she mention the religious reasons we are taught to see it as established by sacred authority. Instead, she viewed marriage as a way for smart women to invest their fortunes wisely, aiming to get a better return than they could find elsewhere.
When Mrs Western had finished, Sophia answered, “That she was very incapable of arguing with a lady of her aunt's superior knowledge and experience, especially on a subject which she had so very little considered, as this of matrimony.”
When Mrs. Western was done, Sophia replied, “I’m no match for someone with my aunt’s greater knowledge and experience, especially on a topic I’ve thought about so little, like marriage.”
“Argue with me, child!” replied the other; “I do not indeed expect it. I should have seen the world to very little purpose truly, if I am to argue with one of your years. I have taken this trouble, in order to instruct you. The antient philosophers, such as Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, did not use to argue with their scholars. You are to consider me, child, as Socrates, not asking your opinion, but only informing you of mine.” From which last words the reader may possibly imagine, that this lady had read no more of the philosophy of Socrates, than she had of that of Alcibiades; and indeed we cannot resolve his curiosity as to this point.
“Argue with me, kid!” the other replied. “I definitely don’t expect that. I would have seen the world as pretty pointless if I’m arguing with someone your age. I’ve taken the time to teach you. Ancient philosophers like Socrates, Alcibiades, and others didn’t argue with their students. You should see me, kid, as Socrates—not asking for your opinion, but just sharing mine.” From her last words, the reader might think that this lady hadn’t read much of Socrates’ philosophy, any more than she had of Alcibiades; and honestly, we can’t satisfy his curiosity on this matter.
“Madam,” cries Sophia, “I have never presumed to controvert any opinion of yours; and this subject, as I said, I have never yet thought of, and perhaps never may.”
“Ma'am,” Sophia exclaims, “I have never dared to challenge any of your opinions; and this topic, as I mentioned, I have never considered, and maybe I never will.”
“Indeed, Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this dissimulation with me is very foolish. The French shall as soon persuade me that they take foreign towns in defence only of their own country, as you can impose on me to believe you have never yet thought seriously of matrimony. How can you, child, affect to deny that you have considered of contracting an alliance, when you so well know I am acquainted with the party with whom you desire to contract it?—an alliance as unnatural, and contrary to your interest, as a separate league with the French would be to the interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hitherto considered of this matter, I promise you it is now high time, for my brother is resolved immediately to conclude the treaty with Mr Blifil; and indeed I am a sort of guarantee in the affair, and have promised your concurrence.”
“Indeed, Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this pretending with me is very silly. The French could just as easily convince me that they capture foreign towns only to protect their own country as you can make me believe you’ve never seriously thought about marriage. How can you, dear, pretend that you haven’t thought about forming a union when you know I’m aware of the person you want to be united with? — a union as unnatural and against your interests as a separate alliance with the French would be for the Dutch! But anyway, if you haven’t thought about this before, I assure you it’s high time to start, because my brother is set on finalizing the deal with Mr. Blifil immediately; and honestly, I'm sort of a guarantor in this matter and I've promised you’ll agree.”
“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “this is the only instance in which I must disobey both yourself and my father. For this is a match which requires very little consideration in me to refuse.”
“Indeed, ma'am,” exclaims Sophia, “this is the only situation in which I have to disobey both you and my father. Because this is a proposal that doesn’t take much thought for me to turn down.”
“If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,” returned Mrs Western, “you would overcome my patience. What objection can you have to the young gentleman?”
“If I weren't as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,” Mrs. Western replied, “you would really test my patience. What problem do you have with the young man?”
“A very solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia—“I hate him.”
“A really strong objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia—“I can't stand him.”
“Will you never learn a proper use of words?” answered the aunt. “Indeed, child, you should consult Bailey's Dictionary. It is impossible you should hate a man from whom you have received no injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean no more than dislike, which is no sufficient objection against your marrying of him. I have known many couples, who have entirely disliked each other, lead very comfortable genteel lives. Believe me, child, I know these things better than you. You will allow me, I think, to have seen the world, in which I have not an acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike her husband than to like him. The contrary is such out-of-fashion romantic nonsense, that the very imagination of it is shocking.”
“Will you ever learn to use words properly?” replied the aunt. “Honestly, you should check Bailey's Dictionary. There's no way you can hate someone who's done you no harm. So when you say you hate him, you really just mean you dislike him, which isn’t a good enough reason to avoid marrying him. I’ve seen plenty of couples who didn’t like each other at all but still lived very comfortable, respectable lives. Trust me, I know these things better than you do. You have to admit that I’ve seen the world, and I don’t know anyone who would prefer to be thought of as liking her husband than disliking him. The opposite is just outdated romantic nonsense, and even the thought of it is ridiculous.”
“Indeed, madam,” replied Sophia, “I shall never marry a man I dislike. If I promise my father never to consent to any marriage contrary to his inclinations, I think I may hope he will never force me into that state contrary to my own.”
“Of course, ma'am,” replied Sophia, “I will never marry a man I don’t like. If I promise my father not to agree to any marriage that he doesn't want, I hope he won’t ever make me go through with something that goes against my own feelings.”
“Inclinations!” cries the aunt, with some warmth. “Inclinations! I am astonished at your assurance. A young woman of your age, and unmarried, to talk of inclinations! But whatever your inclinations may be, my brother is resolved; nay, since you talk of inclinations, I shall advise him to hasten the treaty. Inclinations!”
“Feelings!” the aunt exclaims, somewhat heatedly. “Feelings! I’m shocked by your boldness. A young woman your age, and single, to speak of feelings! But whatever your feelings might be, my brother has made up his mind; in fact, since you bring up feelings, I’ll suggest he speed up the arrangements. Feelings!”
Sophia then flung herself upon her knees, and tears began to trickle from her shining eyes. She entreated her aunt, “to have mercy upon her, and not to resent so cruelly her unwillingness to make herself miserable;” often urging, “that she alone was concerned, and that her happiness only was at stake.”
Sophia then dropped to her knees, and tears started to flow from her bright eyes. She begged her aunt, “to have mercy on her, and not to be so harsh about her refusal to make herself unhappy;” often insisting, “that she was the only one involved, and that her happiness was the only thing at risk.”
As a bailiff, when well authorized by his writ, having possessed himself of the person of some unhappy debtor, views all his tears without concern; in vain the wretched captive attempts to raise compassion; in vain the tender wife bereft of her companion, the little prattling boy, or frighted girl, are mentioned as inducements to reluctance. The noble bumtrap, blind and deaf to every circumstance of distress, greatly rises above all the motives to humanity, and into the hands of the gaoler resolves to deliver his miserable prey.
As a bailiff, when properly authorized by his writ, having taken hold of some unfortunate debtor, watches all his cries without a care; the miserable captive tries in vain to evoke sympathy; the desperate wife, separated from her partner, the little chattering boy, or the scared girl, are brought up as reasons to hesitate. The noble enforcer, blind and deaf to any situation of suffering, completely ignores all the reasons for compassion, and decides to hand over his unfortunate victim to the jailer.
Not less blind to the tears, or less deaf to every entreaty of Sophia was the politic aunt, nor less determined was she to deliver over the trembling maid into the arms of the gaoler Blifil. She answered with great impetuosity, “So far, madam, from your being concerned alone, your concern is the least, or surely the least important. It is the honour of your family which is concerned in this alliance; you are only the instrument. Do you conceive, mistress, that in an intermarriage between kingdoms, as when a daughter of France is married into Spain, the princess herself is alone considered in the match? No! it is a match between two kingdoms, rather than between two persons. The same happens in great families such as ours. The alliance between the families is the principal matter. You ought to have a greater regard for the honour of your family than for your own person; and if the example of a princess cannot inspire you with these noble thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no worse than all princesses are used.”
The scheming aunt was just as blind to Sophia's tears and just as deaf to her pleas, and she was equally determined to hand the trembling maid over to the jailer Blifil. She replied fiercely, “Let me make it clear, madam, your personal feelings matter the least in this situation; your honor is the least significant aspect. It's the integrity of your family that's at stake in this alliance; you're just the means to an end. Do you really think, my dear, that when a daughter of France marries into Spain, only the princess is considered in the arrangement? No! This is a union between two kingdoms, not just two people. The same applies to prominent families like ours. The connection between the families is what truly matters. You should prioritize your family's honor over your own interests, and if the example of a princess can’t inspire you to embrace these noble ideals, you can't complain about being treated just like all princesses are treated.”
“I hope, madam,” cries Sophia, with a little elevation of voice, “I shall never do anything to dishonour my family; but as for Mr Blifil, whatever may be the consequence, I am resolved against him, and no force shall prevail in his favour.”
“I hope, ma’am,” Sophia exclaims, raising her voice slightly, “that I will never do anything to disgrace my family; but as for Mr. Blifil, no matter what the consequences may be, I am determined to oppose him, and no one will change my mind.”
Western, who had been within hearing during the greater part of the preceding dialogue, had now exhausted all his patience; he therefore entered the room in a violent passion, crying, “D—n me then if shatunt ha'un, d—n me if shatunt, that's all—that's all; d—n me if shatunt.”
Western, who had been listening to most of the earlier conversation, had now run out of patience; he stormed into the room in a fit of rage, shouting, “Damn me then if she ain't, damn me if she ain't, that's it—that's it; damn me if she ain't.”
Mrs Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for the use of Sophia; but she now transferred it all to the squire. “Brother,” said she, “it is astonishing that you will interfere in a matter which you had totally left to my negotiation. Regard to my family hath made me take upon myself to be the mediating power, in order to rectify those mistakes in policy which you have committed in your daughter's education. For, brother, it is you—it is your preposterous conduct which hath eradicated all the seeds that I had formerly sown in her tender mind. It is you yourself who have taught her disobedience.”—“Blood!” cries the squire, foaming at the mouth, “you are enough to conquer the patience of the devil! Have I ever taught my daughter disobedience?—Here she stands; speak honestly, girl, did ever I bid you be disobedient to me? Have not I done everything to humour and to gratify you, and to make you obedient to me? And very obedient to me she was when a little child, before you took her in hand and spoiled her, by filling her head with a pack of court notions. Why—why—why—did I not overhear you telling her she must behave like a princess? You have made a Whig of the girl; and how should her father, or anybody else, expect any obedience from her?”—“Brother,” answered Mrs Western, with an air of great disdain, “I cannot express the contempt I have for your politics of all kinds; but I will appeal likewise to the young lady herself, whether I have ever taught her any principles of disobedience. On the contrary, niece, have I not endeavoured to inspire you with a true idea of the several relations in which a human creature stands in society? Have I not taken infinite pains to show you, that the law of nature hath enjoined a duty on children to their parents? Have I not told you what Plato says on that subject?—a subject on which you was so notoriously ignorant when you came first under my care, that I verily believe you did not know the relation between a daughter and a father.”—“'Tis a lie,” answered Western. “The girl is no such fool, as to live to eleven years old without knowing that she was her father's relation.”—“O! more than Gothic ignorance,” answered the lady. “And as for your manners, brother, I must tell you, they deserve a cane.”—“Why then you may gi' it me, if you think you are able,” cries the squire; “nay, I suppose your niece there will be ready enough to help you.”—“Brother,” said Mrs Western, “though I despise you beyond expression, yet I shall endure your insolence no longer; so I desire my coach may be got ready immediately, for I am resolved to leave your house this very morning.”—“And a good riddance too,” answered he; “I can bear your insolence no longer, an you come to that. Blood! it is almost enough of itself to make my daughter undervalue my sense, when she hears you telling me every minute you despise me.”—“It is impossible, it is impossible,” cries the aunt; “no one can undervalue such a boor.”—“Boar,” answered the squire, “I am no boar; no, nor ass; no, nor rat neither, madam. Remember that—I am no rat. I am a true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed, that have eat up the nation.”—“Thou art one of those wise men,” cries she, “whose nonsensical principles have undone the nation; by weakening the hands of our government at home, and by discouraging our friends and encouraging our enemies abroad.”—“Ho! are you come back to your politics?” cries the squire: “as for those I despise them as much as I do a f—t.” Which last words he accompanied and graced with the very action, which, of all others, was the most proper to it. And whether it was this word or the contempt exprest for her politics, which most affected Mrs Western, I will not determine; but she flew into the most violent rage, uttered phrases improper to be here related, and instantly burst out of the house. Nor did her brother or her niece think proper either to stop or to follow her; for the one was so much possessed by concern, and the other by anger, that they were rendered almost motionless.
Mrs. Western had gathered a good amount of anger for Sophia, but she now directed it all at the squire. “Brother,” she said, “it’s unbelievable that you would interfere in a matter I had completely left to my negotiation. Concern for my family has compelled me to step in as the mediator to fix the mistakes you’ve made in your daughter’s education. For, brother, it is you—it’s your ridiculous behavior that has wiped out all the lessons I had previously instilled in her young mind. You are the one who has taught her disobedience.” “What nonsense!” shouted the squire, furious. “You’re enough to try anyone's patience! Have I ever taught my daughter to be disobedient?—Here she is; speak honestly, girl, did I ever tell you to disobey me? Haven't I done everything to please you and bring out your obedience? And she was very obedient as a little child, before you took her in and spoiled her with those ridiculous court ideas. Why—why—why—didn’t I hear you telling her she must act like a princess? You’ve turned the girl into a Whig; how can her father, or anyone else, expect her to be obedient?” “Brother,” Mrs. Western replied with great disdain, “I can’t express how much I detest your opinions, but I will also ask the young lady herself if I have ever taught her any principles of disobedience. On the contrary, niece, haven’t I tried to instill in you a true understanding of the different roles a person has in society? Haven’t I put in a lot of effort to show you that nature mandates duties of children to their parents? Haven’t I shared what Plato says on that subject?—a topic on which you were shockingly ignorant when you first came under my care; I truly believe you didn’t even know the relationship between a daughter and her father.” “That’s a lie,” replied Western. “The girl isn’t so foolish as to reach eleven years old without knowing that she is her father’s child.” “Oh! more like barbaric ignorance,” the lady shot back. “And as for your manners, brother, I must say you deserve to be disciplined.” “Well then, give it to me if you think you can,” the squire retorted; “and I suppose your niece will be happy to help you.” “Brother,” Mrs. Western said, “even though I despise you deeply, I will no longer tolerate your insolence; I demand my coach be made ready immediately because I have decided to leave your house this very morning.” “And good riddance too,” he replied; “I can no longer endure your insolence if you’re going to act like that. It’s enough to make my daughter question my judgment when she hears you saying you despise me all the time.” “That’s impossible, it’s impossible,” cried the aunt; “no one could undervalue such a lout.” “Lout,” the squire replied, “I am no lout; no, nor donkey; no, nor rat either, madam. Remember that—I am no rat. I am a true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed that has devoured the nation.” “You’re one of those wise men,” she countered, “whose foolish principles have ruined the nation; by weakening our government at home and discouraging our friends while encouraging our enemies abroad.” “Oh! have you returned to your politics?” the squire exclaimed. “As for those, I despise them as much as I do a fart.” He punctuated his words with the appropriate gesture. Whether it was this word or the disdain shown for her political views that affected Mrs. Western more, I won’t say; but she flew into a violent rage, uttering words that shouldn’t be repeated here, and stormed out of the house. Neither her brother nor her niece thought it proper to stop or follow her; one was too overwhelmed with concern, and the other with anger, rendering them almost motionless.
The squire, however, sent after his sister the same holloa which attends the departure of a hare, when she is first started before the hounds. He was indeed a great master of this kind of vociferation, and had a holla proper for most occasions in life.
The squire, however, called out to his sister with the same shout that signals the start of a hare's run when it first takes off in front of the hounds. He was truly skilled at this type of loud calling and had an appropriate shout for almost any situation in life.
Women who, like Mrs Western, know the world, and have applied themselves to philosophy and politics, would have immediately availed themselves of the present disposition of Mr Western's mind, by throwing in a few artful compliments to his understanding at the expense of his absent adversary; but poor Sophia was all simplicity. By which word we do not intend to insinuate to the reader, that she was silly, which is generally understood as a synonymous term with simple; for she was indeed a most sensible girl, and her understanding was of the first rate; but she wanted all that useful art which females convert to so many good purposes in life, and which, as it rather arises from the heart than from the head, is often the property of the silliest of women.
Women like Mrs. Western, who are worldly and engaged in philosophy and politics, would have quickly taken advantage of Mr. Western's current mindset by offering some clever compliments about his intelligence while putting down his absent opponent. However, poor Sophia was quite innocent. By "innocent," we don't mean to imply that she was foolish, as that term is often associated with simplicity; she was actually a very sensible girl, and her intelligence was top-notch. But she lacked the kind of social skills that women often use to their benefit in life, skills that come more from the heart than the mind and are often found in the most shallow women.
Chapter iv. — A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
Mr Western having finished his holla, and taken a little breath, began to lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition of men, who are, says he, “always whipt in by the humours of some d—n'd b— or other. I think I was hard run enough by your mother for one man; but after giving her a dodge, here's another b— follows me upon the foil; but curse my jacket if I will be run down in this manner by any o'um.”
Mr. Western, after finishing his shout and taking a moment to catch his breath, began to mourn in very emotional terms the unfortunate plight of men, who, as he says, “are always driven by the whims of some damn fool or another. I think I was put through enough by your mother for one man; but after dodging her, here comes another idiot following me around; but I swear I'm not going to let myself be worn down like this by anyone.”
Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this unlucky affair of Blifil, on any account, except in defence of her mother, whom she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her in the eleventh year of her age. The squire, to whom that poor woman had been a faithful upper-servant all the time of their marriage, had returned that behaviour by making what the world calls a good husband. He very seldom swore at her (perhaps not above once a week) and never beat her; she had not the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect mistress of her time; for she was never interrupted by her husband, who was engaged all the morning in his field exercises, and all the evening with bottle companions. She scarce indeed ever saw him but at meals; where she had the pleasure of carving those dishes which she had before attended at the dressing. From these meals she retired about five minutes after the other servants, having only stayed to drink “the king over the water.” Such were, it seems, Mr Western's orders; for it was a maxim with him, that women should come in with the first dish, and go out after the first glass. Obedience to these orders was perhaps no difficult task; for the conversation (if it may be called so) was seldom such as could entertain a lady. It consisted chiefly of hallowing, singing, relations of sporting adventures, b—d—y, and abuse of women, and of the government.
Sophia never had a single argument with her father until the unfortunate situation with Blifil, except when defending her mother, whom she had loved deeply, although she lost her when she was just eleven. The squire, whom that poor woman had served faithfully throughout their marriage, had reciprocated by being what people call a good husband. He rarely cursed at her (no more than once a week) and never hit her; she had no reason to feel jealous and had full control of her time because her husband was busy with his farming in the mornings and hanging out with friends at night. In fact, she hardly ever saw him except during meals, where she enjoyed serving the dishes she had helped prepare. She would leave the table about five minutes after the other servants, having only stayed to toast “the king over the water.” That was apparently Mr. Western's rule; he believed that women should enter with the first course and leave after the first drink. Following these rules was probably not too hard since the conversation (if it could even be called that) was rarely engaging for a lady. It mostly consisted of shouting, singing, tales of hunting exploits, vulgarity, and negative comments about women and the government.
These, however, were the only seasons when Mr Western saw his wife; for when he repaired to her bed, he was generally so drunk that he could not see; and in the sporting season he always rose from her before it was light. Thus was she perfect mistress of her time, and had besides a coach and four usually at her command; though unhappily, indeed, the badness of the neighbourhood, and of the roads, made this of little use; for none who had set much value on their necks would have passed through the one, or who had set any value on their hours, would have visited the other. Now to deal honestly with the reader, she did not make all the return expected to so much indulgence; for she had been married against her will by a fond father, the match having been rather advantageous on her side; for the squire's estate was upward of £3000 a year, and her fortune no more than a bare £8000. Hence perhaps she had contracted a little gloominess of temper, for she was rather a good servant than a good wife; nor had she always the gratitude to return the extraordinary degree of roaring mirth, with which the squire received her, even with a good-humoured smile. She would, moreover, sometimes interfere with matters which did not concern her, as the violent drinking of her husband, which in the gentlest terms she would take some of the few opportunities he gave her of remonstrating against. And once in her life she very earnestly entreated him to carry her for two months to London, which he peremptorily denied; nay, was angry with his wife for the request ever after, being well assured that all the husbands in London are cuckolds.
These were the only times Mr. Western saw his wife; when he would stumble into her room, he was usually too drunk to notice her, and during the hunting season, he always left her before dawn. So, she had complete control over her own time and often had a coach and four horses at her disposal; however, the poor condition of the neighborhood and the roads made this of little use to her, as anyone who valued their safety wouldn’t dare travel through either. To be honest, she didn’t quite reciprocate the level of indulgence she received; she had been married against her will by a doting father, and the match was more beneficial for her since the squire's estate was over £3000 a year, while her fortune was only a mere £8000. This may have contributed to her somewhat gloomy demeanor, as she was more of a good servant than a good wife, and she often failed to show the gratitude expected in return for the jolly welcome the squire gave her, even when he offered her a friendly smile. She would sometimes meddle in issues that didn’t concern her, like her husband’s heavy drinking, which she would gently address whenever she got the chance. Once in her life, she fervently begged him to take her to London for two months, but he flatly refused and was even upset with her for asking, convinced that all the husbands in London were unfaithful.
For this last, and many other good reasons, Western at length heartily hated his wife; and as he never concealed this hatred before her death, so he never forgot it afterwards; but when anything in the least soured him, as a bad scenting day, or a distemper among his hounds, or any other such misfortune, he constantly vented his spleen by invectives against the deceased, saying, “If my wife was alive now, she would be glad of this.”
For this final reason, and many others, Western eventually grew to genuinely hate his wife; and while he never hid this hatred before her death, he never forgot it afterwards. Whenever something upset him, like a bad day or a sickness among his dogs, or any other misfortune, he often expressed his frustration by angrily talking about the deceased, saying, “If my wife were alive now, she would be pleased about this.”
These invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth before Sophia; for as he loved her more than he did any other, so he was really jealous that she had loved her mother better than him. And this jealousy Sophia seldom failed of heightening on these occasions; for he was not contented with violating her ears with the abuse of her mother, but endeavoured to force an explicit approbation of all this abuse; with which desire he never could prevail upon her by any promise or threats to comply.
He was particularly eager to express these harsh words in front of Sophia; because he loved her more than anyone else, he felt genuinely jealous that she had loved her mother more than him. And Sophia often made this jealousy worse during these moments; he not only filled her ears with insults about her mother but also tried to gain her outright approval of all those insults. No matter what promises or threats he used, he could never get her to agree.
Hence some of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the squire had not hated Sophia as much as he had hated her mother; but I must inform them, that hatred is not the effect of love, even through the medium of jealousy. It is, indeed, very possible for jealous persons to kill the objects of their jealousy, but not to hate them. Which sentiment being a pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a paradox, we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end of the chapter.
So, some of my readers might wonder why the squire didn't hate Sophia as much as he hated her mother. I need to clarify that hate isn’t just a result of love, even when jealousy is involved. It's definitely possible for jealous people to harm the things they are jealous of, but that doesn't mean they actually hate them. This idea might be a bit tough to digest and sounds a bit paradoxical, so we’ll let the reader think about it until the end of the chapter.
Chapter v. — The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he now demanded of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he expected she was ready to take the part of everybody against him, as she had always done that of the b— her mother.” Sophia remaining still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was not thy mother a d—d b— to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your father too, and don't think him good enough to speak to?”
Sophia stayed quiet during her father's earlier speech, only responding with a sigh. Since he didn't understand the unspoken communication of her eyes, he felt unsatisfied and wanted her approval of his views, which he now asked for. He told her, in his usual way, “I bet you’re ready to take everyone else's side against me, just like you always did with your mother.” Sophia remained silent, so he shouted, “What, are you mute? Why aren’t you speaking? Wasn’t your mother a real piece of work to me? Answer me that. What, do you think your father isn’t good enough to talk to as well?”
“For Heaven's sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers; for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”
"For heaven's sake, sir," Sophia replied, "please don’t assume something so harsh about my silence. I would rather die than show any disrespect to you, but how can I find the courage to speak when every word I say could either upset my dear dad or make me seem incredibly ungrateful and disrespectful to the memory of the best mother? Because I know for sure that’s exactly who my mom was to me."
“And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b—? I may fairly insist upon that, I think?”
“And your aunt, I guess, is the best sister ever too!” replied the squire. “Could you please admit that she is a b—? I think I can fairly insist on that, right?”
“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She hath been a second mother to me.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Sophia replies, “I owe a lot to my aunt. She has been like a second mother to me.”
“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her part too! You won't confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest sister in the world?”
“And a second wife for me too,” said Western; “so you’ll defend her as well! You won’t admit that she’s been the worst sister in the world?”
“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your ways of thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the greatest affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the worst sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”
“Honestly, sir,” Sophia exclaims, “I would be lying to myself if I said otherwise. I know my aunt and you see things very differently; but I've heard her express her deep affection for you a thousand times. I truly believe that, far from being the worst sister in the world, there are very few who care for a brother more.”
“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and the man in the wrong always.”
“The English of it all,” the squire replied, “is that I’m at fault. Yes, definitely. Of course, the woman is right, and the man is always wrong.”
“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Sophia exclaims. “I’m not saying that.”
“What don't you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to say she's in the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian Hanoverian b— to come into my house. She may 'dite me of a plot for anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”
“What do you mean?” the father replied. “You have the nerve to say she’s right: doesn’t that mean I must be wrong? And maybe I’m wrong for allowing such a Presbyterian Hanoverian b— to come into my house. She could plot against me for all I know and hand my estate over to the government.”
“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her whole fortune.”
“So far, sir, from hurting you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my aunt had died yesterday, I’m sure she would have left you her entire fortune.”
Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of her father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had said before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man receives a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale. After which he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody else, and perhaps out of the vamily.”—“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia, “hath very violent passions, and I can't answer what she may do under their influence.”
Whether Sophia meant it or not, I won’t claim to know; but it’s clear that her last words struck her father deeply and had a much stronger impact than anything else she had said before. He reacted like a man shot in the head: he jumped, stumbled, and turned pale. After that, he stayed silent for over a minute, and then began in a hesitant way: “Yesterday! She would have left me her estate yesterday! Really? Why yesterday, of all days? I guess if she dies tomorrow, she’ll leave it to someone else, maybe even outside the family." — “My aunt, sir,” Sophia responded, “has very intense feelings, and I can’t predict what she might do when she’s in that state.”
“You can't!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the occasion of her leaving the esteate out o' the vamily. I could have expected no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the rest of my fondness.”
“You can't!” the father replied. “And tell me, who caused her to get so worked up? Who actually made her that way? Weren't you two arguing before I walked in? Besides, wasn’t our entire disagreement about you? I haven't argued with my sister in years except because of you; and now you want to blame everything on me, as if I’m the reason she’s leaving the estate out of the family. I should have expected nothing less; this is just like how you respond to all my care.”
“I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I beseech you, if I have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, that you will endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not suffer her to leave your house in this violent rage of anger: she is a very good-natured woman, and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.”
“I beg you, then,” Sophia pleads, “on my knees I beg you, if I have caused this disagreement, please try to make up with my aunt and don’t let her leave your house in such a fit of anger: she’s a really kind woman, and a few polite words will be enough. Please, I urge you, sir.”
“So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw every way to find her again? Indeed, if I was certain”—Here he stopt, and Sophia throwing in more entreaties, at length prevailed upon him; so that after venting two or three bitter sarcastical expressions against his daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover his sister, before her equipage could be gotten ready.
“So I have to go apologize for your mistake, right?” replied Western. “You’ve lost the hare, and I have to do everything I can to find her again? Honestly, if I was sure”—He paused, and with Sophia pleading more, he eventually gave in; so after letting out a couple of bitter sarcastic comments about his daughter, he left as quickly as he could to find his sister before her carriage was ready.
Sophia then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged herself (if the phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender grief. She read over more than once the letter which she had received from Jones; her muff too was used on this occasion; and she bathed both these, as well as herself, with her tears. In this situation the friendly Mrs Honour exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her afflicted mistress. She ran over the names of many young gentlemen: and having greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia that she might take her choice of any. These methods must have certainly been used with some success in disorders of the like kind, or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs Honour would never have ventured to apply them; nay, I have heard that the college of chambermaids hold them to be as sovereign remedies as any in the female dispensary; but whether it was that Sophia's disease differed inwardly from those cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I will not assert; but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than good, and at last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an angry voice she dismissed her from her presence.
Sophia then went back to her room of mourning, where she allowed herself (if I may put it that way) to indulge in all the comforts of deep sorrow. She read the letter from Jones more than once; she also used her muff during this time, soaking both it and herself with her tears. In this state, the kind Mrs. Honour did her best to comfort her distressed mistress. She listed several young gentlemen, praising their qualities and looks, assuring Sophia that she could choose any of them. These methods must have worked reasonably well for similar situations, or someone as skilled as Mrs. Honour wouldn’t have dared to use them; in fact, I've heard that the college of chambermaids considers them as effective remedies as any in the female medicine cabinet. However, whether Sophia's feelings were different internally from those situations with similar outward signs, I won’t claim; the reality was that the good waiting-woman caused more harm than good, and eventually, she so irritated her mistress (which was no small feat) that Sophia dismissed her with an angry voice.
Chapter vi. — Containing great variety of matter.
The squire overtook his sister just as she was stepping into the coach, and partly by force, and partly by solicitations, prevailed upon her to order her horses back into their quarters. He succeeded in this attempt without much difficulty; for the lady was, as we have already hinted, of a most placable disposition, and greatly loved her brother, though she despised his parts, or rather his little knowledge of the world.
The squire caught up with his sister just as she was getting into the coach and, partly through force and partly with persuasion, managed to convince her to send her horses back to their stables. He achieved this without much trouble since, as we've already mentioned, she had a very forgiving nature and loved her brother a lot, even though she looked down on his intelligence, or rather his lack of worldly knowledge.
Poor Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, was now made the sacrifice to it. They both concurred in their censures on her conduct; jointly declared war against her, and directly proceeded to counsel, how to carry it on in the most vigorous manner. For this purpose, Mrs Western proposed not only an immediate conclusion of the treaty with Allworthy, but as immediately to carry it into execution; saying, “That there was no other way to succeed with her niece, but by violent methods, which she was convinced Sophia had not sufficient resolution to resist. By violent,” says she, “I mean rather, hasty measures; for as to confinement or absolute force, no such things must or can be attempted. Our plan must be concerted for a surprize, and not for a storm.”
Poor Sophia, who first initiated this reconciliation, ended up being the one sacrificed for it. They both agreed in their criticism of her actions; they declared war on her together and immediately started discussing how to carry it out most effectively. To this end, Mrs. Western suggested not only to quickly finalize the agreement with Allworthy but also to implement it right away, stating, “There’s no other way to deal with my niece except through forceful methods, which I’m sure Sophia doesn’t have the strength to resist. By forceful,” she said, “I mean more like hurried actions; because confinement or outright coercion shouldn't even be considered. Our plan should focus on a surprise, not a confrontation.”
These matters were resolved on, when Mr Blifil came to pay a visit to his mistress. The squire no sooner heard of his arrival, than he stept aside, by his sister's advice, to give his daughter orders for the proper reception of her lover: which he did with the most bitter execrations and denunciations of judgment on her refusal.
These issues were addressed when Mr. Blifil came to visit his girlfriend. As soon as the squire heard he had arrived, he stepped aside, following his sister's advice, to give his daughter instructions for how to properly welcome her boyfriend. He did this with the most bitter curses and threats of punishment if she refused.
The impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him; and Sophia, as her aunt very wisely foresaw, was not able to resist him. She agreed, therefore, to see Blifil, though she had scarce spirits or strength sufficient to utter her assent. Indeed, to give a peremptory denial to a father whom she so tenderly loved, was no easy task. Had this circumstance been out of the case, much less resolution than what she was really mistress of, would, perhaps, have served her; but it is no unusual thing to ascribe those actions entirely to fear, which are in a great measure produced by love.
The squire's impulsiveness overwhelmed everything in its path, and Sophia, as her aunt wisely predicted, couldn’t resist him. So she agreed to meet Blifil, even though she barely had the energy or spirit to say yes. In fact, outright denying a father she loved so deeply was really challenging. If that hadn’t been the case, even much less determination than what she actually had might have sufficed, but it’s common to attribute actions that are largely driven by love solely to fear.
In pursuance, therefore, of her father's peremptory command, Sophia now admitted Mr Blifil's visit. Scenes like this, when painted at large, afford, as we have observed, very little entertainment to the reader. Here, therefore, we shall strictly adhere to a rule of Horace; by which writers are directed to pass over all those matters which they despair of placing in a shining light;—a rule, we conceive, of excellent use as well to the historian as to the poet; and which, if followed, must at least have this good effect, that many a great evil (for so all great books are called) would thus be reduced to a small one.
In response to her father's strict command, Sophia now accepted Mr. Blifil's visit. Moments like this, when described in detail, provide very little enjoyment to the reader, as we've noted. So, we'll stick to a principle of Horace, which advises writers to skip over topics they can’t present in a positive light. We believe this principle is useful for both historians and poets, and if followed, it could help turn many significant issues (as great books are often called) into more minor ones.
It is possible the great art used by Blifil at this interview would have prevailed on Sophia to have made another man in his circumstances her confident, and to have revealed the whole secret of her heart to him; but she had contracted so ill an opinion of this young gentleman, that she was resolved to place no confidence in him; for simplicity, when set on its guard, is often a match for cunning. Her behaviour to him, therefore, was entirely forced, and indeed such as is generally prescribed to virgins upon the second formal visit from one who is appointed for their husband.
It's likely that the impressive charm Blifil used in their conversation could have persuaded Sophia to share her feelings with another man in his situation. However, she had formed such a negative opinion of this young man that she was determined not to trust him. When someone is on guard, their naivety can often stand up to deceit. Therefore, her behavior towards him was completely forced and reminiscent of how young women typically act during the second formal visit from a man chosen to be their husband.
But though Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly satisfied with his reception; yet that gentleman, who, in company with his sister, had overheard all, was not so well pleased. He resolved, in pursuance of the advice of the sage lady, to push matters as forward as possible; and addressing himself to his intended son-in-law in the hunting phrase, he cried, after a loud holla, “Follow her, boy, follow her; run in, run in; that's it, honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be bashful, nor stand shall I, shall I? Allworthy and I can finish all matters between us this afternoon, and let us ha' the wedding to-morrow.”
But even though Blifil said he was completely happy with how things went with the squire, that gentleman, who was with his sister and had overheard everything, was not as pleased. He decided, following the advice of the wise woman, to push things forward as much as possible. Turning to his future son-in-law in the language of hunting, he exclaimed after a loud shout, “Follow her, boy, follow her; go in, go in; that's it, sweethearts. Done, done, done. Never be shy, nor will I, will I? Allworthy and I can settle everything between us this afternoon, and let’s have the wedding tomorrow.”
Blifil having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his countenance, answered, “As there is nothing, sir, in this world which I so eagerly desire as an alliance with your family, except my union with the most amiable and deserving Sophia, you may easily imagine how impatient I must be to see myself in possession of my two highest wishes. If I have not therefore importuned you on this head, you will impute it only to my fear of offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry on so blessed an event faster than a strict compliance with all the rules of decency and decorum will permit. But if, by your interest, sir, she might be induced to dispense with any formalities—”
Blifil, with a look of great satisfaction on his face, replied, “Since there’s nothing I desire more in this world than to join your family, aside from marrying the lovely and deserving Sophia, you can easily understand why I’m so eager to have both of my greatest wishes fulfilled. If I haven’t pressed you more about this, it’s only because I’m afraid of upsetting the lady by trying to rush such a wonderful occasion faster than the rules of decency and decorum allow. But if, with your influence, she could be persuaded to overlook any formalities—”
“Formalities! with a pox!” answered the squire. “Pooh, all stuff and nonsense! I tell thee, she shall ha' thee to-morrow: you will know the world better hereafter, when you come to my age. Women never gi' their consent, man, if they can help it, 'tis not the fashion. If I had stayed for her mother's consent, I might have been a batchelor to this day.—To her, to her, co to her, that's it, you jolly dog. I tell thee shat ha' her to-morrow morning.”
“Formalities! What nonsense!” said the squire. “Seriously, it’s all just ridiculous! I’m telling you, she’ll be yours tomorrow. You’ll understand the world better when you’re my age. Women never give their consent, man, if they can avoid it; it’s just not how things are done. If I had waited for her mother’s approval, I might still be a bachelor to this day. Go to her, go to her, that’s the way, you lucky guy. I’m telling you, you’ll have her tomorrow morning.”
Blifil suffered himself to be overpowered by the forcible rhetoric of the squire; and it being agreed that Western should close with Allworthy that very afternoon, the lover departed home, having first earnestly begged that no violence might be offered to the lady by this haste, in the same manner as a popish inquisitor begs the lay power to do no violence to the heretic delivered over to it, and against whom the church hath passed sentence.
Blifil allowed himself to be swayed by the strong arguments of the squire; and since it was agreed that Western would meet with Allworthy that very afternoon, the lover went home, having first earnestly pleaded that no harm should come to the lady due to this rush, just like a Catholic inquisitor asks the secular authority to refrain from harming the heretic handed over to it, who has been condemned by the church.
And, to say the truth, Blifil had passed sentence against Sophia; for, however pleased he had declared himself to Western with his reception, he was by no means satisfied, unless it was that he was convinced of the hatred and scorn of his mistress: and this had produced no less reciprocal hatred and scorn in him. It may, perhaps, be asked, Why then did he not put an immediate end to all further courtship? I answer, for that very reason, as well as for several others equally good, which we shall now proceed to open to the reader.
And, to be honest, Blifil had already judged Sophia; even though he claimed to be pleased with Western's reception, he was definitely not satisfied unless it was because he was sure of his mistress's hatred and contempt for him. This, in turn, had created an equal amount of hatred and contempt in him. One might wonder, Why didn’t he just end the courtship right away? I’ll tell you, it’s because of that very reason, along with several other equally valid ones that we will now explain to the reader.
Though Mr Blifil was not of the complexion of Jones, nor ready to eat every woman he saw; yet he was far from being destitute of that appetite which is said to be the common property of all animals. With this, he had likewise that distinguishing taste, which serves to direct men in their choice of the object or food of their several appetites; and this taught him to consider Sophia as a most delicious morsel, indeed to regard her with the same desires which an ortolan inspires into the soul of an epicure. Now the agonies which affected the mind of Sophia, rather augmented than impaired her beauty; for her tears added brightness to her eyes, and her breasts rose higher with her sighs. Indeed, no one hath seen beauty in its highest lustre who hath never seen it in distress. Blifil therefore looked on this human ortolan with greater desire than when he viewed her last; nor was his desire at all lessened by the aversion which he discovered in her to himself. On the contrary, this served rather to heighten the pleasure he proposed in rifling her charms, as it added triumph to lust; nay, he had some further views, from obtaining the absolute possession of her person, which we detest too much even to mention; and revenge itself was not without its share in the gratifications which he promised himself. The rivalling poor Jones, and supplanting him in her affections, added another spur to his pursuit, and promised another additional rapture to his enjoyment.
Though Mr. Blifil wasn't as appealing as Jones or eager to pursue every woman he encountered, he definitely wasn't lacking in the usual desire that all creatures are said to share. Along with this, he possessed a discerning taste that guided him in choosing the objects or pleasures of his various cravings; this led him to see Sophia as an incredibly desirable prize, viewed with the same urges that an ortolan generates in a true gourmet. Now, the turmoil that affected Sophia only enhanced her beauty rather than diminished it; her tears brightened her eyes, and her sighs made her chest rise more beautifully. Indeed, no one has witnessed beauty at its peak who has not seen it amid distress. Therefore, Blifil gazed at this human delicacy with even greater desire than when he last saw her; his longing was hardly diminished by her obvious dislike for him. On the contrary, this only intensified the thrill he anticipated in claiming her charms, as it added an element of triumph to his lust; moreover, he harbored ulterior motives related to possessing her, which we loathe too much to even mention; revenge also played a part in the satisfaction he expected. Competing with poor Jones and trying to win her affection away from him provided another motivation for his pursuit and promised an additional thrill to his enjoyment.
Besides all these views, which to some scrupulous persons may seem to savour too much of malevolence, he had one prospect, which few readers will regard with any great abhorrence. And this was the estate of Mr Western; which was all to be settled on his daughter and her issue; for so extravagant was the affection of that fond parent, that, provided his child would but consent to be miserable with the husband he chose, he cared not at what price he purchased him.
Besides all these opinions, which might seem a bit spiteful to some meticulous people, he had one view that few readers will really hate. This was the situation of Mr. Western, which was all set to go to his daughter and her descendants; for the parent was so devoted that, as long as his child would agree to be unhappy with the husband he picked, he didn't care about the cost of getting him.
For these reasons Mr Blifil was so desirous of the match that he intended to deceive Sophia, by pretending love to her; and to deceive her father and his own uncle, by pretending he was beloved by her. In doing this he availed himself of the piety of Thwackum, who held, that if the end proposed was religious (as surely matrimony is), it mattered not how wicked were the means. As to other occasions, he used to apply the philosophy of Square, which taught, that the end was immaterial, so that the means were fair and consistent with moral rectitude. To say truth, there were few occurrences in life on which he could not draw advantage from the precepts of one or other of those great masters.
For these reasons, Mr. Blifil was very eager to get married, so he planned to deceive Sophia by pretending to love her, and to fool her father and his uncle by claiming that she loved him. In this scheme, he took advantage of Thwackum's piety, who believed that if the intended outcome was religious (and marriage certainly is), it didn’t matter how immoral the means were. For other situations, he would use the philosophy of Square, which taught that the outcome was irrelevant as long as the means were fair and aligned with moral integrity. To be honest, there were very few situations in life from which he couldn't benefit by applying the teachings of one or the other of those great philosophers.
Little deceit was indeed necessary to be practised on Mr Western; who thought the inclinations of his daughter of as little consequence as Blifil himself conceived them to be; but as the sentiments of Mr Allworthy were of a very different kind, so it was absolutely necessary to impose on him. In this, however, Blifil was so well assisted by Western, that he succeeded without difficulty; for as Mr Allworthy had been assured by her father that Sophia had a proper affection for Blifil, and that all which he had suspected concerning Jones was entirely false, Blifil had nothing more to do than to confirm these assertions; which he did with such equivocations, that he preserved a salvo for his conscience; and had the satisfaction of conveying a lie to his uncle, without the guilt of telling one. When he was examined touching the inclinations of Sophia by Allworthy, who said, “He would on no account be accessary to forcing a young lady into a marriage contrary to her own will;” he answered, “That the real sentiments of young ladies were very difficult to be understood; that her behaviour to him was full as forward as he wished it, and that if he could believe her father, she had all the affection for him which any lover could desire. As for Jones,” said he, “whom I am loth to call villain, though his behaviour to you, sir, sufficiently justifies the appellation, his own vanity, or perhaps some wicked views, might make him boast of a falsehood; for if there had been any reality in Miss Western's love to him, the greatness of her fortune would never have suffered him to desert her, as you are well informed he hath. Lastly, sir, I promise you I would not myself, for any consideration, no, not for the whole world, consent to marry this young lady, if I was not persuaded she had all the passion for me which I desire she should have.”
Little deception was really needed to fool Mr. Western, who thought his daughter's feelings mattered as little as Blifil thought they did. However, since Mr. Allworthy's views were quite different, it was essential to mislead him. In this, Blifil had such strong support from Western that he succeeded easily; for Mr. Allworthy had been assured by her father that Sophia had feelings for Blifil and that everything he suspected about Jones was completely false. Blifil just had to back up these claims, which he did with such clever wording that he kept his conscience clear while misleading his uncle without actually lying. When Mr. Allworthy questioned him about Sophia's feelings, stating that he would never be part of forcing a young lady into a marriage against her will, Blifil replied, “The real feelings of young ladies are very hard to understand; her behavior towards me is as forward as I could wish, and if I can believe her father, she has all the affection for me that any lover could want. As for Jones,” he said, “whom I’m reluctant to call a villain, even though his actions justify that title, his own vanity, or perhaps some malicious intentions, might cause him to boast of a falsehood; for if Miss Western truly loved him, her considerable fortune would never have allowed him to abandon her, as you know he has done. Lastly, sir, I assure you I would never, under any circumstances, not even for the whole world, agree to marry this young lady if I weren’t convinced that she has all the passion for me that I hope she has.”
This excellent method of conveying a falsehood with the heart only, without making the tongue guilty of an untruth, by the means of equivocation and imposture, hath quieted the conscience of many a notable deceiver; and yet, when we consider that it is Omniscience on which these endeavour to impose, it may possibly seem capable of affording only a very superficial comfort; and that this artful and refined distinction between communicating a lie, and telling one, is hardly worth the pains it costs them.
This clever way of telling a lie with your heart, without getting your tongue involved, through tricks and deception, has calmed the conscience of many skilled liars. However, when we realize that they are trying to fool an all-knowing being, it might seem like a pretty shallow comfort. This clever distinction between conveying a lie and actually telling one hardly seems worth the effort it takes.
Allworthy was pretty well satisfied with what Mr Western and Mr Blifil told him: and the treaty was now, at the end of two days, concluded. Nothing then remained previous to the office of the priest, but the office of the lawyers, which threatened to take up so much time, that Western offered to bind himself by all manner of covenants, rather than defer the happiness of the young couple. Indeed, he was so very earnest and pressing, that an indifferent person might have concluded he was more a principal in this match than he really was; but this eagerness was natural to him on all occasions: and he conducted every scheme he undertook in such a manner, as if the success of that alone was sufficient to constitute the whole happiness of his life.
Allworthy was pretty satisfied with what Mr. Western and Mr. Blifil told him, and after two days, the agreement was finally reached. The only thing left before the priest could step in was the lawyers' involvement, which was expected to take a lot of time. Western was so eager to avoid delaying the happiness of the young couple that he offered to commit to all sorts of agreements. In fact, he was so insistent that an outsider might have thought he was more involved in the match than he actually was. But that eagerness was just his nature; he approached every plan he took on as if the success of that plan was all that mattered for his happiness.
The joint importunities of both father and son-in-law would probably have prevailed on Mr Allworthy, who brooked but ill any delay of giving happiness to others, had not Sophia herself prevented it, and taken measures to put a final end to the whole treaty, and to rob both church and law of those taxes which these wise bodies have thought proper to receive from the propagation of the human species in a lawful manner. Of which in the next chapter.
The combined insistence of both the father and son-in-law would likely have persuaded Mr. Allworthy, who was not one to tolerate delays in making others happy, if Sophia hadn’t stepped in herself and taken action to put a stop to the entire agreement, thereby taking away from both the church and the law the fees they deemed appropriate to collect from the legal creation of families. More on this in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange stratagem of Mrs Honour.
Though Mrs Honour was principally attached to her own interest, she was not without some little attachment to Sophia. To say truth, it was very difficult for any one to know that young lady without loving her. She no sooner therefore heard a piece of news, which she imagined to be of great importance to her mistress, than, quite forgetting the anger which she had conceived two days before, at her unpleasant dismission from Sophia's presence, she ran hastily to inform her of the news.
Though Mrs. Honour was primarily focused on her own interests, she did have a bit of a fondness for Sophia. To be honest, it was hard for anyone to know the young lady without liking her. So, as soon as she heard some news that she thought would be really important to her mistress, she completely forgot about the anger she’d felt two days earlier after being dismissed from Sophia's presence. She hurried off to share the news with her.
The beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as her entrance into the room. “O dear ma'am!” says she, “what doth your la'ship think? To be sure I am frightened out of my wits; and yet I thought it my duty to tell your la'ship, though perhaps it may make you angry, for we servants don't always know what will make our ladies angry; for, to be sure, everything is always laid to the charge of a servant. When our ladies are out of humour, to be sure we must be scolded; and to be sure I should not wonder if your la'ship should be out of humour; nay, it must surprize you certainly, ay, and shock you too.”—“Good Honour, let me know it without any longer preface,” says Sophia; “there are few things, I promise you, which will surprize, and fewer which will shock me.”—“Dear ma'am,” answered Honour, “to be sure, I overheard my master talking to parson Supple about getting a licence this very afternoon; and to be sure I heard him say, your la'ship should be married to-morrow morning.” Sophia turned pale at these words, and repeated eagerly, “To-morrow morning!”—“Yes, ma'am,” replied the trusty waiting-woman, “I will take my oath I heard my master say so.”—“Honour,” says Sophia, “you have both surprized and shocked me to such a degree that I have scarce any breath or spirits left. What is to be done in my dreadful situation?”—“I wish I was able to advise your la'ship,” says she. “Do advise me,” cries Sophia; “pray, dear Honour, advise me. Think what you would attempt if it was your own case.”—“Indeed, ma'am,” cries Honour, “I wish your la'ship and I could change situations; that is, I mean without hurting your la'ship; for to be sure I don't wish you so bad as to be a servant; but because that if so be it was my case, I should find no manner of difficulty in it; for, in my poor opinion, young Squire Blifil is a charming, sweet, handsome man.”—“Don't mention such stuff,” cries Sophia. “Such stuff!” repeated Honour; “why, there. Well, to be sure, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, and the same is altogether as true of women.”—“Honour,” says Sophia, “rather than submit to be the wife of that contemptible wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my heart.”—“O lud! ma'am!” answered the other, “I am sure you frighten me out of my wits now. Let me beseech your la'ship not to suffer such wicked thoughts to come into your head. O lud! to be sure I tremble every inch of me. Dear ma'am, consider, that to be denied Christian burial, and to have your corpse buried in the highway, and a stake drove through you, as farmer Halfpenny was served at Ox Cross; and, to be sure, his ghost hath walked there ever since, for several people have seen him. To be sure it can be nothing but the devil which can put such wicked thoughts into the head of anybody; for certainly it is less wicked to hurt all the world than one's own dear self; and so I have heard said by more parsons than one. If your la'ship hath such a violent aversion, and hates the young gentleman so very bad, that you can't bear to think of going into bed to him; for to be sure there may be such antipathies in nature, and one had lieverer touch a toad than the flesh of some people.”—
The start of her speech was as sudden as her entrance into the room. “Oh dear ma'am!” she said, “what do you think? I’m certainly scared out of my mind; yet I thought it was my duty to tell you, even if it might make you angry, because we servants don’t always know what will upset our ladies; after all, it’s always the servant who gets the blame. When our ladies are in a bad mood, we definitely get scolded; and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were feeling that way; in fact, it must shock you, for sure.” “Good Honour, just tell me without any more preamble,” said Sophia; “there are few things that surprise me, and even fewer that shock me.” “Dear ma'am,” Honour replied, “I overheard my master talking to Parson Supple about getting a license this afternoon; and I heard him say you would be married tomorrow morning.” Sophia went pale at this and hurriedly repeated, “Tomorrow morning?” “Yes, ma'am,” replied the loyal waiting-woman, “I swear I heard my master say that.” “Honour,” Sophia said, “you’ve surprised and shocked me so much that I can hardly breathe or think. What am I to do in this awful situation?” “I wish I could advise you, ma'am,” Honour said. “Do advise me,” pleaded Sophia; “please, dear Honour, help me. Think about what you would do if it were your situation.” “Honestly, ma'am,” Honour responded, “I wish you and I could switch places; I mean without hurting you, of course; I certainly don’t want you to be a servant, but if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t find it difficult at all; because in my opinion, young Squire Blifil is a charming, sweet, good-looking man.” “Don’t talk about that nonsense,” Sophia exclaimed. “Nonsense!” Honour repeated; “well, there you go. What one person loves, another might hate, and that holds true for women as well.” “Honour,” said Sophia, “I’d rather stab myself than marry that despicable wretch.” “Oh my!” Honour responded, “you’re scaring me out of my mind now. Please, don’t let such wicked thoughts cross your mind. Oh dear, I’m trembling all over. Consider that being denied a Christian burial, having your body left on the highway, and a stake driven through you, just like Farmer Halfpenny was treated at Ox Cross; and, it’s true his ghost has wandered there since, as many have seen him. Only the devil could inspire such terrible thoughts in anyone; it’s definitely worse to harm others than to hurt oneself; I’ve heard that from more than one clergyman. If you have such a strong revulsion, hating that young man so much that you can’t bear to think about sleeping with him; because, indeed, there can be such deep disgust in nature, and some would rather touch a toad than be with certain people.”
Sophia had been too much wrapt in contemplation to pay any great attention to the foregoing excellent discourse of her maid; interrupting her therefore, without making any answer to it, she said, “Honour, I am come to a resolution. I am determined to leave my father's house this very night; and if you have the friendship for me which you have often professed, you will keep me company.”—“That I will, ma'am, to the world's end,” answered Honour; “but I beg your la'ship to consider the consequence before you undertake any rash action. Where can your la'ship possibly go?”—“There is,” replied Sophia, “a lady of quality in London, a relation of mine, who spent several months with my aunt in the country; during all which time she treated me with great kindness, and expressed so much pleasure in my company, that she earnestly desired my aunt to suffer me to go with her to London. As she is a woman of very great note, I shall easily find her out, and I make no doubt of being very well and kindly received by her.”—“I would not have your la'ship too confident of that,” cries Honour; “for the first lady I lived with used to invite people very earnestly to her house; but if she heard afterwards they were coming, she used to get out of the way. Besides, though this lady would be very glad to see your la'ship, as to be sure anybody would be glad to see your la'ship, yet when she hears your la'ship is run away from my master—” “You are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia: “she looks upon the authority of a father in a much lower light than I do; for she pressed me violently to go to London with her, and when I refused to go without my father's consent, she laughed me to scorn, called me silly country girl, and said, I should make a pure loving wife, since I could be so dutiful a daughter. So I have no doubt but she will both receive me and protect me too, till my father, finding me out of his power, can be brought to some reason.”
Sophia had been too lost in thought to pay much attention to her maid’s previous conversation. Interrupting her without answering, she said, “Honour, I’ve made a decision. I’m determined to leave my father’s house tonight, and if you truly care for me as you’ve always claimed, you’ll come with me.” — “Of course, I will, ma'am, to the ends of the Earth,” Honour replied. “But I urge you to think about the consequences before you do something hasty. Where could you possibly go?” — “There’s a lady of high standing in London, a relative of mine, who spent several months with my aunt in the country. During that time, she treated me with great kindness and was so happy in my company that she asked my aunt to let me go with her to London. Since she’s a well-known woman, I’m sure I can find her easily, and I believe she’ll receive me warmly,” Sophia answered. — “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Honour said. “The first lady I worked for used to invite people to her house eagerly, but when she found out they were coming, she would often avoid them. Plus, although this lady would probably be thrilled to see you, especially since anyone would be happy to have you around—once she finds out you’ve run away from my master—" “You’re mistaken, Honour,” Sophia replied. “She doesn’t view a father’s authority the same way I do. She urged me to come to London with her and when I refused without my father’s approval, she mocked me, calling me a silly country girl, and said I’d make a perfect loving wife since I could be such a dutiful daughter. So, I have no doubt she will welcome and protect me until my father realizes he’s lost control over me and comes to some sense.”
“Well, but, ma'am,” answered Honour, “how doth your la'ship think of making your escape? Where will you get any horses or conveyance? For as for your own horse, as all the servants know a little how matters stand between my master and your la'ship, Robin will be hanged before he will suffer it to go out of the stable without my master's express orders.” “I intend to escape,” said Sophia, “by walking out of the doors when they are open. I thank Heaven my legs are very able to carry me. They have supported me many a long evening”—“Yes, to be sure,” cries Honour, “I will follow your la'ship through the world; but your la'ship had almost as good be alone: for I should not be able to defend you, if any robbers, or other villains, should meet with you. Nay, I should be in as horrible a fright as your la'ship; for to be certain, they would ravish us both. Besides, ma'am, consider how cold the nights are now; we shall be frozen to death.”—“A good brisk pace,” answered Sophia, “will preserve us from the cold; and if you cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, I will defend you; for I will take a pistol with me. There are two always charged in the hall.”—“Dear ma'am, you frighten me more and more,” cries Honour: “sure your la'ship would not venture to fire it off! I had rather run any chance than your la'ship should do that.”—“Why so?” says Sophia, smiling; “would not you, Honour, fire a pistol at any one who should attack your virtue?”—“To be sure, ma'am,” cries Honour, “one's virtue is a dear thing, especially to us poor servants; for it is our livelihood, as a body may say: yet I mortally hate fire-arms; for so many accidents happen by them.”—“Well, well,” says Sophia, “I believe I may ensure your virtue at a very cheap rate, without carrying any arms with us; for I intend to take horses at the very first town we come to, and we shall hardly be attacked in our way thither. Look'ee, Honour, I am resolved to go; and if you will attend me, I promise you I will reward you to the very utmost of my power.”
“Well, ma'am,” Honour replied, “how do you plan to escape? Where will you find any horses or a way to travel? As for your own horse, everyone knows a bit about the situation between my master and you, and Robin will sooner face hanging than let it leave the stable without my master's direct orders.” “I intend to escape,” said Sophia, “by walking out the doors when they're open. Thank goodness my legs are strong enough to carry me. They’ve supported me through many long evenings.” “Yes, of course,” Honour exclaimed, “I’ll follow you anywhere; but you might as well be alone. I wouldn’t be able to protect you if robbers or other villains came across us. Honestly, I’d be just as terrified as you; they’d likely assault both of us. Besides, ma’am, think about how cold the nights are; we could freeze to death.” “A good brisk pace,” Sophia replied, “will keep us warm; and if you can’t defend me against a villain, Honour, I’ll protect you because I’ll take a pistol with me. There are always two loaded in the hall.” “Dear ma’am, you’re scaring me more and more,” Honour cried. “You wouldn’t actually fire it, would you? I’d rather take any risk than have you do that.” “Why not?” Sophia asked with a smile. “Wouldn’t you shoot a pistol at anyone who tried to attack your virtue?” “Of course, ma’am,” Honour replied, “one’s virtue is very precious, especially for us poor servants; it’s basically our livelihood. But I really hate firearms; they cause so many accidents.” “Well, well,” Sophia said, “I believe I can protect your virtue without us carrying any weapons; I plan to get horses in the first town we reach, and we’re unlikely to be attacked on the way there. Look, Honour, I’m determined to go, and if you’ll come with me, I promise to reward you to the best of my ability.”
This last argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all the preceding. And since she saw her mistress so determined, she desisted from any further dissuasions. They then entered into a debate on ways and means of executing their project. Here a very stubborn difficulty occurred, and this was the removal of their effects, which was much more easily got over by the mistress than by the maid; for when a lady hath once taken a resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him, all obstacles are considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired by no such motive; she had no raptures to expect, nor any terrors to shun; and besides the real value of her clothes, in which consisted a great part of her fortune, she had a capricious fondness for several gowns, and other things; either because they became her, or because they were given her by such a particular person; because she had bought them lately, or because she had had them long; or for some other reasons equally good; so that she could not endure the thoughts of leaving the poor things behind her exposed to the mercy of Western, who, she doubted not, would in his rage make them suffer martyrdom.
This last argument affected Honour more strongly than all the previous ones. And since she saw her mistress so determined, she stopped trying to dissuade her. They then began to discuss how to carry out their plan. Here, they faced a very stubborn problem: moving their belongings. This was much easier for the mistress than for the maid because when a lady has decided to run to a lover, or to leave him, she considers all obstacles to be trivial. But Honour had no such motivation; she wasn't expecting any excitement or trying to escape any fears. Besides the actual value of her clothes, which made up a large part of her fortune, she had a whimsical attachment to several dresses and other items—either because they flattered her, or because they were given to her by someone special, or because she recently bought them, or because she had them for a long time, or for other equally good reasons. So, she couldn't bear the thought of leaving those poor things behind, exposed to Western, who she was sure would, in his anger, make them suffer greatly.
The ingenious Mrs Honour having applied all her oratory to dissuade her mistress from her purpose, when she found her positively determined, at last started the following expedient to remove her clothes, viz., to get herself turned out of doors that very evening. Sophia highly approved this method, but doubted how it might be brought about. “O, ma'am,” cries Honour, “your la'ship may trust that to me; we servants very well know how to obtain this favour of our masters and mistresses; though sometimes, indeed, where they owe us more wages than they can readily pay, they will put up with all our affronts, and will hardly take any warning we can give them; but the squire is none of those; and since your la'ship is resolved upon setting out to-night, I warrant I get discharged this afternoon.” It was then resolved that she should pack up some linen and a night-gown for Sophia, with her own things; and as for all her other clothes, the young lady abandoned them with no more remorse than the sailor feels when he throws over the goods of others, in order to save his own life.
The clever Mrs. Honour, having used all her persuasive skills to talk her mistress out of her decision, finally came up with a plan to get herself kicked out that very evening when she realized her mistress was set on leaving. Sophia thought this was a great idea but wasn't sure how it would happen. “Oh, ma'am,” Honour exclaimed, “you can count on me for that; we servants know exactly how to get this favor from our employers. Though sometimes, if they owe us more money than they can afford to pay, they’ll put up with our complaints and hardly take any hints we give them. But the squire isn’t like that; and since you’re determined to leave tonight, I bet I can get myself fired this afternoon.” They decided she should pack some clothes and a nightgown for Sophia along with her own things, and as for all her other clothes, the young lady let them go with as little regret as a sailor feels when he tosses someone else's belongings overboard to save his own life.
Chapter viii. — Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon kind.
Mrs Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, than something (for I would not, like the old woman in Quevedo, injure the devil by any false accusation, and possibly he might have no hand in it)—but something, I say, suggested itself to her, that by sacrificing Sophia and all her secrets to Mr Western, she might probably make her fortune. Many considerations urged this discovery. The fair prospect of a handsome reward for so great and acceptable a service to the squire, tempted her avarice; and again, the danger of the enterprize she had undertaken; the uncertainty of its success; night, cold, robbers, ravishers, all alarmed her fears. So forcibly did all these operate upon her, that she was almost determined to go directly to the squire, and to lay open the whole affair. She was, however, too upright a judge to decree on one side, before she had heard the other. And here, first, a journey to London appeared very strongly in support of Sophia. She eagerly longed to see a place in which she fancied charms short only of those which a raptured saint imagines in heaven. In the next place, as she knew Sophia to have much more generosity than her master, so her fidelity promised her a greater reward than she could gain by treachery. She then cross-examined all the articles which had raised her fears on the other side, and found, on fairly sifting the matter, that there was very little in them. And now both scales being reduced to a pretty even balance, her love to her mistress being thrown into the scale of her integrity, made that rather preponderate, when a circumstance struck upon her imagination which might have had a dangerous effect, had its whole weight been fairly put into the other scale. This was the length of time which must intervene before Sophia would be able to fulfil her promises; for though she was intitled to her mother's fortune at the death of her father, and to the sum of £3000 left her by an uncle when she came of age; yet these were distant days, and many accidents might prevent the intended generosity of the young lady; whereas the rewards she might expect from Mr Western were immediate. But while she was pursuing this thought the good genius of Sophia, or that which presided over the integrity of Mrs Honour, or perhaps mere chance, sent an accident in her way, which at once preserved her fidelity, and even facilitated the intended business.
Mrs. Honour had barely parted from her young lady when something (I wouldn’t, like the old woman in Quevedo, wrongly accuse the devil, who may not even be involved) crossed her mind: if she betrayed Sophia and revealed all her secrets to Mr. Western, she might be able to make a fortune. Several factors pushed her toward this idea. The tempting promise of a nice reward for such a significant favor to the squire appealed to her greed, and she was also alarmed by the risks of her venture: the uncertainty of success, the dangers of the night, the cold, robbers, and attackers all made her anxious. These thoughts weighed on her so heavily that she nearly made up her mind to go directly to the squire and spill the whole story. However, she was too fair-minded to make a decision without hearing both sides first. At this point, the thought of a trip to London strongly supported Sophia’s case. She was eager to see a place she believed had charms that rivaled those imagined by a rapturous saint in heaven. Additionally, knowing that Sophia was far more generous than her master, Mrs. Honour figured her loyalty would earn her a greater reward than any betrayal could. She then reconsidered all the fears she had about turning against Sophia and, upon thorough examination, found that there was very little substance to them. With both sides weighing nearly the same, her love for her mistress tilted the balance in favor of her integrity when a thought occurred that could have had serious consequences if it had been fully weighed against her choices. This thought was about the long time it would take for Sophia to fulfill her promises; even though she was entitled to her mother’s fortune upon her father’s death and the £3000 left to her by an uncle when she turned 18, those were distant events, and many things could prevent the young lady from being generous. In contrast, any rewards she could expect from Mr. Western were immediate. But while she was caught up in this line of thought, a fortunate coincidence—perhaps Sophia’s guardian angel, Mrs. Honour's own moral compass, or just chance—brought an incident her way that preserved her loyalty and even made her planned action easier.
Mrs Western's maid claimed great superiority over Mrs Honour on several accounts. First, her birth was higher; for her great-grandmother by the mother's side was a cousin, not far removed, to an Irish peer. Secondly, her wages were greater. And lastly, she had been at London, and had of consequence seen more of the world. She had always behaved, therefore, to Mrs Honour with that reserve, and had always exacted of her those marks of distinction, which every order of females preserves and requires in conversation with those of an inferior order. Now as Honour did not at all times agree with this doctrine, but would frequently break in upon the respect which the other demanded, Mrs Western's maid was not at all pleased with her company; indeed, she earnestly longed to return home to the house of her mistress, where she domineered at will over all the other servants. She had been greatly, therefore, disappointed in the morning, when Mrs Western had changed her mind on the very point of departure; and had been in what is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since.
Mrs. Western's maid believed she was far superior to Mrs. Honour for several reasons. First, her background was better; her great-grandmother on her mother's side was a close cousin of an Irish noble. Second, she earned higher wages. Lastly, she had been to London and had therefore experienced more of the world. Because of this, she had always treated Mrs. Honour with a certain distance and expected the kind of respect that women of higher status require in conversations with those beneath them. However, since Honour did not always agree with this viewpoint and often disrupted the respect the maid demanded, Mrs. Western's maid was not pleased with her company at all. In fact, she longed to return to her mistress's house, where she could rule over the other servants as she pleased. She had been quite disappointed earlier that morning when Mrs. Western changed her mind right at the moment of departure and had been in a bad mood ever since.
In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came into the room where Honour was debating with herself in the manner we have above related. Honour no sooner saw her, than she addressed her in the following obliging phrase: “Soh, madam, I find we are to have the pleasure of your company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel between my master and your lady would have robbed us of.”—“I don't know, madam,” answered the other, “what you mean by we and us. I assure you I do not look on any of the servants in this house to be proper company for me. I am company, I hope, for their betters every day in the week. I do not speak on your account, Mrs Honour; for you are a civilized young woman; and when you have seen a little more of the world, I should not be ashamed to walk with you in St James's Park.”—“Hoity toity!” cries Honour, “madam is in her airs, I protest. Mrs Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my sir-name; for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir-name as well as other folks. Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I hope.”—“Since you make such a return to my civility,” said the other, “I must acquaint you, Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as me. In the country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all kind of trumpery; but in town I visit none but the women of women of quality. Indeed, Mrs Honour, there is some difference, I hope, between you and me.”—“I hope so too,” answered Honour: “there is some difference in our ages, and—I think in our persons.” Upon speaking which last words, she strutted by Mrs Western's maid with the most provoking air of contempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently brushing the hoop of her competitor with her own. The other lady put on one of her most malicious sneers, and said, “Creature! you are below my anger; and it is beneath me to give ill words to such an audacious saucy trollop; but, hussy, I must tell you, your breeding shows the meanness of your birth as well as of your education; and both very properly qualify you to be the mean serving-woman of a country girl.”—“Don't abuse my lady,” cries Honour: “I won't take that of you; she's as much better than yours as she is younger, and ten thousand times more handsomer.”
In this not-so-pleasant mood, she entered the room where Honour was lost in thought like we described earlier. As soon as Honour saw her, she greeted her with this polite remark: “Well, madam, I see we’ll be enjoying your company a little longer, which I was afraid the dispute between my master and your lady would take away from us.” —“I’m not sure what you mean by we and us,” the other replied, “I assure you I don’t consider any of the servants in this house to be proper company for me. I am, I hope, company for their superiors every day of the week. I’m not addressing this to you, Mrs Honour; you are a refined young woman, and once you’ve seen a bit more of the world, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to walk with you in St. James's Park.” —“Well, well!” exclaimed Honour, “Madam is acting so high and mighty, I must say. Mrs Honour, indeed! Well, madam, you could call me by my last name, because even though my lady calls me Honour, I have a surname just like everyone else. Ashamed to walk with me, indeed! As good as yourself, I hope.” —“Since you respond to my politeness like this,” the other replied, “I must inform you, Mrs Honour, that you are not as good as I am. In the countryside, one has to put up with all kinds of nonsense; but in town, I associate only with quality women. Indeed, Mrs Honour, I hope there’s a clear distinction between us.” —“I hope so too,” Honour answered: “there is a difference in our ages, and—I believe in our appearances.” With that last comment, she strutted past Mrs Western’s maid with a most irritating air of disdain, turning up her nose, tossing her head, and forcefully brushing against her rival's hoop. The other lady put on one of her most spiteful smirks and said, “You’re beneath my anger! It’s not worth it to insult such a boldly disrespectful servant; however, I must tell you, your manners reveal the lowliness of both your birth and upbringing, which very fittingly qualify you to be the lowly servant of a country girl.” —“Don’t insult my lady,” Honour shot back: “I won’t accept that from you; she’s far better than yours, as much younger, and a thousand times prettier.”
Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see her maid in tears, which began to flow plentifully at her approach; and of which being asked the reason by her mistress, she presently acquainted her that her tears were occasioned by the rude treatment of that creature there—meaning Honour. “And, madam,” continued she, “I could have despised all she said to me; but she hath had the audacity to affront your ladyship, and to call you ugly—Yes, madam, she called you ugly old cat to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship called ugly.”—“Why do you repeat her impudence so often?” said Mrs Western. And then turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her “How she had the assurance to mention her name with disrespect?”—“Disrespect, madam!” answered Honour; “I never mentioned your name at all: I said somebody was not as handsome as my mistress, and to be sure you know that as well as I.”—“Hussy,” replied the lady, “I will make such a saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper subject of your discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you this moment, I will never sleep in his house again. I will find him out, and have you discharged this moment.”—“Discharged!” cries Honour; “and suppose I am: there are more places in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good servants need not want places; and if you turn away all who do not think you handsome, you will want servants very soon; let me tell you that.”
Here, bad luck, or rather good luck, brought Mrs. Western to find her maid in tears, which started flowing heavily as she approached. When asked by her mistress what was wrong, the maid quickly explained that her tears were caused by the rude treatment of that person over there—meaning Honour. “And, madam,” she continued, “I could have ignored everything she said to me; but she had the nerve to insult you and call you ugly—Yes, madam, she called you an ugly old cat right to my face. I couldn’t stand to hear her call you ugly.” —“Why do you keep repeating her rudeness?” asked Mrs. Western. Then turning to Honour, she asked, “How dare you mention my name in such a disrespectful way?” —“Disrespect, madam!” Honour replied; “I never mentioned your name at all: I just said someone wasn’t as pretty as my mistress, and you know that just as well as I do.” —“You little brat,” the lady said, “I’ll make sure a sassy girl like you knows I’m not someone you should talk about. If my brother doesn’t fire you right now, I will never stay in his house again. I’ll find him and have you let go immediately.” —“Fired!” cries Honour; “and even if I am: there are plenty of other jobs out there. Thank heaven, good servants are never out of work; and if you dismiss everyone who doesn’t think you’re pretty, you’ll be short on staff very soon; let me tell you that.”
Mrs Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer; but as she was hardly articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical words; we shall therefore omit inserting a speech which at best would not greatly redound to her honour. She then departed in search of her brother, with a countenance so full of rage, that she resembled one of the furies rather than a human creature.
Mrs. Western replied, or rather shouted, in response; but since she was barely coherent, we can’t be sure of her exact words. So, we’ll skip including a speech that, at best, wouldn’t exactly make her look good. She then left to find her brother, with a face so filled with anger that she looked more like one of the furies than a human being.
The two chambermaids being again left alone, began a second bout at altercation, which soon produced a combat of a more active kind. In this the victory belonged to the lady of inferior rank, but not without some loss of blood, of hair, and of lawn and muslin.
The two chambermaids, once again left alone, started another round of arguing, which quickly escalated into a more physical fight. In this, the less well-off woman emerged victorious, but not without shedding some blood and losing some hair, as well as damage to her lawn and muslin.
Chapter ix. — The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a magistrate. A hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary qualifications of a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal madness and
filial affection.
parental love.
Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and politicians often overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had it like to have happened to Mrs Honour, who, instead of recovering the rest of her clothes, had like to have stopped even those she had on her back from escaping; for the squire no sooner heard of her having abused his sister, than he swore twenty oaths he would send her to Bridewell.
Logicians sometimes take their arguments too far, and politicians often go overboard with their plans. This almost happened to Mrs. Honour, who, instead of getting back the rest of her clothes, almost lost even the ones she was wearing; for as soon as the squire heard about her disrespecting his sister, he swore a bunch of oaths that he would send her to Bridewell.
Mrs Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordinarily of a forgiving temper. She had lately remitted the trespass of a stage-coachman, who had overturned her post-chaise into a ditch; nay, she had even broken the law, in refusing to prosecute a highwayman who had robbed her, not only of a sum of money, but of her ear-rings; at the same time d—ning her, and saying, “Such handsome b—s as you don't want jewels to set them off, and be d—n'd to you.” But now, so uncertain are our tempers, and so much do we at different times differ from ourselves, she would hear of no mitigation; nor could all the affected penitence of Honour, nor all the entreaties of Sophia for her own servant, prevail with her to desist from earnestly desiring her brother to execute justiceship (for it was indeed a syllable more than justice) on the wench.
Mrs. Western was a really kind-hearted woman and normally quite forgiving. Recently, she had overlooked the mistake of a stagecoach driver who had accidentally knocked her post-chaise into a ditch; in fact, she had even broken the law by choosing not to press charges against a highwayman who robbed her of not just some cash but also her earrings. She even cursed at him, saying, “With such good looks, you don't need jewels to make yourself shine, and good luck to you.” But now, as unpredictable as our moods can be, she was in no mood for leniency; neither the feigned remorse of Honor nor all of Sophia’s pleas for her own servant could convince her to stop urging her brother to carry out what was more than just justice on the girl.
But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a justice of peace ought ever to be without, namely, some understanding in the law of this realm. He therefore whispered in the ear of the justice that he would exceed his authority by committing the girl to Bridewell, as there had been no attempt to break the peace; “for I am afraid, sir,” says he, “you cannot legally commit any one to Bridewell only for ill-breeding.”
But fortunately, the clerk had a crucial qualification that every justice of the peace's clerk should have: a basic understanding of the law in this country. So, he leaned in and quietly informed the justice that he would be overstepping his authority by sending the girl to Bridewell, since there had been no attempt to cause a disruption; “because I’m afraid, sir,” he said, “you can’t legally send someone to Bridewell just for being rude.”
In matters of high importance, particularly in cases relating to the game, the justice was not always attentive to these admonitions of his clerk; for, indeed, in executing the laws under that head, many justices of peace suppose they have a large discretionary power, by virtue of which, under the notion of searching for and taking away engines for the destruction of the game, they often commit trespasses, and sometimes felony, at their pleasure.
In important matters, especially those regarding the game, the justice didn't always pay attention to his clerk’s advice. In fact, when enforcing the laws in this area, many justices of the peace think they have a lot of discretion, which leads them to seize tools used for hunting the game, often resulting in trespassing and sometimes committing felonies as they see fit.
But this offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so dangerous to the society. Here, therefore, the justice behaved with some attention to the advice of his clerk; for, in fact, he had already had two informations exhibited against him in the King's Bench, and had no curiosity to try a third.
But this offense wasn't quite as serious or as harmful to society. Therefore, the judge paid some attention to his clerk's advice; in fact, he had already faced two charges in the King's Bench and had no interest in dealing with a third.
The squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant countenance, after a preface of several hums and hahs, told his sister, that upon more mature deliberation, he was of opinion, that “as there was no breaking up of the peace, such as the law,” says he, “calls breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a head, or any such sort of breaking, the matter did not amount to a felonious kind of a thing, nor trespasses, nor damages, and, therefore, there was no punishment in the law for it.”
The squire, therefore, adopting a very wise and serious expression, after some hesitation, told his sister that after further consideration, he believed that “since there was no violation of the peace, like what the law defines as breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a head, or any similar act of breaking, this situation didn’t amount to a criminal offense, nor trespassing, nor damages, and so, there was no punishment under the law for it.”
Mrs Western said, “she knew the law much better; that she had known servants very severely punished for affronting their masters;” and then named a certain justice of the peace in London, “who,” she said, “would commit a servant to Bridewell at any time when a master or mistress desired it.”
Mrs. Western said, “She knew the law a lot better; she had seen servants seriously punished for disrespecting their masters;” and then named a specific justice of the peace in London, “who,” she said, “would send a servant to Bridewell anytime a master or mistress wanted it.”
“Like enough,” cries the squire; “it may be so in London; but the law is different in the country.” Here followed a very learned dispute between the brother and sister concerning the law, which we would insert, if we imagined many of our readers could understand it. This was, however, at length referred by both parties to the clerk, who decided it in favour of the magistrate; and Mrs Western was, in the end, obliged to content herself with the satisfaction of having Honour turned away; to which Sophia herself very readily and cheerfully consented.
“Maybe,” the squire exclaims; “it could be that way in London, but the law is different in the countryside.” This sparked a long, complicated debate between the brother and sister about the law, which we would include if we thought many of our readers could follow it. Eventually, both sides agreed to ask the clerk, who ruled in favor of the magistrate; and in the end, Mrs. Western had to settle for being satisfied that Honour had been dismissed, which Sophia herself readily and happily agreed to.
Thus Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to custom, with two or three frolicks, at last disposed all matters to the advantage of our heroine; who indeed succeeded admirably well in her deceit, considering it was the first she had ever practised. And, to say the truth, I have often concluded, that the honest part of mankind would be much too hard for the knavish, if they could bring themselves to incur the guilt, or thought it worth their while to take the trouble.
Thus Fortune, after having entertained herself, as usual, with a few antics, finally arranged everything in favor of our heroine; who really did an amazing job with her deception, especially since it was the first time she had ever tried it. And, to be honest, I have often thought that the decent people in the world would have a much easier time dealing with the dishonest, if they were willing to take the risk or thought it was worth their effort.
Honour acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no sooner saw herself secure from all danger of Bridewell, a word which had raised most horrible ideas in her mind, than she resumed those airs which her terrors before had a little abated; and laid down her place, with as much affectation of content, and indeed of contempt, as was ever practised at the resignation of places of much greater importance. If the reader pleases, therefore, we chuse rather to say she resigned—which hath, indeed, been always held a synonymous expression with being turned out, or turned away.
Honour played her role to absolute perfection. As soon as she felt safe from any threat of Bridewell, a term that had conjured up the most terrifying thoughts in her mind, she returned to her previous airs, which her fears had somewhat diminished. She vacated her position with as much feigned satisfaction, and honestly, disdain, as one might display when giving up roles of much greater significance. So, if you don’t mind, we prefer to say she resigned—which, after all, has always been considered synonymous with being dismissed or let go.
Mr Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; for his sister declared she would not sleep another night under the same roof with so impudent a slut. To work therefore she went, and that so earnestly, that everything was ready early in the evening; when, having received her wages, away packed bag and baggage, to the great satisfaction of every one, but of none more than of Sophia; who, having appointed her maid to meet her at a certain place not far from the house, exactly at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began to prepare for her own departure.
Mr. Western ordered her to pack up quickly because his sister said she wouldn’t spend another night under the same roof as such an impudent girl. So, she got to work with such determination that everything was ready by early evening. After receiving her pay, she left with all her belongings, much to everyone’s satisfaction, especially Sophia’s. Having arranged for her maid to meet her at a specific spot not far from the house at the eerie hour of midnight, Sophia began to prepare for her own departure.
But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the one to her aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs Western herself began to talk to her in a more peremptory stile than before: but her father treated her in so violent and outrageous a manner, that he frightened her into an affected compliance with his will; which so highly pleased the good squire, that he changed his frowns into smiles, and his menaces into promises: he vowed his whole soul was wrapt in hers; that her consent (for so he construed the words, “You know, sir, I must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of yours”) had made him the happiest of mankind. He then gave her a large bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she pleased, and kissed and embraced her in the fondest manner, while tears of joy trickled from those eyes which a few moments before had darted fire and rage against the dear object of all his affection.
But first, she had to endure two difficult conversations—one with her aunt and the other with her father. During these talks, Mrs. Western spoke to her in a more forceful tone than before; however, her father reacted in such a violent and outrageous way that he scared her into pretending to agree with his wishes. This pleased the good squire so much that he changed his scowls into smiles and his threats into promises. He declared that his entire being was wrapped up in hers, and he interpreted her words, “You know, sir, I must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of yours,” as her consent, which made him the happiest man alive. He then handed her a large banknote to spend on any trinkets she wanted, and he kissed and hugged her affectionately, while tears of joy flowed from the eyes that had just moments before shot fire and rage at the one he loved most.
Instances of this behaviour in parents are so common, that the reader, I doubt not, will be very little astonished at the whole conduct of Mr Western. If he should, I own I am not able to account for it; since that he loved his daughter most tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute. So indeed have many others, who have rendered their children most completely miserable by the same conduct; which, though it is almost universal in parents, hath always appeared to me to be the most unaccountable of all the absurdities which ever entered into the brain of that strange prodigious creature man.
Examples of this behavior in parents are so common that I doubt the reader will be very surprised by Mr. Western's actions. If they are, I honestly can't explain it; because it’s clear that he loved his daughter deeply. Many others have done the same, making their children completely miserable through similar actions. Although this is nearly universal among parents, it has always seemed to me to be one of the most inexplicable absurdities that has ever occurred to the strange, remarkable creature we call man.
The latter part of Mr Western's behaviour had so strong an effect on the tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a thought to her, which not all the sophistry of her politic aunt, nor all the menaces of her father, had ever once brought into her head. She reverenced her father so piously, and loved him so passionately, that she had scarce ever felt more pleasing sensations, than what arose from the share she frequently had of contributing to his amusement, and sometimes, perhaps, to higher gratifications; for he never could contain the delight of hearing her commended, which he had the satisfaction of hearing almost every day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the immense happiness she should convey to her father by her consent to this match, made a strong impression on her mind. Again, the extreme piety of such an act of obedience worked very forcibly, as she had a very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she reflected how much she herself was to suffer, being indeed to become little less than a sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and duty, she felt an agreeable tickling in a certain little passion, which though it bears no immediate affinity either to religion or virtue, is often so kind as to lend great assistance in executing the purposes of both.
The latter part of Mr. Western's behavior had such a strong impact on Sophia's tender heart that it led her to a thought that not even her manipulative aunt's reasoning or her father's threats had ever put in her mind. She respected her father deeply and loved him intensely, so she rarely felt more joy than when she contributed to his happiness, and sometimes, perhaps, to even greater pleasures; he could never hide his delight in hearing her praised, which he had the pleasure of hearing almost every day of her life. Thus, the thought of the enormous happiness she would bring her father by agreeing to this match made a strong impression on her. Additionally, the deep piety of such an act of obedience affected her significantly, as she had a profound sense of faith. Finally, when she considered how much she would personally suffer, essentially becoming a sacrifice or martyr to her love and duty towards her father, she felt a delightful thrill in a certain little passion, which, while not directly related to faith or virtue, often generously helps in fulfilling the aims of both.
Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an action, and began to compliment herself with much premature flattery, when Cupid, who lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept out, and like Punchinello in a puppet-show, kicked all out before him. In truth (for we scorn to deceive our reader, or to vindicate the character of our heroine by ascribing her actions to supernatural impulse) the thoughts of her beloved Jones, and some hopes (however distant) in which he was very particularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love, piety, and pride had, with their joint endeavours, been labouring to bring about.
Sophia was captivated by the idea of such a heroic act and started to flatter herself a bit too soon when Cupid, who had been hiding in her muff, suddenly emerged and, like a puppet from a show, kicked everything aside. In truth (as we have no intention of misleading our readers or justifying our heroine's actions by blaming them on supernatural influence), her thoughts of her beloved Jones and some distant hopes related specifically to him instantly shattered everything that filial love, piety, and pride had been trying to achieve together.
But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back to Mr Jones.
But before we go any further with Sophia, we need to take a moment to look back at Mr. Jones.
Chapter x. — Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.
The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his fortune on shore.
The reader will be pleased to remember that we left Mr. Jones at the beginning of this book, on his way to Bristol, determined to seek his fortune at sea, or, in fact, to escape his fortune on land.
It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road; so that having missed his right track, and being ashamed to ask information, he rambled about backwards and forwards till night came on, and it began to grow dark. Jones suspecting what had happened, acquainted the guide with his apprehensions; but he insisted on it, that they were in the right road, and added, it would be very strange if he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, it would have been much stranger if he had known it, having never past through it in his life before.
It happened (a thing not very unusual) that the guide who was supposed to lead him on his way unfortunately didn't know the road; so after losing the right track and being too embarrassed to ask for directions, he wandered around back and forth until night fell and it started to get dark. Jones, suspecting what had occurred, shared his concerns with the guide; but the guide insisted that they were on the right path and added that it would be very strange if he didn’t know the way to Bristol, even though, in reality, it would have been much stranger if he had known it since he had never been through it in his life before.
Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their arrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether they were in the road to Bristol. “Whence did you come?” cries the fellow. “No matter,” says Jones, a little hastily; “I want to know if this be the road to Bristol?”—“The road to Bristol!” cries the fellow, scratching his head: “why, measter, I believe you will hardly get to Bristol this way to-night.”—“Prithee, friend, then,” answered Jones, “do tell us which is the way.”—“Why, measter,” cries the fellow, “you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; for thick way goeth to Glocester.”—“Well, and which way goes to Bristol?” said Jones. “Why, you be going away from Bristol,” answered the fellow. “Then,” said Jones, “we must go back again?”—“Ay, you must,” said the fellow. “Well, and when we come back to the top of the hill, which way must we take?”—“Why, you must keep the strait road.”—“But I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the other to the left.”—“Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to your left again, and then to your right, and that brings you to the squire's; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to the left.”
Jones didn't fully trust his guide, so when they arrived at a village, he asked the first person he saw if they were on the way to Bristol. “Where did you come from?” the person asked. “That's not important,” Jones replied quickly. “I just want to know if this is the road to Bristol?”—“The road to Bristol!” the person exclaimed, scratching his head. “Well, sir, I doubt you'll reach Bristol this way tonight.” —“Please, friend, tell us which way to go,” Jones urged. “Well, sir,” the guy said, “you must have wandered off the road, for this path goes to Gloucester.” —“Alright, but which way to Bristol?” Jones asked. “You're heading away from Bristol,” the man answered. “So, we need to go back?” Jones said. “Yes, you do,” replied the man. “And when we get back to the top of the hill, which way should we go?” —“Just stick to the main road.” —“But I remember there are two paths, one to the right and one to the left.” —“You need to take the right-hand path, then go straight ahead; just remember to turn first to your right, then to your left again, and then to your right, and that will lead you to the squire's place; after that, keep going straight and turn to the left.”
Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were going; of which being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head, and then leaning upon a pole he had in his hand, began to tell him, “That he must keep the right-hand road for about a mile, or a mile and a half, or such a matter, and then he must turn short to the left, which would bring him round by Measter Jin Bearnes's.”—“But which is Mr John Bearnes's?” says Jones. “O Lord!” cries the fellow, “why, don't you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?”
Another guy came up and asked which way the gentlemen were headed. After Jones explained, the guy scratched his head and, leaning on a pole he was holding, started to say, “You need to stick to the right-hand road for about a mile or a mile and a half, and then take a sharp turn to the left, which will lead you past Measter Jin Bearnes's.” — “But which one is Mr. John Bearnes's?” Jones asked. “Oh Lord!” the guy exclaimed, “You don’t know Measter Jin Bearnes? Where did you come from?”
These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a plain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus: “Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my advice, thou wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark, and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there have been several robberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very creditable good house just by, where thou may'st find good entertainment for thyself and thy cattle till morning.” Jones, after a little persuasion, agreed to stay in this place till the morning, and was conducted by his friend to the public-house.
These two guys had almost run out Jones's patience when a straightforward, good-looking man (who was actually a Quaker) approached him and said, “Hey there, I see you’ve lost your way; and if you take my advice, you won’t try to find it tonight. It’s getting dark, and the road is tough to navigate; plus, there have been a few robberies lately between here and Bristol. There’s a really good place nearby where you can find a nice room for yourself and your animals until morning.” After some convincing, Jones agreed to spend the night there and was led by his friend to the inn.
The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, “He hoped he would excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was gone from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried the keys along with her.” Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughter of hers was just married, and gone that morning home with her husband; and that she and her mother together had almost stript the poor man of all his goods, as well as money; for though he had several children, this daughter only, who was the mother's favourite, was the object of her consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would with pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the bargain.
The landlord, who was quite a nice guy, told Jones, “I hope you can forgive the poor state of my accommodations; my wife is away and has locked up almost everything, taking the keys with her.” The truth was that a favorite daughter of hers had just gotten married and had left that morning with her husband. Together, she and her mom had nearly stripped the poor man of all his belongings and money; even though he had several children, it was this one daughter—his wife’s favorite—who got all the attention. She would gladly have sacrificed all the others and her husband too for this one child.
Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of the honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, from having remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenance and behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversation might in some measure relieve.
Though Jones was not well-suited for any kind of company and would have preferred to be alone, he couldn’t resist the persistent requests of the earnest Quaker. The Quaker was particularly eager to sit with him because he noticed the sadness in both his expression and behavior, and he believed that their conversation might help ease that sadness.
After they had past some time together, in such a manner that my honest friend might have thought himself at one of his silent meetings, the Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other, probably that of curiosity, and said, “Friend, I perceive some sad disaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast lost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why shouldst thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend no good? We are all born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows as well as thee, and most probably greater sorrows. Though I have a clear estate of £100 a year, which is as much as I want, and I have a conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my constitution is sound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me, nor accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to think thee as miserable as myself.”
After spending some time together, in a way that might have made my honest friend feel like he was at one of his quiet meetings, the Quaker began to be stirred by some spirit or another, probably out of curiosity, and said, “Friend, I can see that something sad has happened to you; but please take comfort. Perhaps you've lost a friend. If that’s the case, remember we’re all mortal. And why should you grieve when you know your sorrow won’t help your friend? We're all meant to face suffering. I have my own sorrows just like you, and probably even greater ones. Even though I have a steady income of £100 a year, which is more than enough for me, and I’m thankful to have a clear conscience; my health is good and strong, and no one can claim a debt from me or accuse me of harm; still, my friend, it troubles me to think you are as unhappy as I am.”
Here the Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered, “I am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the occasion of it.”—“Ah! friend,” replied the Quaker, “one only daughter is the occasion; one who was my greatest delight upon earth, and who within this week is run away from me, and is married against my consent. I had provided her a proper match, a sober man and one of substance; but she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is gone with a young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thy friend is, I should have been happy.”—“That is very strange, sir,” said Jones. “Why, would it not be better for her to be dead, than to be a beggar?” replied the Quaker: “for, as I told you, the fellow is not worth a groat; and surely she cannot expect that I shall ever give her a shilling. No, as she hath married for love, let her live on love if she can; let her carry her love to market, and see whether any one will change it into silver, or even into halfpence.”—“You know your own concerns best, sir,” said Jones. “It must have been,” continued the Quaker, “a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they have known one another from their infancy; and I always preached to her against love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly and wickedness. Nay, the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to despise all wantonness of the flesh; and yet at last broke out at a window two pair of stairs: for I began, indeed, a little to suspect her, and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morning to have married her up to my liking. But she disappointed me within a few hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own chusing; who lost no time, for they were married and bedded and all within an hour. But it shall be the worst hour's work for them both that ever they did; for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for me. I will never give either of them a farthing.” Here Jones starting up cried, “I really must be excused: I wish you would leave me.”—“Come, come, friend,” said the Quaker, “don't give way to concern. You see there are other people miserable besides yourself.”—“I see there are madmen, and fools, and villains in the world,” cries Jones. “But let me give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-law home, and don't be yourself the only cause of misery to one you pretend to love.”—“Send for her and her husband home!” cries the Quaker loudly; “I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I have in the world!”—“Well, go home yourself, or where you please,” said Jones, “for I will sit no longer in such company.”—“Nay, friend,” answered the Quaker, “I scorn to impose my company on any one.” He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushed him with some violence out of the room.
Here the Quaker finished with a deep sigh, and Jones quickly replied, “I’m really sorry, sir, for your sadness, whatever the reason for it is.” “Ah! my friend,” said the Quaker, “it’s my only daughter that’s the reason; she was my greatest joy on earth, and just this week she ran away from me and got married against my wishes. I had arranged for her to marry a suitable man, a responsible guy with money; but she, of course, chose on her own, and off she went with a young man who isn’t worth a penny. If she had died, as I suppose your friend has, I would have felt better.” “That’s very strange, sir,” replied Jones. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to be dead than to be a beggar?” the Quaker responded. “As I said, the guy isn’t worth a penny; and surely she can't expect me to give her a single cent. No, since she married for love, let her live on love if she can; let her try to trade her love for cash, and see if anyone will exchange it for silver or even for pennies.” “You understand your own situation best, sir,” Jones said. “It must have been,” the Quaker continued, “a long-planned scheme to trick me: they’ve known each other since childhood; and I always preached to her against love, telling her countless times it was all foolishness and wickedness. Indeed, the sly girl pretended to listen to me and to look down on all fleshly desires; yet in the end, she broke out of a window two flights up. I began to suspect her and had locked her up carefully, intending the very next morning to marry her to someone more suitable for my liking. But she deceived me within a few hours and escaped to the lover of her choice; who wasted no time, for they were married and in bed together within an hour. But that will be the worst hour’s decision for them both; they can starve, beg, or steal together, as far as I’m concerned. I will never give either of them a single penny.” At this, Jones jumped up and exclaimed, “I really must be excused. I wish you would leave me.” “Come, come, friend,” said the Quaker, “don’t let your feelings take over. You see there are others who are unhappy besides you.” “I see there are madmen, fools, and villains in the world,” replied Jones. “But let me give you some advice: call your daughter and son-in-law home, and don’t be the only cause of misery for someone you say you care about.” “Call her and her husband home!” the Quaker shouted; “I’d rather summon the two biggest enemies I have in the world!” “Well, go home yourself, or wherever you want,” said Jones, “because I can’t stay any longer in this company.” “Nay, friend,” the Quaker answered, “I wouldn’t dream of forcing my company on anyone.” He then reached into his pocket to offer money, but Jones physically pushed him out of the room.
The subject of the Quaker's discourse had so deeply affected Jones, that he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. This the Quaker had observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour, inspired honest Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was in reality out of his senses. Instead of resenting the affront, therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his unhappy circumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, he desired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with the highest civility.
The topic the Quaker was discussing had such a strong impact on Jones that he stared quite wildly while speaking. The Quaker noticed this, and combined with Jones’s other behavior, it led him to believe that his companion had lost his mind. Instead of taking offense, the Quaker felt compassion for his unfortunate situation; after sharing his thoughts with the landlord, he asked him to look after his guest and treat him with the utmost respect.
“Indeed,” says the landlord, “I shall use no such civility towards him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more a gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at a great squire's about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not for any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the best. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon.”
“Definitely,” says the landlord, “I won’t treat him with any niceties; because it seems, despite his fancy waistcoat, he’s no more a gentleman than I am, but just a poor parish bastard, raised by a wealthy squire about thirty miles away, and now kicked out (not for any good reason, of course). I’ll make sure he’s out of my house as soon as I can. If I have to take a hit, the first loss is always the easiest. It was less than a year ago that I lost a silver spoon.”
“What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?” answered the Quaker. “Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man.”
"What are you talking about, a parish bastard, Robin?" replied the Quaker. "You must be mistaken about the person."
“Not at all,” replied Robin; “the guide, who knows him very well, told it me.” For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at the kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with all he knew or had ever heard concerning Jones.
“Not at all,” replied Robin; “the guide, who knows him really well, told me.” Because, as soon as the guide settled by the kitchen fire, he filled everyone in on everything he knew or had ever heard about Jones.
The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would have felt at receiving an affront from such a person.
The Quaker was immediately convinced by this guy about Jones's birth and humble status, and all sympathy for him disappeared; the honest, straightforward man went home filled with as much anger as a duke would have felt upon being insulted by someone like that.
The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted that he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition of his guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions, which were, he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity of robbing the house. In reality, he might have been very well eased of these apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of his wife and daughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed to the freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been more particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread of being robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that he had nothing to lose.
The landlord held a strong disdain for his guest; so when Jones rang the bell to go to bed, he was informed that there was no room available for him. Besides his disdain for the low status of his guest, Robin was suspicious of his intentions, believing he was just waiting for a chance to rob the house. In reality, he could have relaxed his worries, thanks to the careful actions of his wife and daughter, who had already taken away everything not attached to the property; but he was naturally suspicious, especially since the loss of his spoon had made him even more paranoid. In short, the fear of being robbed completely overshadowed any comforting thought that he had nothing of value to take.
Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook himself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had lately shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paid him a visit in his humble cell.
Jones, confident that he wouldn't have a bed, happily settled into a large chair made of rushes. Sleep, which had recently avoided him in much nicer places, graciously came to him in his modest room.
As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring to rest. He returned therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he could survey the only door which opened into the parlour, or rather hole, where Jones was seated; and as for the window to that room, it was impossible for any creature larger than a cat to have made his escape through it.
As for the landlord, he was too scared to go to bed. So, he went back to the kitchen fire, from where he could see the only door leading into the parlour, or rather hole, where Jones was sitting; and the window in that room was so small that no creature bigger than a cat could have gotten out through it.
Chapter xi. — The adventure of a company of soldiers.
The landlord having taken his seat directly opposite to the door of the parlour, determined to keep guard there the whole night. The guide and another fellow remained long on duty with him, though they neither knew his suspicions, nor had any of their own. The true cause of their watching did, indeed, at length, put an end to it; for this was no other than the strength and goodness of the beer, of which having tippled a very large quantity, they grew at first very noisy and vociferous, and afterwards fell both asleep.
The landlord took his seat directly across from the parlour door, deciding to keep watch there all night. The guide and another guy stayed on duty with him for a long time, although they didn't know what he was suspicious about and had no concerns of their own. In the end, the real reason for their watchfulness actually ended up being the strong and tasty beer they had consumed in large quantities; they initially became very loud and boisterous and then both fell asleep.
But it was not in the power of liquor to compose the fears of Robin. He continued still waking in his chair, with his eyes fixed stedfastly on the door which led into the apartment of Mr Jones, till a violent thundering at his outward gate called him from his seat, and obliged him to open it; which he had no sooner done, than his kitchen was immediately full of gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed upon him in as tumultuous a manner as if they intended to take his little castle by storm.
But alcohol couldn't calm Robin's fears. He stayed awake in his chair, eyes glued to the door leading to Mr. Jones' room, until a loud banging at his front gate made him get up and answer it. No sooner had he opened the door than his kitchen was instantly filled with gentlemen in red coats, all rushing in like they were about to storm his little castle.
The landlord was now forced from his post to furnish his numerous guests with beer, which they called for with great eagerness; and upon his second or third return from the cellar, he saw Mr Jones standing before the fire in the midst of the soldiers; for it may easily be believed, that the arrival of so much good company should put an end to any sleep, unless that from which we are to be awakened only by the last trumpet.
The landlord was now compelled to leave his position to provide his many guests with beer, which they eagerly requested. On his second or third trip back from the cellar, he noticed Mr. Jones standing by the fire surrounded by the soldiers; it’s easy to imagine that the arrival of such a lively crowd would interrupt any sleep, except for that from which we’re awakened only by the final trumpet.
The company having now pretty well satisfied their thirst, nothing remained but to pay the reckoning, a circumstance often productive of much mischief and discontent among the inferior rank of gentry, who are apt to find great difficulty in assessing the sum, with exact regard to distributive justice, which directs that every man shall pay according to the quantity which he drinks. This difficulty occurred upon the present occasion; and it was the greater, as some gentlemen had, in their extreme hurry, marched off, after their first draught, and had entirely forgot to contribute anything towards the said reckoning.
The company had now quenched their thirst, so all that was left was to settle the bill, a situation that often leads to a lot of trouble and dissatisfaction among the lower ranks of the gentry, who tend to struggle with figuring out how much each person should pay according to what they drank. This problem came up this time, and it was made worse because some gentlemen had, in their haste, left right after their first drink and completely forgot to chip in for the bill.
A violent dispute now arose, in which every word may be said to have been deposed upon oath; for the oaths were at least equal to all the other words spoken. In this controversy the whole company spoke together, and every man seemed wholly bent to extenuate the sum which fell to his share; so that the most probable conclusion which could be foreseen was, that a large portion of the reckoning would fall to the landlord's share to pay, or (what is much the same thing) would remain unpaid.
A heated argument broke out, where every statement felt like it was made under oath; because the oaths held as much weight as all the other words spoken. In this debate, everyone chimed in at once, and each person seemed entirely focused on downplaying their part of the bill; so the most likely outcome was that a significant portion of the tab would have to be covered by the landlord, or (which is pretty much the same thing) would go unpaid.
All this while Mr Jones was engaged in conversation with the serjeant; for that officer was entirely unconcerned in the present dispute, being privileged by immemorial custom from all contribution.
All this time, Mr. Jones was chatting with the sergeant because that officer was not involved in the current dispute, having always been exempt from any contributions by long-standing tradition.
The dispute now grew so very warm that it seemed to draw towards a military decision, when Jones, stepping forward, silenced all their clamours at once, by declaring that he would pay the whole reckoning, which indeed amounted to no more than three shillings and fourpence.
The argument got so heated that it looked like it might end up in a fight, when Jones stepped up and quieted everyone by saying he would cover the entire bill, which was really only three shillings and fourpence.
This declaration procured Jones the thanks and applause of the whole company. The terms honourable, noble, and worthy gentleman, resounded through the room; nay, my landlord himself began to have a better opinion of him, and almost to disbelieve the account which the guide had given.
This statement earned Jones the gratitude and applause of everyone in the room. Words like honorable, noble, and worthy gentleman echoed throughout the space; in fact, my landlord himself started to think more highly of him and nearly doubted the story the guide had shared.
The serjeant had informed Mr Jones that they were marching against the rebels, and expected to be commanded by the glorious Duke of Cumberland. By which the reader may perceive (a circumstance which we have not thought necessary to communicate before) that this was the very time when the late rebellion was at the highest; and indeed the banditti were now marched into England, intending, as it was thought, to fight the king's forces, and to attempt pushing forward to the metropolis.
The sergeant had told Mr. Jones that they were heading out to confront the rebels and expected to be led by the esteemed Duke of Cumberland. This indicates to the reader (a detail we haven't considered important to share earlier) that this was the peak of the recent rebellion; in fact, the bandits had now entered England, intending, as was believed, to battle the king’s forces and try to advance towards the capital.
Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and was a hearty well-wisher to the glorious cause of liberty, and of the Protestant religion. It is no wonder, therefore, that in circumstances which would have warranted a much more romantic and wild undertaking, it should occur to him to serve as a volunteer in this expedition.
Jones had some heroic traits in his character and was a passionate supporter of the noble cause of freedom and the Protestant faith. It’s no surprise, then, that in situations that would have inspired a much more adventurous and daring quest, he thought about joining this mission as a volunteer.
Our commanding officer had said all in his power to encourage and promote this good disposition, from the first moment he had been acquainted with it. He now proclaimed the noble resolution aloud, which was received with great pleasure by the whole company, who all cried out, “God bless King George and your honour;” and then added, with many oaths, “We will stand by you both to the last drops of our blood.”
Our commanding officer had done everything he could to encourage and support this positive attitude from the very first moment he learned about it. He now announced the noble decision out loud, which was met with great enthusiasm from everyone present, who all shouted, “God bless King George and you, sir;” and then added, with many oaths, “We will stand by both of you until our last drop of blood.”
The gentleman who had been all night tippling at the alehouse, was prevailed on by some arguments which a corporal had put into his hands, to undertake the same expedition. And now the portmanteau belonging to Mr Jones being put up in the baggage-cart, the forces were about to move forwards; when the guide, stepping up to Jones, said, “Sir, I hope you will consider that the horses have been kept out all night, and we have travelled a great ways out of our way.” Jones was surprized at the impudence of this demand, and acquainted the soldiers with the merits of his cause, who were all unanimous in condemning the guide for his endeavours to put upon a gentleman. Some said, he ought to be tied neck and heels; others that he deserved to run the gantlope; and the serjeant shook his cane at him, and wished he had him under his command, swearing heartily he would make an example of him.
The guy who had been drinking all night at the pub was convinced by some points a corporal gave him to join the same mission. Now, with Mr. Jones's suitcase loaded into the baggage cart, the troops were about to move out when the guide approached Jones and said, “Sir, I hope you understand that the horses have been out all night, and we’ve traveled quite a ways off our route.” Jones was taken aback by the nerve of this request and informed the soldiers about his situation, who all agreed that the guide was trying to take advantage of a gentleman. Some said he should be tied up; others thought he deserved to face a harsh punishment, and the sergeant waved his cane at him, wishing he had him under his authority and swearing he would make an example out of him.
Jones contented himself however with a negative punishment, and walked off with his new comrades, leaving the guide to the poor revenge of cursing and reviling him; in which latter the landlord joined, saying, “Ay, ay, he is a pure one, I warrant you. A pretty gentleman, indeed, to go for a soldier! He shall wear a laced wastecoat truly. It is an old proverb and a true one, all is not gold that glisters. I am glad my house is well rid of him.”
Jones settled for a silent punishment and walked away with his new friends, leaving the guide to his pathetic revenge of cursing and insulting him; in which the landlord joined, saying, “Yeah, yeah, he’s a real gem, I guarantee you. A nice gentleman, for sure, wanting to be a soldier! He'll wear a fancy coat, no doubt. It’s an old saying and a true one, not everything that shines is gold. I’m glad my place is free of him.”
All that day the serjeant and the young soldier marched together; and the former, who was an arch fellow, told the latter many entertaining stories of his campaigns, though in reality he had never made any; for he was but lately come into the service, and had, by his own dexterity, so well ingratiated himself with his officers, that he had promoted himself to a halberd; chiefly indeed by his merit in recruiting, in which he was most excellently well skilled.
All that day, the sergeant and the young soldier marched together. The sergeant, who was quite the character, shared many entertaining stories about his campaigns, even though he had never actually been in any. He had only recently joined the service and had managed to win over his officers so effectively that he promoted himself to a halberd, mainly due to his outstanding skill in recruiting, which he excelled at.
Much mirth and festivity passed among the soldiers during their march. In which the many occurrences that had passed at their last quarters were remembered, and every one, with great freedom, made what jokes he pleased on his officers, some of which were of the coarser kind, and very near bordering on scandal. This brought to our heroe's mind the custom which he had read of among the Greeks and Romans, of indulging, on certain festivals and solemn occasions, the liberty to slaves, of using an uncontrouled freedom of speech towards their masters.
The soldiers shared a lot of laughter and fun during their march. They reminisced about the events from their last camp, and everyone felt free to make jokes about their officers, some of which were pretty crude and almost scandalous. This reminded our hero of a tradition he read about concerning the Greeks and Romans, where slaves were allowed to speak freely to their masters during certain festivals and important events.
Our little army, which consisted of two companies of foot, were now arrived at the place where they were to halt that evening. The serjeant then acquainted his lieutenant, who was the commanding officer, that they had picked up two fellows in that day's march, one of which, he said, was as fine a man as ever he saw (meaning the tippler), for that he was near six feet, well proportioned, and strongly limbed; and the other (meaning Jones) would do well enough for the rear rank.
Our small army, made up of two companies of infantry, had now reached the spot where they would stop for the night. The sergeant then informed his lieutenant, the commanding officer, that they had taken in two men during that day's march. He mentioned that one of them was quite an impressive man (referring to the drinker), as he stood nearly six feet tall, well-built, and strong; and the other (referring to Jones) would be fine for the back rank.
The new soldiers were now produced before the officer, who having examined the six-feet man, he being first produced, came next to survey Jones: at the first sight of whom, the lieutenant could not help showing some surprize; for besides that he was very well dressed, and was naturally genteel, he had a remarkable air of dignity in his look, which is rarely seen among the vulgar, and is indeed not inseparably annexed to the features of their superiors.
The new soldiers were now presented to the officer, who examined the six-foot man first and then moved on to look at Jones. At first glance, the lieutenant couldn't hide his surprise; besides being very well dressed and naturally polished, Jones had a notable sense of dignity in his demeanor that is rarely seen among common people and isn't always associated with the upper class either.
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “my serjeant informed me that you are desirous of enlisting in the company I have at present under my command; if so, sir, we shall very gladly receive a gentleman who promises to do much honour to the company by bearing arms in it.”
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “my sergeant informed me that you want to join the company I currently command; if that’s the case, sir, we would be delighted to welcome a gentleman who promises to bring honor to the company by serving in it.”
Jones answered: “That he had not mentioned anything of enlisting himself; that he was most zealously attached to the glorious cause for which they were going to fight, and was very desirous of serving as a volunteer;” concluding with some compliments to the lieutenant, and expressing the great satisfaction he should have in being under his command.
Jones answered, “He hadn’t said anything about enlisting himself; he was really passionate about the awesome cause they were fighting for and really wanted to serve as a volunteer,” finishing up with some praise for the lieutenant and expressing how happy he would be to be under his command.
The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolution, shook him by the hand, and invited him to dine with himself and the rest of the officers.
The lieutenant responded with politeness, praised his determination, shook his hand, and invited him to join him and the other officers for dinner.
Chapter xii. — The adventure of a company of officers.
The lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding chapter, and who commanded this party, was now near sixty years of age. He had entered very young into the army, and had served in the capacity of an ensign at the battle of Tannieres; here he had received two wounds, and had so well distinguished himself, that he was by the Duke of Marlborough advanced to be a lieutenant, immediately after that battle.
The lieutenant we discussed in the previous chapter, who led this group, was now nearly sixty years old. He joined the army when he was very young and served as an ensign during the battle of Tannieres, where he was injured twice. He distinguished himself so well that the Duke of Marlborough promoted him to lieutenant right after that battle.
In this commission he had continued ever since, viz., near forty years; during which time he had seen vast numbers preferred over his head, and had now the mortification to be commanded by boys, whose fathers were at nurse when he first entered into the service.
In this role, he had been working for nearly forty years; during that time, he had seen countless people promoted over him and now faced the embarrassment of being commanded by younger men, whose fathers were still in their infancy when he first joined the service.
Nor was this ill success in his profession solely owing to his having no friends among the men in power. He had the misfortune to incur the displeasure of his colonel, who for many years continued in the command of this regiment. Nor did he owe the implacable ill-will which this man bore him to any neglect or deficiency as an officer, nor indeed to any fault in himself; but solely to the indiscretion of his wife, who was a very beautiful woman, and who, though she was remarkably fond of her husband, would not purchase his preferment at the expense of certain favours which the colonel required of her.
His lack of success in his career wasn’t just because he had no connections with those in power. He unfortunately fell out of favor with his colonel, who remained in command of the regiment for many years. The colonel's relentless hostility toward him wasn’t due to any shortcomings as an officer or any personal failings; it stemmed entirely from his wife’s indiscretion. She was an incredibly beautiful woman, and although she loved her husband very much, she wouldn’t trade his career advancement for the favors the colonel expected from her.
The poor lieutenant was more peculiarly unhappy in this, that while he felt the effects of the enmity of his colonel, he neither knew, nor suspected, that he really bore him any; for he could not suspect an ill-will for which he was not conscious of giving any cause; and his wife, fearing what her husband's nice regard to his honour might have occasioned, contented herself with preserving her virtue without enjoying the triumphs of her conquest.
The poor lieutenant was particularly miserable because, even though he felt his colonel's hostility, he didn't know or suspect that he had done anything to deserve it. He couldn't believe someone would hold a grudge against him when he was unaware of having caused any offense. Meanwhile, his wife, worried about how her husband’s sense of honor might be affected, focused on maintaining her integrity without basking in the glory of her victory.
This unfortunate officer (for so I think he may be called) had many good qualities besides his merit in his profession; for he was a religious, honest, good-natured man; and had behaved so well in his command, that he was highly esteemed and beloved not only by the soldiers of his own company, but by the whole regiment.
This unfortunate officer (which is how I believe he can be described) had many good qualities in addition to his skills in his profession; he was a religious, honest, and good-natured person. He performed so well in his command that he was highly respected and loved not just by the soldiers in his own company, but by the entire regiment.
The other officers who marched with him were a French lieutenant, who had been long enough out of France to forget his own language, but not long enough in England to learn ours, so that he really spoke no language at all, and could barely make himself understood on the most ordinary occasions. There were likewise two ensigns, both very young fellows; one of whom had been bred under an attorney, and the other was son to the wife of a nobleman's butler.
The other officers marching with him included a French lieutenant who had been away from France long enough to forget his own language, but not long enough in England to learn English, so he actually spoke no language at all and could barely be understood in the most basic situations. There were also two young ensigns; one had been raised by a lawyer, and the other was the son of a nobleman's housekeeper.
As soon as dinner was ended, Jones informed the company of the merriment which had passed among the soldiers upon their march; “and yet,” says he, “notwithstanding all their vociferation, I dare swear they will behave more like Grecians than Trojans when they come to the enemy.”—“Grecians and Trojans!” says one of the ensigns, “who the devil are they? I have heard of all the troops in Europe, but never of any such as these.”
As soon as dinner was over, Jones told everyone about the fun the soldiers had on their march; “and yet,” he says, “despite all their shouting, I bet they will act more like Greeks than Trojans when they face the enemy.” —“Greeks and Trojans!” says one of the ensigns, “who the heck are they? I've heard of all the troops in Europe, but I’ve never heard of anyone like that.”
“Don't pretend to more ignorance than you have, Mr Northerton,” said the worthy lieutenant. “I suppose you have heard of the Greeks and Trojans, though perhaps you never read Pope's Homer; who, I remember, now the gentleman mentions it, compares the march of the Trojans to the cackling of geese, and greatly commends the silence of the Grecians. And upon my honour there is great justice in the cadet's observation.”
“Don't act like you know less than you do, Mr. Northerton,” said the respectable lieutenant. “I assume you've heard about the Greeks and Trojans, even if you’ve never read Pope’s Homer; which, now that the gentleman brings it up, compares the Trojans' march to the cackling of geese and really praises the silence of the Greeks. Honestly, I think there’s a lot of truth in the cadet's comment.”
“Begar, me remember dem ver well,” said the French lieutenant: “me ave read them at school in dans Madam Daciere, des Greek, des Trojan, dey fight for von woman—ouy, ouy, me ave read all dat.”
“Yeah, I remember them very well,” said the French lieutenant: “I read them in school in Miss Daciere’s class, the Greeks, the Trojans, they fought for one woman—oh yes, I’ve read all about that.”
“D—n Homo with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I have the marks of him on my a— yet. There's Thomas, of our regiment, always carries a Homo in his pocket; d—n me, if ever I come at it, if I don't burn it. And there's Corderius, another d—n'd son of a whore, that hath got me many a flogging.”
“Damn that guy with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I still have the marks from him on my ass. There's Thomas from our regiment, who always carries a damn guy in his pocket; damn it, if I ever get my hands on it, I'm going to burn it. And then there's Corderius, another damn son of a bitch, who’s gotten me many a beating.”
“Then you have been at school, Mr Northerton?” said the lieutenant.
“Then you’ve been to school, Mr. Northerton?” asked the lieutenant.
“Ay, d—n me, have I,” answered he; “the devil take my father for sending me thither! The old put wanted to make a parson of me, but d—n me, thinks I to myself, I'll nick you there, old cull; the devil a smack of your nonsense shall you ever get into me. There's Jemmy Oliver, of our regiment, he narrowly escaped being a pimp too, and that would have been a thousand pities; for d—n me if he is not one of the prettiest fellows in the whole world; but he went farther than I with the old cull, for Jimmey can neither write nor read.”
“Damn it, I have,” he replied; “my father can go to hell for sending me there! The old man wanted to make a priest out of me, but I thought to myself, I’ll outsmart you there, old man; you won’t get any of your nonsense into me. There’s Jemmy Oliver from our regiment, he almost ended up being a pimp too, and that would have been a real shame; because damn it if he isn’t one of the best-looking guys in the whole world; but he went even further than I did with the old man, because Jemmy can’t read or write.”
“You give your friend a very good character,” said the lieutenant, “and a very deserved one, I dare say. But prithee, Northerton, leave off that foolish as well as wicked custom of swearing; for you are deceived, I promise you, if you think there is wit or politeness in it. I wish, too, you would take my advice, and desist from abusing the clergy. Scandalous names, and reflections cast on any body of men, must be always unjustifiable; but especially so, when thrown on so sacred a function; for to abuse the body is to abuse the function itself; and I leave to you to judge how inconsistent such behaviour is in men who are going to fight in defence of the Protestant religion.”
"You really give your friend a great character," said the lieutenant, "and a well-deserved one, I must say. But please, Northerton, stop that foolish and wicked habit of swearing; you're mistaken if you think there's any wit or politeness in it. I also wish you'd take my advice and stop badmouthing the clergy. Using scandalous names and casting reflections on any group of people is always unjustifiable, but it's especially wrong when aimed at such a sacred role; because to criticize the group is to criticize the role itself. I'll let you figure out how inconsistent such behavior is for men who are about to fight in defense of the Protestant religion."
Mr Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had sat hitherto kicking his heels and humming a tune, without seeming to listen to the discourse; he now answered, “O, Monsieur, on ne parle pas de la religion dans la guerre.”—“Well said, Jack,” cries Northerton: “if la religion was the only matter, the parsons should fight their own battles for me.”
Mr. Adderly, the other ensign, had been sitting there, idly kicking his heels and humming a tune, without seeming to pay attention to the conversation. He now replied, “Oh, Monsieur, we don't talk about religion in war.” — “Well said, Jack,” Northerton exclaimed: “if religion were the only issue, the priests should fight their own battles for me.”
“I don't know, gentlemen,” said Jones, “what may be your opinion; but I think no man can engage in a nobler cause than that of his religion; and I have observed, in the little I have read of history, that no soldiers have fought so bravely as those who have been inspired with a religious zeal: for my own part, though I love my king and country, I hope, as well as any man in it, yet the Protestant interest is no small motive to my becoming a volunteer in the cause.”
“I don’t know about you, gentlemen,” said Jones, “but I believe no one can fight for a cause more noble than their religion. From what little I’ve read in history, it seems that no soldiers have fought as fiercely as those driven by religious zeal. Personally, while I love my king and country and I hope for the best like anyone else, the Protestant cause is a significant reason for me to become a volunteer.”
Northerton now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him slily, “Smoke the prig, Adderly, smoke him.” Then turning to Jones, said to him, “I am very glad, sir, you have chosen our regiment to be a volunteer in; for if our parson should at any time take a cup too much, I find you can supply his place. I presume, sir, you have been at the university; may I crave the favour to know what college?”
Northerton now winked at Adderly and whispered slyly, “Get rid of him, Adderly, get rid of him.” Then turning to Jones, he said, “I’m really glad you chose our regiment to volunteer for; if our parson ever has one too many, it seems you can fill in for him. I assume you’ve been to university; may I ask which college?”
“Sir,” answered Jones, “so far from having been at the university, I have even had the advantage of yourself, for I was never at school.”
“Sir,” replied Jones, “not only have I never been to university, but I've even had an advantage over you, because I was never in school.”
“I presumed,” cries the ensign, “only upon the information of your great learning.”—“Oh! sir,” answered Jones, “it is as possible for a man to know something without having been at school, as it is to have been at school and to know nothing.”
“I assumed,” shouts the ensign, “only based on your vast knowledge.” —“Oh! sir,” Jones replied, “it’s just as possible for someone to know something without having gone to school as it is for someone to have gone to school and know nothing.”
“Well said, young volunteer,” cries the lieutenant. “Upon my word, Northerton, you had better let him alone; for he will be too hard for you.”
“Well said, young volunteer,” the lieutenant exclaims. “Honestly, Northerton, you should just leave him alone; he’ll be too much for you.”
Northerton did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones; but he thought the provocation was scarce sufficient to justify a blow, or a rascal, or scoundrel, which were the only repartees that suggested themselves. He was, therefore, silent at present; but resolved to take the first opportunity of returning the jest by abuse.
Northerton didn’t really enjoy Jones’s sarcasm, but he felt that the provocation wasn’t enough to warrant a punch or to call him a jerk or a scoundrel, which were the only comebacks that came to mind. So, he stayed quiet for now but was determined to take the first chance to retaliate with insults.
It now came to the turn of Mr Jones to give a toast, as it is called; who could not refrain from mentioning his dear Sophia. This he did the more readily, as he imagined it utterly impossible that any one present should guess the person he meant.
It was now Mr. Jones's turn to give a toast, as they call it; he couldn't help but mention his dear Sophia. He did this even more easily, as he thought it was totally impossible for anyone there to figure out who he was talking about.
But the lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not contented with Sophia only. He said, he must have her sir-name; upon which Jones hesitated a little, and presently after named Miss Sophia Western. Ensign Northerton declared he would not drink her health in the same round with his own toast, unless somebody would vouch for her. “I knew one Sophy Western,” says he, “that was lain with by half the young fellows at Bath; and perhaps this is the same woman.” Jones very solemnly assured him of the contrary; asserting that the young lady he named was one of great fashion and fortune. “Ay, ay,” says the ensign, “and so she is: d—n me, it is the same woman; and I'll hold half a dozen of Burgundy, Tom French of our regiment brings her into company with us at any tavern in Bridges-street.” He then proceeded to describe her person exactly (for he had seen her with her aunt), and concluded with saying, “that her father had a great estate in Somersetshire.”
But the lieutenant, who was the toastmaster, wasn't satisfied with just Sophia. He insisted on knowing her last name, which made Jones hesitate for a moment before he finally said, “Miss Sophia Western.” Ensign Northerton stated he wouldn’t raise a toast to her alongside his own toast unless someone could vouch for her. “I once knew a Sophy Western,” he said, “who was involved with half the young guys in Bath; maybe this is the same woman.” Jones seriously assured him it wasn’t, claiming that the young lady he mentioned had a high status and a lot of wealth. “Sure, sure,” said the ensign, “and she is: damn it, it is the same woman; I'll bet half a dozen bottles of Burgundy that Tom French from our regiment brings her into our circle at any pub on Bridges Street.” He then went on to describe her looks perfectly (since he had seen her with her aunt) and concluded by saying, “that her father owned a huge estate in Somersetshire.”
The tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with the names of their mistresses. However, Jones, though he had enough of the lover and of the heroe too in his disposition, did not resent these slanders as hastily as, perhaps, he ought to have done. To say the truth, having seen but little of this kind of wit, he did not readily understand it, and for a long time imagined Mr Northerton had really mistaken his charmer for some other. But now, turning to the ensign with a stern aspect, he said, “Pray, sir, chuse some other subject for your wit; for I promise you I will bear no jesting with this lady's character.” “Jesting!” cries the other, “d—n me if ever I was more in earnest in my life. Tom French of our regiment had both her and her aunt at Bath.” “Then I must tell you in earnest,” cries Jones, “that you are one of the most impudent rascals upon earth.”
The affection between lovers can hardly tolerate any joking about their partners' names. However, Jones, even though he had a bit of a romantic and heroic side, didn’t react to these insults as quickly as he probably should have. Honestly, since he hadn’t encountered this sort of humor much, he didn’t quite get it at first, and for a long time, he thought Mr. Northerton had genuinely confused his beloved with someone else. But now, he turned to the ensign with a serious look and said, “Please, sir, choose another topic for your jokes; I assure you I won’t tolerate any joking about this lady's reputation.” “Joking?” the other exclaimed, “I swear I’ve never been more serious in my life. Tom French from our regiment had both her and her aunt at Bath.” “Then I must tell you sincerely,” Jones replied, “that you are one of the most brazen scoundrels on earth.”
He had no sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, together with a volley of curses, discharged a bottle full at the head of Jones, which hitting him a little above the right temple, brought him instantly to the ground.
He had barely finished speaking when the ensign, along with a stream of curses, threw a full bottle at Jones's head. The bottle struck him just above the right temple, knocking him to the ground instantly.
The conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before him, and blood beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his wound, began now to think of quitting the field of battle, where no more honour was to be gotten; but the lieutenant interposed, by stepping before the door, and thus cut off his retreat.
The conqueror, seeing the enemy lying still in front of him and blood starting to flow from his wound, began to consider leaving the battlefield, where no more glory could be gained. But the lieutenant stepped in front of the door, blocking his way out.
Northerton was very importunate with the lieutenant for his liberty; urging the ill consequences of his stay, asking him, what he could have done less? “Zounds!” says he, “I was but in jest with the fellow. I never heard any harm of Miss Western in my life.” “Have not you?” said the lieutenant; “then you richly deserve to be hanged, as well for making such jests, as for using such a weapon: you are my prisoner, sir; nor shall you stir from hence till a proper guard comes to secure you.”
Northerton was very persistent with the lieutenant about his freedom; he pointed out the negative consequences of staying, asking him what he could have done differently. “Come on!” he exclaimed, “I was just joking with the guy. I’ve never heard anything bad about Miss Western in my life.” “Haven’t you?” replied the lieutenant; “then you definitely deserve to be hanged, both for making such jokes and for using such a weapon. You are my prisoner, sir, and you won’t be going anywhere until a proper guard arrives to secure you.”
Such an ascendant had our lieutenant over this ensign, that all that fervency of courage which had levelled our poor heroe with the floor, would scarce have animated the said ensign to have drawn his sword against the lieutenant, had he then had one dangling at his side: but all the swords being hung up in the room, were, at the very beginning of the fray, secured by the French officer. So that Mr Northerton was obliged to attend the final issue of this affair.
Such an advantage did our lieutenant have over this ensign that all the intense courage that had knocked our poor hero to the ground wouldn't have likely motivated the ensign to draw his sword against the lieutenant, even if he had one hanging at his side: but since all the swords were hung up in the room, they were secured by the French officer right at the start of the conflict. So, Mr. Northerton was forced to wait for the final outcome of this situation.
The French gentleman and Mr Adderly, at the desire of their commanding officer, had raised up the body of Jones, but as they could perceive but little (if any) sign of life in him, they again let him fall, Adderly damning him for having blooded his wastecoat; and the Frenchman declaring, “Begar, me no tush the Engliseman de mort: me have heard de Englise ley, law, what you call, hang up de man dat tush him last.”
The French gentleman and Mr. Adderly, at the request of their commanding officer, had lifted the body of Jones, but since they saw hardly any sign of life in him, they let him drop again. Adderly cursed him for staining his waistcoat with blood, and the Frenchman said, “Begar, I won’t touch the Englishman while he’s dead: I’ve heard that the English law hangs the man who touches him last.”
When the good lieutenant applied himself to the door, he applied himself likewise to the bell; and the drawer immediately attending, he dispatched him for a file of musqueteers and a surgeon. These commands, together with the drawer's report of what he had himself seen, not only produced the soldiers, but presently drew up the landlord of the house, his wife, and servants, and, indeed, every one else who happened at that time to be in the inn.
When the good lieutenant went to the door, he also rang the bell; and the attendant quickly came over, so he sent him for a group of musketeers and a surgeon. These orders, along with the attendant's account of what he had seen, not only brought the soldiers but also soon gathered the landlord of the inn, his wife, the staff, and really everyone else who was around at that time.
To describe every particular, and to relate the whole conversation of the ensuing scene, is not within my power, unless I had forty pens, and could, at once, write with them all together, as the company now spoke. The reader must, therefore, content himself with the most remarkable incidents, and perhaps he may very well excuse the rest.
To describe every detail and to recount the entire conversation from the following scene is beyond my ability, unless I had forty pens and could write with them all at once, just like everyone was talking. So, the reader will have to settle for the most noteworthy incidents, and maybe they can overlook the rest.
The first thing done was securing the body of Northerton, who being delivered into the custody of six men with a corporal at their head, was by them conducted from a place which he was very willing to leave, but it was unluckily to a place whither he was very unwilling to go. To say the truth, so whimsical are the desires of ambition, the very moment this youth had attained the above-mentioned honour, he would have been well contented to have retired to some corner of the world, where the fame of it should never have reached his ears.
The first thing they did was secure Northerton's body, which was handed over to six men led by a corporal. They took him away from a place he was eager to leave, but unfortunately, they were taking him to a place he didn’t want to go at all. To be honest, the desires of ambition are quite strange; as soon as this young man achieved that honor, he would have been perfectly happy to retreat to some remote part of the world where no one would ever mention it to him again.
It surprizes us, and so perhaps, it may the reader, that the lieutenant, a worthy and good man, should have applied his chief care, rather to secure the offender, than to preserve the life of the wounded person. We mention this observation, not with any view of pretending to account for so odd a behaviour, but lest some critic should hereafter plume himself on discovering it. We would have these gentlemen know we can see what is odd in characters as well as themselves, but it is our business to relate facts as they are; which, when we have done, it is the part of the learned and sagacious reader to consult that original book of nature, whence every passage in our work is transcribed, though we quote not always the particular page for its authority.
It surprises us, and maybe the reader too, that the lieutenant, a decent and good man, focused more on capturing the culprit than on saving the life of the injured person. We mention this observation not to explain such strange behavior, but to prevent some critic from later taking credit for noticing it. We want these critics to know that we can see what's unusual in characters just like they can, but our job is to report the facts as they are; after that, it's up to the insightful and thoughtful reader to refer to the original book of nature from which every passage in our work is drawn, even though we don’t always cite the specific page for its source.
The company which now arrived were of a different disposition. They suspended their curiosity concerning the person of the ensign, till they should see him hereafter in a more engaging attitude. At present, their whole concern and attention were employed about the bloody object on the floor; which being placed upright in a chair, soon began to discover some symptoms of life and motion. These were no sooner perceived by the company (for Jones was at first generally concluded to be dead) than they all fell at once to prescribing for him (for as none of the physical order was present, every one there took that office upon him).
The group that just arrived had a different mindset. They set aside their curiosity about the ensign until they could see him later in a more appealing way. For now, their full focus and attention were on the bloody figure lying on the floor; once they propped him up in a chair, he soon started showing some signs of life and movement. As soon as the group noticed this (since everyone initially thought Jones was dead), they all jumped in to help him (because no medical professionals were present, everyone took it upon themselves to act as one).
Bleeding was the unanimous voice of the whole room; but unluckily there was no operator at hand; every one then cried, “Call the barber;” but none stirred a step. Several cordials was likewise prescribed in the same ineffective manner; till the landlord ordered up a tankard of strong beer, with a toast, which he said was the best cordial in England.
Everyone in the room agreed on one thing: someone was bleeding. Unfortunately, there was no doctor available. Everyone shouted, “Call the barber!” but no one moved. Several remedies were suggested, but they all fell flat. Finally, the landlord brought out a tankard of strong beer and a toast, claiming it was the best remedy in England.
The person principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the only one who did any service, or seemed likely to do any, was the landlady: she cut off some of her hair, and applied it to the wound to stop the blood; she fell to chafing the youth's temples with her hand; and having exprest great contempt for her husband's prescription of beer, she despatched one of her maids to her own closet for a bottle of brandy, of which, as soon as it was brought, she prevailed on Jones, who was just returned to his senses, to drink a very large and plentiful draught.
The main person helping out this time, really the only one who did anything useful or looked like they would, was the landlady. She cut off some of her hair and used it on the wound to stop the bleeding. She started rubbing the young man's temples with her hand, and after showing a lot of disdain for her husband's suggestion of beer, she sent one of her maids to her own closet for a bottle of brandy. As soon as it was brought to her, she convinced Jones, who had just regained his senses, to take a big and generous drink.
Soon afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed the wound, having shaken his head, and blamed everything which was done, ordered his patient instantly to bed; in which place we think proper to leave him some time to his repose, and shall here, therefore, put an end to this chapter.
Soon after, the surgeon arrived, and after examining the wound, shaking his head, and criticizing everything that had been done, he ordered his patient to bed immediately. We think it's best to leave him there for some time to rest, so we'll conclude this chapter here.
Chapter xiii. — Containing the great address of the landlady, the great learning of a surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the worthy lieutenant.
When the wounded man was carried to his bed, and the house began again to clear up from the hurry which this accident had occasioned, the landlady thus addressed the commanding officer: “I am afraid, sir,” said she, “this young man did not behave himself as well as he should do to your honours; and if he had been killed, I suppose he had but his desarts: to be sure, when gentlemen admit inferior parsons into their company, they oft to keep their distance; but, as my first husband used to say, few of 'em know how to do it. For my own part, I am sure I should not have suffered any fellows to include themselves into gentlemen's company; but I thoft he had been an officer himself, till the serjeant told me he was but a recruit.”
When the injured man was brought to his bed and the house started to settle down after the chaos this incident had caused, the landlady addressed the commanding officer: “I’m afraid, sir,” she said, “this young man didn’t behave as well as he should have around your officers; and if he had been killed, I guess he would have deserved it. Of course, when gentlemen let lower-status folks into their company, they really should keep their distance; but, as my first husband used to say, few of them know how to do that. For my part, I certainly wouldn’t have allowed anyone to include themselves in gentlemen's company; but I thought he was an officer himself until the sergeant told me he was just a recruit.”
“Landlady,” answered the lieutenant, “you mistake the whole matter. The young man behaved himself extremely well, and is, I believe, a much better gentleman than the ensign who abused him. If the young fellow dies, the man who struck him will have most reason to be sorry for it: for the regiment will get rid of a very troublesome fellow, who is a scandal to the army; and if he escapes from the hands of justice, blame me, madam, that's all.”
“Landlady,” the lieutenant replied, “you’ve got it all wrong. The young man acted very well, and I believe he is a much better person than the ensign who attacked him. If the young guy dies, the man who hit him will have the most reason to regret it, because the regiment will be rid of a really troublesome person who brings shame to the army; and if he gets away from justice, then blame me, ma'am, that’s all.”
“Ay! ay! good lack-a-day!” said the landlady; “who could have thoft it? Ay, ay, ay, I am satisfied your honour will see justice done; and to be sure it oft to be to every one. Gentlemen oft not to kill poor folks without answering for it. A poor man hath a soul to be saved, as well as his betters.”
"Wow! Oh my goodness!" said the landlady. "Who could have thought it? I’m sure you’ll make sure justice is served, and it should be for everyone. Gentlemen shouldn't just kill poor people without facing the consequences. A poor man has a soul to save just like anyone else."
“Indeed, madam,” said the lieutenant, “you do the volunteer wrong: I dare swear he is more of a gentleman than the officer.”
“Indeed, ma'am,” said the lieutenant, “you’re mistaken about the volunteer: I bet he’s more of a gentleman than the officer.”
“Ay!” cries the landlady; “why, look you there, now: well, my first husband was a wise man; he used to say, you can't always know the inside by the outside. Nay, that might have been well enough too; for I never saw'd him till he was all over blood. Who would have thoft it? mayhap, some young gentleman crossed in love. Good lack-a-day, if he should die, what a concern it will be to his parents! why, sure the devil must possess the wicked wretch to do such an act. To be sure, he is a scandal to the army, as your honour says; for most of the gentlemen of the army that ever I saw, are quite different sort of people, and look as if they would scorn to spill any Christian blood as much as any men: I mean, that is, in a civil way, as my first husband used to say. To be sure, when they come into the wars, there must be bloodshed: but that they are not to be blamed for. The more of our enemies they kill there, the better: and I wish, with all my heart, they could kill every mother's son of them.”
“Ay!” says the landlady; “look at that now: my first husband was a wise man; he used to say, you can't always judge by appearances. That might have been true enough too; because I never saw him until he was covered in blood. Who would have thought it? Maybe some young man heartbroken over love. Good heavens, if he were to die, what a worry it would be for his parents! Surely, the devil must have taken hold of that wicked person to do something like this. Certainly, he is a disgrace to the army, as you say; because most of the army gentlemen I've seen are quite the opposite, looking like they would never want to spill any innocent blood. I mean, in a civil way, as my first husband used to say. Of course, when they go to war, there has to be bloodshed: but that’s not something they should be blamed for. The more of our enemies they take down, the better: and I wish from the bottom of my heart that they could take out every last one of them.”
“O fie, madam!” said the lieutenant, smiling; “all is rather too bloody-minded a wish.”
“O wow, ma'am!” said the lieutenant, smiling; “that is a pretty savage thing to wish for.”
“Not at all, sir,” answered she; “I am not at all bloody-minded, only to our enemies; and there is no harm in that. To be sure it is natural for us to wish our enemies dead, that the wars may be at an end, and our taxes be lowered; for it is a dreadful thing to pay as we do. Why now, there is above forty shillings for window-lights, and yet we have stopt up all we could; we have almost blinded the house, I am sure. Says I to the exciseman, says I, I think you oft to favour us; I am sure we are very good friends to the government: and so we are for sartain, for we pay a mint of money to 'um. And yet I often think to myself the government doth not imagine itself more obliged to us, than to those that don't pay 'um a farthing. Ay, ay, it is the way of the world.”
“Not at all, sir,” she replied. “I’m not at all bloodthirsty, only towards our enemies; and there’s no harm in that. Of course, it’s natural for us to want our enemies dead so that the wars can end and our taxes can go down; because it's awful what we have to pay. Just look at it—over forty shillings for window lights, and we've blocked up as many as we could; we’ve almost blinded the house, I’m sure. I told the exciseman, I said, I think you ought to favor us; we’re really good friends to the government: and we certainly are, because we pay them a fortune. Yet I often think that the government doesn’t see itself as more obligated to us than to those who don’t pay them anything at all. Yeah, that’s just how the world works.”
She was proceeding in this manner when the surgeon entered the room. The lieutenant immediately asked how his patient did. But he resolved him only by saying, “Better, I believe, than he would have been by this time, if I had not been called; and even as it is, perhaps it would have been lucky if I could have been called sooner.”—“I hope, sir,” said the lieutenant, “the skull is not fractured.”—“Hum,” cries the surgeon: “fractures are not always the most dangerous symptoms. Contusions and lacerations are often attended with worse phaenomena, and with more fatal consequences, than fractures. People who know nothing of the matter conclude, if the skull is not fractured, all is well; whereas, I had rather see a man's skull broke all to pieces, than some contusions I have met with.”—“I hope,” says the lieutenant, “there are no such symptoms here.”—“Symptoms,” answered the surgeon, “are not always regular nor constant. I have known very unfavourable symptoms in the morning change to favourable ones at noon, and return to unfavourable again at night. Of wounds, indeed, it is rightly and truly said, Nemo repente fuit turpissimus. I was once, I remember, called to a patient who had received a violent contusion in his tibia, by which the exterior cutis was lacerated, so that there was a profuse sanguinary discharge; and the interior membranes were so divellicated, that the os or bone very plainly appeared through the aperture of the vulnus or wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening at the same time (for the pulse was exuberant and indicated much phlebotomy), I apprehended an immediate mortification. To prevent which, I presently made a large orifice in the vein of the left arm, whence I drew twenty ounces of blood; which I expected to have found extremely sizy and glutinous, or indeed coagulated, as it is in pleuretic complaints; but, to my surprize, it appeared rosy and florid, and its consistency differed little from the blood of those in perfect health. I then applied a fomentation to the part, which highly answered the intention; and after three or four times dressing, the wound began to discharge a thick pus or matter, by which means the cohesion—But perhaps I do not make myself perfectly well understood?”—“No, really,” answered the lieutenant, “I cannot say I understand a syllable.”—“Well, sir,” said the surgeon, “then I shall not tire your patience; in short, within six weeks my patient was able to walk upon his legs as perfectly as he could have done before he received the contusion.”—“I wish, sir,” said the lieutenant, “you would be so kind only to inform me, whether the wound this young gentleman hath had the misfortune to receive, is likely to prove mortal.”—“Sir,” answered the surgeon, “to say whether a wound will prove mortal or not at first dressing, would be very weak and foolish presumption: we are all mortal, and symptoms often occur in a cure which the greatest of our profession could never foresee.”—“But do you think him in danger?” says the other.—“In danger! ay, surely,” cries the doctor: “who is there among us, who, in the most perfect health, can be said not to be in danger? Can a man, therefore, with so bad a wound as this be said to be out of danger? All I can say at present is, that it is well I was called as I was, and perhaps it would have been better if I had been called sooner. I will see him again early in the morning; and in the meantime let him be kept extremely quiet, and drink liberally of water-gruel.”—“Won't you allow him sack-whey?” said the landlady.—“Ay, ay, sack-whey,” cries the doctor, “if you will, provided it be very small.”—“And a little chicken broth too?” added she.—“Yes, yes, chicken broth,” said the doctor, “is very good.”—“Mayn't I make him some jellies too?” said the landlady.—“Ay, ay,” answered the doctor, “jellies are very good for wounds, for they promote cohesion.” And indeed it was lucky she had not named soup or high sauces, for the doctor would have complied, rather than have lost the custom of the house.
She was going about her business when the surgeon walked into the room. The lieutenant immediately asked how his patient was doing. The surgeon replied, “I believe he’s doing better than he would have been at this point if I hadn’t been called; though honestly, it might have been better if I’d been called sooner.” — “I hope, sir,” said the lieutenant, “the skull isn’t fractured.” — “Hmm,” replied the surgeon: “fractures aren’t always the most dangerous signs. Contusions and lacerations can often lead to worse issues and more fatal outcomes than fractures. People who know nothing about the matter think if the skull isn’t fractured, everything is fine; I’d rather see a man’s skull shattered than some of the contusions I’ve seen.” — “I hope,” said the lieutenant, “that there aren’t any symptoms like that here.” — “Symptoms,” answered the surgeon, “aren’t always regular or constant. I’ve seen very bad symptoms in the morning turn favorable by noon, then go back to bad again by night. It’s rightly said about wounds, Nemo repente fuit turpissimus. I once had a patient with a severe contusion on his shin, where the skin was torn, resulting in a heavy bleeding; the inner membranes were so damaged that the bone was clearly visible through the wound. At the same time, some fever symptoms appeared (his pulse was strong and suggested the need for bloodletting), so I feared immediate mortification. To prevent that, I quickly opened a vein in his left arm and drew twenty ounces of blood; I expected it to be thick and sticky, or even coagulated like in pleurisy, but surprisingly, it was rosy and bright, not much different in consistency from the blood of someone perfectly healthy. Then, I applied a warm compress to the area, which worked very well; after three or four dressings, the wound started to produce thick pus, which helped the healing—But perhaps I’m not being clear?” — “No, not really,” the lieutenant replied, “I can’t say I understood a word.” — “Well, sir,” said the surgeon, “I won’t bother you any longer; in short, within six weeks my patient was able to walk on his legs just as well as he could before the contusion.” — “I wish, sir,” said the lieutenant, “you would kindly let me know if the injury this young gentleman suffered is likely to be fatal.” — “Sir,” replied the surgeon, “to determine if a wound will be fatal right after dressing it would be very presumptuous. We are all mortal, and symptoms during recovery can arise that even the best in our field couldn’t have predicted.” — “But do you think he’s in danger?” asked the lieutenant. — “In danger! Yes, indeed,” the doctor replied: “who among us, in perfect health, is not in danger? So, how can a man with such a serious wound be considered out of danger? All I can say for now is that it’s good I was called when I was, though it might have been better if I’d been called sooner. I’ll check on him again early in the morning; in the meantime, keep him very quiet and let him drink plenty of water-gruel.” — “Will you allow him sack-whey?” asked the landlady. — “Yes, yes, sack-whey,” the doctor said, “if you want, as long as it’s very light.” — “And a little chicken broth too?” she added. — “Yes, yes, chicken broth is very good,” said the doctor. — “Can I make him some jellies too?” asked the landlady. — “Yes, yes,” answered the doctor, “jellies are great for wounds because they help with healing.” And indeed, it was fortunate she hadn’t mentioned soup or rich sauces, because the doctor would have agreed just to keep the business.
The doctor was no sooner gone, than the landlady began to trumpet forth his fame to the lieutenant, who had not, from their short acquaintance, conceived quite so favourable an opinion of his physical abilities as the good woman, and all the neighbourhood, entertained (and perhaps very rightly); for though I am afraid the doctor was a little of a coxcomb, he might be nevertheless very much of a surgeon.
The doctor had barely left when the landlady started to brag about his reputation to the lieutenant, who, based on their brief interaction, hadn’t formed as positive an opinion of his medical skills as the landlady and the rest of the neighborhood had (and maybe they were right to feel that way). Although I fear the doctor was a bit of a showoff, he could still be a pretty skilled surgeon.
The lieutenant having collected from the learned discourse of the surgeon that Mr Jones was in great danger, gave orders for keeping Mr Northerton under a very strict guard, designing in the morning to attend him to a justice of peace, and to commit the conducting the troops to Gloucester to the French lieutenant, who, though he could neither read, write, nor speak any language, was, however, a good officer.
The lieutenant, having gathered from the surgeon's knowledgeable discussion that Mr. Jones was in serious danger, ordered Mr. Northerton to be kept under very tight security. He planned to take him to a justice of the peace in the morning and to hand over the management of the troops heading to Gloucester to the French lieutenant, who, although he could neither read, write, nor speak any language, was still a competent officer.
In the evening, our commander sent a message to Mr Jones, that if a visit would not be troublesome, he would wait on him. This civility was very kindly and thankfully received by Jones, and the lieutenant accordingly went up to his room, where he found the wounded man much better than he expected; nay, Jones assured his friend, that if he had not received express orders to the contrary from the surgeon, he should have got up long ago; for he appeared to himself to be as well as ever, and felt no other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme soreness on that side of his head.
In the evening, our commander sent a message to Mr. Jones, saying that if a visit wouldn't be a bother, he would stop by. Jones appreciated this kindness and gratefully welcomed the lieutenant when he came to his room. To his surprise, the injured man looked much better than he had anticipated; in fact, Jones told his friend that if he hadn't received strict orders from the surgeon not to get up, he would have gotten out of bed long ago. He felt as good as ever and only experienced one issue from his wound, which was an intense soreness on that side of his head.
“I should be very glad,” quoth the lieutenant, “if you was as well as you fancy yourself, for then you could be able to do yourself justice immediately; for when a matter can't be made up, as in case of a blow, the sooner you take him out the better; but I am afraid you think yourself better than you are, and he would have too much advantage over you.”
“I would be really happy,” said the lieutenant, “if you were as well as you think you are, because then you could do yourself justice right away. When something can't be settled, like after a fight, the sooner you deal with it, the better. But I'm afraid you think you're better than you actually are, and he would have too much of an advantage over you.”
“I'll try, however,” answered Jones, “if you please, and will be so kind to lend me a sword, for I have none here of my own.”
“I'll give it a shot,” Jones replied, “if you don’t mind, and would be kind enough to lend me a sword, because I don’t have one of my own here.”
“My sword is heartily at your service, my dear boy,” cries the lieutenant, kissing him; “you are a brave lad, and I love your spirit; but I fear your strength; for such a blow, and so much loss of blood, must have very much weakened you; and though you feel no want of strength in your bed, yet you most probably would after a thrust or two. I can't consent to your taking him out tonight; but I hope you will be able to come up with us before we get many days' march advance; and I give you my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the man who hath injured you shan't stay in our regiment.”
“My sword is fully at your service, my dear boy,” the lieutenant says, giving him a kiss. “You are a brave lad, and I admire your spirit; but I worry about your strength. That blow and all that blood loss must have weakened you a lot. Even if you don’t feel weak in bed, you probably would after a thrust or two. I can’t allow you to go out tonight, but I hope you can join us before we make much progress. I promise you’ll get satisfaction, or the person who hurt you won’t stay in our regiment.”
“I wish,” said Jones, “it was possible to decide this matter to-night: now you have mentioned it to me, I shall not be able to rest.”
“I wish,” said Jones, “it was possible to settle this tonight: now that you’ve brought it up, I won’t be able to relax.”
“Oh, never think of it,” returned the other: “a few days will make no difference. The wounds of honour are not like those in your body: they suffer nothing by the delay of cure. It will be altogether as well for you to receive satisfaction a week hence as now.”
“Oh, don’t even think about it,” the other replied. “A few days won’t make any difference. Wounds of honor aren’t like physical injuries; they don’t get worse from waiting to heal. It will be just as good for you to get satisfaction in a week as it would be now.”
“But suppose,” says Jones, “I should grow worse, and die of the consequences of my present wound?”
“But what if,” says Jones, “I get worse and end up dying because of the consequences of my current injury?”
“Then your honour,” answered the lieutenant, “will require no reparation at all. I myself will do justice to your character, and testify to the world your intention to have acted properly, if you had recovered.”
“Then you, sir,” replied the lieutenant, “won't need any compensation at all. I will defend your character and tell everyone about your intention to act correctly if you had gotten better.”
“Still,” replied Jones, “I am concerned at the delay. I am almost afraid to mention it to you who are a soldier; but though I have been a very wild young fellow, still in my most serious moments, and at the bottom, I am really a Christian.”
“Still,” replied Jones, “I’m worried about the delay. I’m almost hesitant to bring it up with you as a soldier; but even though I’ve been quite the wild young guy, deep down, I truly am a Christian.”
“So am I too, I assure you,” said the officer; “and so zealous a one, that I was pleased with you at dinner for taking up the cause of your religion; and I am a little offended with you now, young gentleman, that you should express a fear of declaring your faith before any one.”
“So am I, I promise you,” said the officer; “and I'm so passionate about it that I appreciated you at dinner for supporting your beliefs; and I'm slightly disappointed in you now, young man, that you would show hesitation in declaring your faith to anyone.”
“But how terrible must it be,” cries Jones, “to any one who is really a Christian, to cherish malice in his breast, in opposition to the command of Him who hath expressly forbid it? How can I bear to do this on a sick-bed? Or how shall I make up my account, with such an article as this in my bosom against me?”
“But how awful must it be,” Jones cries, “for anyone who is truly a Christian, to hold onto hatred in their heart, in defiance of the command of Him who has clearly forbidden it? How can I stand to do this while I'm on a sickbed? And how will I face my end, with something like this weighing on me?”
“Why, I believe there is such a command,” cries the lieutenant; “but a man of honour can't keep it. And you must be a man of honour, if you will be in the army. I remember I once put the case to our chaplain over a bowl of punch, and he confessed there was much difficulty in it; but he said, he hoped there might be a latitude granted to soldiers in this one instance; and to be sure it is our duty to hope so; for who would bear to live without his honour? No, no, my dear boy, be a good Christian as long as you live; but be a man of honour too, and never put up an affront; not all the books, nor all the parsons in the world, shall ever persuade me to that. I love my religion very well, but I love my honour more. There must be some mistake in the wording the text, or in the translation, or in the understanding it, or somewhere or other. But however that be, a man must run the risque, for he must preserve his honour. So compose yourself to-night, and I promise you you shall have an opportunity of doing yourself justice.” Here he gave Jones a hearty buss, shook him by the hand, and took his leave.
“Honestly, I believe there is such a command,” the lieutenant exclaims. “But a person of honor can't follow it. And you need to be a person of honor if you’re going to be in the army. I remember discussing this with our chaplain over a drink, and he admitted it’s quite complicated; however, he said he hoped there might be some leeway for soldiers in this situation. And we certainly have to hope so, because who could stand to live without their honor? No, my dear boy, be a good Christian for life; but also be a person of honor and never tolerate an insult. Neither all the books nor all the ministers in the world could ever convince me otherwise. I value my faith greatly, but I value my honor even more. There must be some error in the wording of the text, or in its translation, or in our understanding of it, or something else. But regardless, a man has to take the risk because he must defend his honor. So relax tonight, and I assure you, you'll get the chance to prove your worth.” With that, he gave Jones a hearty kiss on the cheek, shook his hand, and took his leave.
But though the lieutenant's reasoning was very satisfactory to himself, it was not entirely so to his friend. Jones therefore, having revolved this matter much in his thoughts, at last came to a resolution, which the reader will find in the next chapter.
But even though the lieutenant's reasoning made perfect sense to him, it didn't completely convince his friend. Jones, having thought about this a lot, finally made a decision, which the reader will discover in the next chapter.
Chapter xiv. — A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers ought to venture upon in an evening, especially when alone.
Jones swallowed a large mess of chicken, or rather cock, broth, with a very good appetite, as indeed he would have done the cock it was made of, with a pound of bacon into the bargain; and now, finding in himself no deficiency of either health or spirit, he resolved to get up and seek his enemy.
Jones gulped down a big bowl of chicken broth, or rather rooster broth, with a really good appetite, just like he would have done with the rooster it was made from, plus a pound of bacon on the side; and now, feeling neither unwell nor low-spirited, he decided to get up and look for his enemy.
But first he sent for the serjeant, who was his first acquaintance among these military gentlemen. Unluckily that worthy officer having, in a literal sense, taken his fill of liquor, had been some time retired to his bolster, where he was snoring so loud that it was not easy to convey a noise in at his ears capable of drowning that which issued from his nostrils.
But first he called for the sergeant, who was the first person he got to know among these military guys. Unfortunately, that officer had literally drunk too much and had been in bed for a while, snoring so loudly that it was hard to make any noise that could compete with what was coming from his nose.
However, as Jones persisted in his desire of seeing him, a vociferous drawer at length found means to disturb his slumbers, and to acquaint him with the message. Of which the serjeant was no sooner made sensible, than he arose from his bed, and having his clothes already on, immediately attended. Jones did not think fit to acquaint the serjeant with his design; though he might have done it with great safety, for the halberdier was himself a man of honour, and had killed his man. He would therefore have faithfully kept this secret, or indeed any other which no reward was published for discovering. But as Jones knew not those virtues in so short an acquaintance, his caution was perhaps prudent and commendable enough.
However, as Jones continued to want to see him, a loud servant eventually found a way to wake him up and deliver the message. As soon as the sergeant understood what was happening, he got out of bed, already dressed, and immediately went to attend to it. Jones didn’t think it was necessary to tell the sergeant about his plan, although he could have done so safely, since the halberdier was an honorable man and had killed his opponent in battle. He would have kept this secret, or any other that didn’t offer a reward for revealing it, faithfully. But since Jones didn’t know about these virtues after such a brief acquaintance, his caution was probably wise and quite commendable.
He began therefore by acquainting the serjeant, that as he was now entered into the army, he was ashamed of being without what was perhaps the most necessary implement of a soldier; namely, a sword; adding, that he should be infinitely obliged to him, if he could procure one. “For which,” says he, “I will give you any reasonable price; nor do I insist upon its being silver-hilted; only a good blade, and such as may become a soldier's thigh.”
He started by telling the sergeant that now that he had joined the army, he felt embarrassed not to have what might be the most essential tool for a soldier: a sword. He added that he would be very grateful if the sergeant could help him get one. “For that,” he said, “I will pay a fair price; I don’t even need it to have a silver hilt; just a good blade that would look right on a soldier’s side.”
The serjeant, who well knew what had happened, and had heard that Jones was in a very dangerous condition, immediately concluded, from such a message, at such a time of night, and from a man in such a situation, that he was light-headed. Now as he had his wit (to use that word in its common signification) always ready, he bethought himself of making his advantage of this humour in the sick man. “Sir,” says he, “I believe I can fit you. I have a most excellent piece of stuff by me. It is not indeed silver-hilted, which, as you say, doth not become a soldier; but the handle is decent enough, and the blade one of the best in Europe. It is a blade that—a blade that—in short, I will fetch it you this instant, and you shall see it and handle it. I am glad to see your honour so well with all my heart.”
The sergeant, who knew exactly what had happened and had heard that Jones was in a critical state, immediately concluded, based on the message, the time of night, and the situation the man was in, that he was delirious. With his quick wit always ready, he thought about how to take advantage of the sick man's condition. “Sir,” he said, “I think I can help you. I have a great piece of weaponry with me. It might not have a silver hilt, which you mentioned doesn’t suit a soldier; but the handle looks fine, and the blade is one of the best in Europe. It’s a blade that—well, I’ll get it for you right now, and you can see and try it out yourself. I’m really glad to see you doing so well.”
Being instantly returned with the sword, he delivered it to Jones, who took it and drew it; and then told the serjeant it would do very well, and bid him name his price.
Being quickly handed the sword back, he gave it to Jones, who took it and drew it out. Then he told the sergeant it was good enough and asked him to name his price.
The serjeant now began to harangue in praise of his goods. He said (nay he swore very heartily), “that the blade was taken from a French officer, of very high rank, at the battle of Dettingen. I took it myself,” says he, “from his side, after I had knocked him o' the head. The hilt was a golden one. That I sold to one of our fine gentlemen; for there are some of them, an't please your honour, who value the hilt of a sword more than the blade.”
The sergeant started to preach about his goods. He claimed (and swore quite earnestly), “that the blade came from a French officer of high rank at the battle of Dettingen. I took it myself,” he said, “from his side after I knocked him out. The hilt was made of gold. I sold that to one of our wealthy gentlemen; because, if it pleases you, some of them value the hilt of a sword more than the blade.”
Here the other stopped him, and begged him to name a price. The serjeant, who thought Jones absolutely out of his senses, and very near his end, was afraid lest he should injure his family by asking too little. However, after a moment's hesitation, he contented himself with naming twenty guineas, and swore he would not sell it for less to his own brother.
Here the other person stopped him and asked him to name a price. The sergeant, who thought Jones was completely out of his mind and very close to the end, was worried he might harm his family by asking for too little. However, after a brief pause, he settled on naming twenty guineas and swore he wouldn't sell it for any less even to his own brother.
“Twenty guineas!” says Jones, in the utmost surprize: “sure you think I am mad, or that I never saw a sword in my life. Twenty guineas, indeed! I did not imagine you would endeavour to impose upon me. Here, take the sword—No, now I think on't, I will keep it myself, and show it your officer in the morning, acquainting him, at the same time, what a price you asked me for it.”
“Twenty guineas!” Jones exclaims, clearly shocked. “You must think I’m crazy, or that I’ve never seen a sword before. Twenty guineas, really! I never thought you would try to trick me. Here, take the sword—Wait, now that I think about it, I’ll keep it for myself and show it to your officer in the morning, telling him at the same time what price you asked for it.”
The serjeant, as we have said, had always his wit (in sensu praedicto) about him, and now plainly saw that Jones was not in the condition he had apprehended him to be; he now, therefore, counterfeited as great surprize as the other had shown, and said, “I am certain, sir, I have not asked you so much out of the way. Besides, you are to consider, it is the only sword I have, and I must run the risque of my officer's displeasure, by going without one myself. And truly, putting all this together, I don't think twenty shillings was so much out of the way.”
The sergeant, as we mentioned, was always sharp and clearly noticed that Jones wasn’t in the state he thought he was; he then acted just as surprised as Jones had been and said, “I’m sure, sir, I haven’t asked for anything unreasonable. Besides, you should consider that this is the only sword I have, and I have to risk my officer's anger by going without one myself. And honestly, when you look at everything, I don’t think twenty shillings is that unreasonable.”
“Twenty shillings!” cries Jones; “why, you just now asked me twenty guineas.”—“How!” cries the serjeant, “sure your honour must have mistaken me: or else I mistook myself—and indeed I am but half awake. Twenty guineas, indeed! no wonder your honour flew into such a passion. I say twenty guineas too. No, no, I mean twenty shillings, I assure you. And when your honour comes to consider everything, I hope you will not think that so extravagant a price. It is indeed true, you may buy a weapon which looks as well for less money. But——”
“Twenty shillings!” Jones exclaims; “but you just asked me for twenty guineas.” — “What?” the sergeant responds, “surely your honor must have misunderstood me: or I misheard you—and truthfully, I’m only half awake. Twenty guineas, indeed! No wonder you got so upset. I meant twenty guineas too. No, wait, I actually mean twenty shillings, I swear. And when you think about everything, I hope you won’t consider that such an outrageous price. It’s true, you can get a weapon that looks just as good for less money. But——”
Here Jones interrupted him, saying, “I will be so far from making any words with you, that I will give you a shilling more than your demand.” He then gave him a guinea, bid him return to his bed, and wished him a good march; adding, he hoped to overtake them before the division reached Worcester.
Here Jones interrupted him, saying, “I won’t just engage in any conversation with you; I’ll give you a shilling more than what you asked for.” He then handed him a guinea, told him to go back to his bed, and wished him a good journey, adding that he hoped to catch up with them before the group got to Worcester.
The serjeant very civilly took his leave, fully satisfied with his merchandize, and not a little pleased with his dexterous recovery from that false step into which his opinion of the sick man's light-headedness had betrayed him.
The sergeant politely took his leave, completely satisfied with his goods, and quite pleased with his clever recovery from the mistake he made in judging the sick man's confusion.
As soon as the serjeant was departed, Jones rose from his bed, and dressed himself entirely, putting on even his coat, which, as its colour was white, showed very visibly the streams of blood which had flowed down it; and now, having grasped his new-purchased sword in his hand, he was going to issue forth, when the thought of what he was about to undertake laid suddenly hold of him, and he began to reflect that in a few minutes he might possibly deprive a human being of life, or might lose his own. “Very well,” said he, “and in what cause do I venture my life? Why, in that of my honour. And who is this human being? A rascal who hath injured and insulted me without provocation. But is not revenge forbidden by Heaven? Yes, but it is enjoined by the world. Well, but shall I obey the world in opposition to the express commands of Heaven? Shall I incur the Divine displeasure rather than be called—ha—coward—scoundrel?—I'll think no more; I am resolved, and must fight him.”
As soon as the sergeant left, Jones got out of bed and completely dressed himself, even putting on his coat, which was white and clearly showed the stains of blood on it. Now, holding his newly purchased sword in his hand, he was about to step outside when the reality of what he was about to do hit him suddenly. He started to think that in a few minutes, he might actually take someone's life or lose his own. “Very well,” he said to himself, “and what am I risking my life for? For my honor. And who is this person? A jerk who has wronged and insulted me for no reason. But isn’t revenge against the will of Heaven? Yes, but it's encouraged by society. Well, should I really listen to society over the clear commands of Heaven? Should I face divine wrath rather than be called—ha—coward—scoundrel?—I won’t think any longer; I’ve made up my mind, and I have to fight him.”
The clock had now struck twelve, and every one in the house were in their beds, except the centinel who stood to guard Northerton, when Jones softly opening his door, issued forth in pursuit of his enemy, of whose place of confinement he had received a perfect description from the drawer. It is not easy to conceive a much more tremendous figure than he now exhibited. He had on, as we have said, a light-coloured coat, covered with streams of blood. His face, which missed that very blood, as well as twenty ounces more drawn from him by the surgeon, was pallid. Round his head was a quantity of bandage, not unlike a turban. In the right hand he carried a sword, and in the left a candle. So that the bloody Banquo was not worthy to be compared to him. In fact, I believe a more dreadful apparition was never raised in a church-yard, nor in the imagination of any good people met in a winter evening over a Christmas fire in Somersetshire.
The clock had just struck twelve, and everyone in the house was in their beds, except for the guard watching over Northerton. As Jones quietly opened his door, he stepped out in search of his enemy, armed with a detailed description of their hiding place from the drawer. It’s hard to imagine a more terrifying sight than what he presented. He wore a light-colored coat stained with blood. His face, which had lost that very blood, along with an additional twenty ounces taken by the surgeon, looked pale. Around his head was a bandage, resembling a turban. In one hand, he held a sword, and in the other, a candle. Bloody Banquo didn't even compare to him. Honestly, I think a more horrifying figure has never been seen in a graveyard or in the minds of any good folks gathered by a warm fire on a winter evening in Somersetshire.
When the centinel first saw our heroe approach, his hair began gently to lift up his grenadier cap; and in the same instant his knees fell to blows with each other. Presently his whole body was seized with worse than an ague fit. He then fired his piece, and fell flat on his face.
When the lookout first spotted our hero coming, his hair started to lift under his grenadier cap, and at the same moment, his knees began to knock together. Soon, his entire body was shaking worse than with a bad fever. He then fired his weapon and collapsed flat on his face.
Whether fear or courage was the occasion of his firing, or whether he took aim at the object of his terror, I cannot say. If he did, however, he had the good fortune to miss his man.
Whether it was fear or courage that made him fire, or if he aimed at the source of his fear, I can't tell. But if he did aim, he was lucky enough to miss his target.
Jones seeing the fellow fall, guessed the cause of his fright, at which he could not forbear smiling, not in the least reflecting on the danger from which he had just escaped. He then passed by the fellow, who still continued in the posture in which he fell, and entered the room where Northerton, as he had heard, was confined. Here, in a solitary situation, he found—an empty quart pot standing on the table, on which some beer being spilt, it looked as if the room had lately been inhabited; but at present it was entirely vacant.
Jones watched the guy fall and figured out what had scared him, which made him smile, completely ignoring the danger he had just avoided. He then walked past the guy, who was still lying there in the same position he fell, and went into the room where he had heard Northerton was locked up. In that solitary space, he found an empty quart pot on the table with some spilled beer, making it look like the room had recently been used, but right now, it was completely empty.
Jones then apprehended it might lead to some other apartment; but upon searching all round it, he could perceive no other door than that at which he entered, and where the centinel had been posted. He then proceeded to call Northerton several times by his name; but no one answered; nor did this serve to any other purpose than to confirm the centinel in his terrors, who was now convinced that the volunteer was dead of his wounds, and that his ghost was come in search of the murderer: he now lay in all the agonies of horror; and I wish, with all my heart, some of those actors who are hereafter to represent a man frighted out of his wits had seen him, that they might be taught to copy nature, instead of performing several antic tricks and gestures, for the entertainment and applause of the galleries.
Jones then realized it might lead to another room, but after checking all around, he couldn't find any door other than the one he came in through, where the guard had been stationed. He then called out Northerton's name several times, but no one replied; this only served to deepen the guard's fears, who was now convinced that the volunteer had died from his injuries and that his ghost had come looking for the murderer. He lay there in utter terror, and I truly wish that some of those actors who are meant to portray a man driven mad with fear could have seen him, so they could learn to mimic real emotions instead of performing silly tricks and gestures just to entertain and win applause from the audience.
Perceiving the bird was flown, at least despairing to find him, and rightly apprehending that the report of the firelock would alarm the whole house, our heroe now blew out his candle, and gently stole back again to his chamber, and to his bed; whither he would not have been able to have gotten undiscovered, had any other person been on the same staircase, save only one gentleman who was confined to his bed by the gout; for before he could reach the door to his chamber, the hall where the centinel had been posted was half full of people, some in their shirts, and others not half drest, all very earnestly enquiring of each other what was the matter.
Realizing that the bird had flown and feeling hopeless about finding it, and knowing that the sound of the gun would alert everyone in the house, our hero blew out his candle and quietly snuck back to his room and to his bed. He wouldn’t have been able to do this unnoticed if anyone else had been on the same staircase, except for one gentleman who was stuck in bed with gout. By the time he reached his bedroom door, the hall where the guard had been stationed was half-filled with people, some in their nightclothes and others barely dressed, all urgently asking each other what was going on.
The soldier was now found lying in the same place and posture in which we just now left him. Several immediately applied themselves to raise him, and some concluded him dead; but they presently saw their mistake, for he not only struggled with those who laid their hands on him, but fell a roaring like a bull. In reality, he imagined so many spirits or devils were handling him; for his imagination being possessed with the horror of an apparition, converted every object he saw or felt into nothing but ghosts and spectres.
The soldier was now found lying in the same spot and position where we just left him. A few people immediately tried to lift him, and some thought he was dead; but they quickly realized their mistake, as he not only fought against those who touched him but also started roaring like a bull. In reality, he believed that many spirits or demons were grabbing him; his imagination, being overwhelmed by the fear of a ghost, turned everything he saw or felt into nothing but ghosts and shadows.
At length he was overpowered by numbers, and got upon his legs; when candles being brought, and seeing two or three of his comrades present, he came a little to himself; but when they asked him what was the matter? he answered, “I am a dead man, that's all, I am a dead man, I can't recover it, I have seen him.” “What hast thou seen, Jack?” says one of the soldiers. “Why, I have seen the young volunteer that was killed yesterday.” He then imprecated the most heavy curses on himself, if he had not seen the volunteer, all over blood, vomiting fire out of his mouth and nostrils, pass by him into the chamber where Ensign Northerton was, and then seizing the ensign by the throat, fly away with him in a clap of thunder.
Eventually, he was overwhelmed by the numbers and got back on his feet; when candles were brought in and he saw two or three of his comrades there, he started to come back to his senses. But when they asked him what was wrong, he replied, “I’m a dead man, that’s all, I’m a dead man, I can’t come back from this, I’ve seen him.” “What did you see, Jack?” one of the soldiers asked. “Well, I saw the young volunteer who was killed yesterday.” He then cursed himself heavily, saying that if he hadn’t seen the volunteer—covered in blood, spitting fire from his mouth and nostrils—pass by him into the room where Ensign Northerton was, and then grab the ensign by the throat and fly away with him in a clap of thunder, he would be condemned.
This relation met with a gracious reception from the audience. All the women present believed it firmly, and prayed Heaven to defend them from murder. Amongst the men too, many had faith in the story; but others turned it into derision and ridicule; and a serjeant who was present answered very coolly, “Young man, you will hear more of this, for going to sleep and dreaming on your post.”
This account was well received by the audience. All the women there believed it wholeheartedly and prayed to Heaven to protect them from murder. Among the men, many also believed the story; however, others mocked and ridiculed it. A sergeant who was present responded nonchalantly, “Young man, you’ll hear more about this for going to sleep and dreaming on duty.”
The soldier replied, “You may punish me if you please; but I was as broad awake as I am now; and the devil carry me away, as he hath the ensign, if I did not see the dead man, as I tell you, with eyes as big and as fiery as two large flambeaux.”
The soldier replied, “You can punish me if you want; but I was as wide awake as I am now; and may the devil take me, just like he took the ensign, if I didn't see the dead man, I swear, with eyes as big and fiery as two large torches.”
The commander of the forces, and the commander of the house, were now both arrived; for the former being awake at the time, and hearing the centinel fire his piece, thought it his duty to rise immediately, though he had no great apprehensions of any mischief; whereas the apprehensions of the latter were much greater, lest her spoons and tankards should be upon the march, without having received any such orders from her.
The commander of the troops and the head of the household had both arrived now; the former, being awake at the time and hearing the sentinel fire his weapon, felt it was his duty to get up right away, even though he wasn't too worried about any trouble. In contrast, the latter was much more concerned, fearing that her spoons and tankards might be on the move without having received any orders from her.
Our poor centinel, to whom the sight of this officer was not much more welcome than the apparition, as he thought it, which he had seen before, again related the dreadful story, and with many additions of blood and fire; but he had the misfortune to gain no credit with either of the last-mentioned persons: for the officer, though a very religious man, was free from all terrors of this kind; besides, having so lately left Jones in the condition we have seen, he had no suspicion of his being dead. As for the landlady, though not over religious, she had no kind of aversion to the doctrine of spirits; but there was a circumstance in the tale which she well knew to be false, as we shall inform the reader presently.
Our poor sentry, who found the sight of this officer just as unwelcome as the ghost he had seen earlier, once again told the terrifying story, adding even more details of blood and fire. Unfortunately, he failed to gain any credibility with either of the people he was speaking to. The officer, although a very religious man, was not easily frightened by such things; besides, having just left Jones in the state we described earlier, he had no reason to believe he was dead. As for the landlady, while not particularly religious, she didn't have any issue with the idea of spirits. However, there was a part of the story she knew was untrue, as we will explain to the reader shortly.
But whether Northerton was carried away in thunder or fire, or in whatever other manner he was gone, it was now certain that his body was no longer in custody. Upon this occasion the lieutenant formed a conclusion not very different from what the serjeant is just mentioned to have made before, and immediately ordered the centinel to be taken prisoner. So that, by a strange reverse of fortune (though not very uncommon in a military life), the guard became the guarded.
But whether Northerton was taken away by thunder or fire, or in whatever way he was gone, it was now clear that his body was no longer in custody. On this occasion, the lieutenant came to a conclusion not very different from what the sergeant had just mentioned before and immediately ordered the sentinel to be taken prisoner. So, in a strange twist of fate (though not very uncommon in military life), the guard became the guarded.
Chapter xv. — The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.
Besides the suspicion of sleep, the lieutenant harboured another and worse doubt against the poor centinel, and this was, that of treachery; for as he believed not one syllable of the apparition, so he imagined the whole to be an invention formed only to impose upon him, and that the fellow had in reality been bribed by Northerton to let him escape. And this he imagined the rather, as the fright appeared to him the more unnatural in one who had the character of as brave and bold a man as any in the regiment, having been in several actions, having received several wounds, and, in a word, having behaved himself always like a good and valiant soldier.
Besides suspecting he was just tired, the lieutenant had another, worse doubt about the poor sentinel: he feared treachery. He didn't believe a word about the apparition; instead, he thought it was all just a trick to fool him, and that the guy had actually been bribed by Northerton to let him get away. He was more convinced of this because the panic seemed so out of character for someone known to be as brave and bold as any man in the regiment, having fought in several battles, received multiple injuries, and, in short, always acted like a good and valiant soldier.
That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of such a person, we shall not delay a moment in rescuing his character from the imputation of this guilt.
So that the reader doesn’t form any negative opinion of such a person, we won’t waste any time clearing his name of this accusation.
Mr Northerton then, as we have before observed, was fully satisfied with the glory which he had obtained from this action. He had perhaps seen, or heard, or guessed, that envy is apt to attend fame. Not that I would here insinuate that he was heathenishly inclined to believe in or to worship the goddess Nemesis; for, in fact, I am convinced he never heard of her name. He was, besides, of an active disposition, and had a great antipathy to those close quarters in the castle of Gloucester, for which a justice of peace might possibly give him a billet. Nor was he moreover free from some uneasy meditations on a certain wooden edifice, which I forbear to name, in conformity to the opinion of mankind, who, I think, rather ought to honour than to be ashamed of this building, as it is, or at least might be made, of more benefit to society than almost any other public erection. In a word, to hint at no more reasons for his conduct, Mr Northerton was desirous of departing that evening, and nothing remained for him but to contrive the quomodo, which appeared to be a matter of some difficulty.
Mr. Northerton, as we've mentioned before, was quite pleased with the recognition he gained from this action. He might have observed, heard, or guessed that envy often comes with fame. It's not that I’m suggesting he was foolish enough to believe in or worship the goddess Nemesis; in fact, I'm sure he had never even heard her name. He was also fairly energetic and really disliked the cramped quarters in the castle of Gloucester, which a justice of the peace might assign to him. Moreover, he wasn't free from some uncomfortable thoughts about a certain wooden structure, which I won't mention, in line with popular opinion, as I believe people should honor rather than be ashamed of this building, since it could provide more benefit to society than almost any other public construction. In short, without going into more reasons for his behavior, Mr. Northerton wanted to leave that evening, and all that was left for him was to figure out how to do it, which seemed like it would be quite difficult.
Now this young gentleman, though somewhat crooked in his morals, was perfectly straight in his person, which was extremely strong and well made. His face too was accounted handsome by the generality of women, for it was broad and ruddy, with tolerably good teeth. Such charms did not fail making an impression on my landlady, who had no little relish for this kind of beauty. She had, indeed, a real compassion for the young man; and hearing from the surgeon that affairs were like to go ill with the volunteer, she suspected they might hereafter wear no benign aspect with the ensign. Having obtained, therefore, leave to make him a visit, and finding him in a very melancholy mood, which she considerably heightened by telling him there were scarce any hopes of the volunteer's life, she proceeded to throw forth some hints, which the other readily and eagerly taking up, they soon came to a right understanding; and it was at length agreed that the ensign should, at a certain signal, ascend the chimney, which communicating very soon with that of the kitchen, he might there again let himself down; for which she would give him an opportunity by keeping the coast clear.
Now this young guy, although a bit shady in his morals, was definitely solid in his physique, which was very strong and well-built. His face was also considered attractive by most women, as it was broad and flushed, sporting reasonably good teeth. Those charms definitely caught the attention of my landlady, who had a real appreciation for this type of beauty. She felt genuine sympathy for the young man; and after hearing from the surgeon that things were likely to go badly for the volunteer, she suspected they might not look good for the ensign in the future. So, she got permission to visit him and found him in a very gloomy mood, which she made even worse by telling him there was hardly any hope for the volunteer's life. She then dropped some hints, which the ensign picked up on eagerly, and they quickly reached an understanding. Eventually, they agreed that the ensign would, at a specific signal, climb up the chimney, which connected right away with the kitchen's chimney, allowing him to let himself down there. She would provide him the chance by keeping things clear.
But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take this occasion of too hastily condemning all compassion as a folly, and pernicious to society, we think proper to mention another particular which might possibly have some little share in this action. The ensign happened to be at this time possessed of the sum of fifty pounds, which did indeed belong to the whole company; for the captain having quarrelled with his lieutenant, had entrusted the payment of his company to the ensign. This money, however, he thought proper to deposit in my landlady's hand, possibly by way of bail or security that he would hereafter appear and answer to the charge against him; but whatever were the conditions, certain it is, that she had the money and the ensign his liberty.
But to avoid having readers, who might think differently, quickly judge all compassion as foolish and harmful to society, we should point out another detail that might have played a part in this situation. At this time, the ensign had fifty pounds, which actually belonged to the entire company. The captain had argued with his lieutenant and had given the responsibility of paying the company to the ensign. However, he decided to leave the money with my landlady, maybe as a kind of bail or security that he would return and address the charges against him. Whatever the reasons, it's clear that she had the money and the ensign had his freedom.
The reader may perhaps expect, from the compassionate temper of this good woman, that when she saw the poor centinel taken prisoner for a fact of which she knew him innocent, she should immediately have interposed in his behalf; but whether it was that she had already exhausted all her compassion in the above-mentioned instance, or that the features of this fellow, though not very different from those of the ensign, could not raise it, I will not determine; but, far from being an advocate for the present prisoner, she urged his guilt to his officer, declaring, with uplifted eyes and hands, that she would not have had any concern in the escape of a murderer for all the world.
The reader might expect that, given the kind nature of this good woman, when she saw the poor soldier captured for something she knew he didn’t do, she would immediately step in to help him. However, whether she had already used up all her compassion in the earlier situation or whether this man’s appearance, although similar to the ensign's, failed to evoke any sympathy, I won’t say. Instead of advocating for the current prisoner, she accused him of guilt to his superior, insisting with raised eyes and hands that she wouldn’t want to be involved in the escape of a murderer for anything in the world.
Everything was now once more quiet, and most of the company returned again to their beds; but the landlady, either from the natural activity of her disposition, or from her fear for her plate, having no propensity to sleep, prevailed with the officers, as they were to march within little more than an hour, to spend that time with her over a bowl of punch.
Everything was quiet again, and most of the guests went back to their beds. However, the landlady, either because she was naturally energetic or worried about her silverware, couldn’t sleep. She persuaded the officers, who were set to march in just over an hour, to spend that time with her over a bowl of punch.
Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard great part of the hurry and bustle that had passed, of which he had now some curiosity to know the particulars. He therefore applied to his bell, which he rung at least twenty times without any effect: for my landlady was in such high mirth with her company, that no clapper could be heard there but her own; and the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting together in the kitchen (for neither durst he sit up nor she lie in bed alone), the more they heard the bell ring the more they were frightened, and as it were nailed down in their places.
Jones had been lying awake all this time and had heard much of the commotion that had gone on, which now made him curious to know the details. So, he called for his bell, ringing it at least twenty times without any response; his landlady was having such a great time with her guests that no noise could be heard except for her own laughter. The waiter and maid, who were sitting together in the kitchen (since neither dared to stay up alone nor lay in bed by themselves), only got more scared each time they heard the bell ring and felt stuck in their spots.
At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the ears of our good landlady, who presently sent forth her summons, which both her servants instantly obeyed. “Joe,” says the mistress, “don't you hear the gentleman's bell ring? Why don't you go up?”—“It is not my business,” answered the drawer, “to wait upon the chambers—it is Betty Chambermaid's.”—“If you come to that,” answered the maid, “it is not my business to wait upon gentlemen. I have done it indeed sometimes; but the devil fetch me if ever I do again, since you make your preambles about it.” The bell still ringing violently, their mistress fell into a passion, and swore, if the drawer did not go up immediately, she would turn him away that very morning. “If you do, madam,” says he, “I can't help it. I won't do another servant's business.” She then applied herself to the maid, and endeavoured to prevail by gentle means; but all in vain: Betty was as inflexible as Joe. Both insisted it was not their business, and they would not do it.
Finally, during a fortunate moment of conversation, the sound reached our friendly landlady, who promptly issued her command, which both of her servants immediately followed. “Joe,” said the mistress, “don’t you hear the gentleman’s bell ringing? Why aren’t you going up?”—“It’s not my job,” replied the waiter, “to attend to the rooms—it’s Betty the chambermaid’s.” —“Well, if that’s the case,” replied the maid, “it’s not my job to attend to gentlemen. I have done it a few times, but devil take me if I ever do it again, especially since you’re making such a fuss about it.” With the bell still ringing loudly, their mistress got angry and swore that if the waiter didn’t go up immediately, she would fire him that very morning. “If you do, ma’am,” he said, “I can't help it. I won’t do another servant’s job.” She then turned to the maid, trying to persuade her with gentle words, but it was all in vain: Betty was as stubborn as Joe. Both insisted it wasn’t their job, and they wouldn’t do it.
The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, “Come, I will put an end to this contention;” and then turning to the servants, commended them for their resolution in not giving up the point; but added, he was sure, if one would consent to go the other would. To which proposal they both agreed in an instant, and accordingly went up very lovingly and close together. When they were gone, the lieutenant appeased the wrath of the landlady, by satisfying her why they were both so unwilling to go alone.
The lieutenant then burst out laughing and said, “Alright, I’ll settle this argument;” and then, turning to the servants, praised them for their determination in not backing down; but added that he was sure if one agreed to go, the other would too. To this suggestion, they both immediately agreed and headed up together, being very friendly and close. Once they left, the lieutenant calmed the landlady’s anger by explaining why they were so hesitant to go alone.
They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that the sick gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily as if he was well; and that he gave his service to the captain, and should be very glad of the favour of seeing him before he marched.
They came back shortly after and informed their mistress that the sick gentleman was far from dead; he spoke as energetically as if he were healthy. He sent his regards to the captain and would be very happy to see him before he left.
The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and sitting down by his bed-side, acquainted him with the scene which had happened below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of the centinel.
The good lieutenant quickly agreed to his requests, and sitting down by his bedside, informed him about what had happened below, ending with his plan to make an example of the sentry.
Upon this Jones related to him the whole truth, and earnestly begged him not to punish the poor soldier, “who, I am confident,” says he, “is as innocent of the ensign's escape, as he is of forging any lie, or of endeavouring to impose on you.”
Upon this, Jones told him the whole truth and sincerely begged him not to punish the poor soldier, “who, I am confident,” he said, “is as innocent of the ensign's escape as he is of making up any lie or trying to trick you.”
The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered: “Why, as you have cleared the fellow of one part of the charge, so it will be impossible to prove the other, because he was not the only centinel. But I have a good mind to punish the rascal for being a coward. Yet who knows what effect the terror of such an apprehension may have? and, to say the truth, he hath always behaved well against an enemy. Come, it is a good thing to see any sign of religion in these fellows; so I promise you he shall be set at liberty when we march. But hark, the general beats. My dear boy, give me another buss. Don't discompose nor hurry yourself; but remember the Christian doctrine of patience, and I warrant you will soon be able to do yourself justice, and to take an honourable revenge on the fellow who hath injured you.” The lieutenant then departed, and Jones endeavoured to compose himself to rest.
The lieutenant paused for a moment, then replied, “Well, since you’ve cleared the guy of one part of the accusation, it’ll be impossible to prove the other, since he wasn’t the only guard on duty. But I really want to punish him for being such a coward. Still, who knows what kind of impact the fear of being caught might have? To be honest, he has always acted bravely against the enemy. Come on, it’s good to see any signs of faith in these guys; so I promise you he’ll be freed when we move out. But wait, the general is signaling. My dear boy, give me another kiss. Don’t get flustered or rush; just remember the Christian virtue of patience, and I guarantee you’ll soon be able to stand up for yourself and get an honorable revenge on the guy who wronged you.” The lieutenant then left, and Jones tried to calm himself down to rest.
BOOK VIII. — CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i. — A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the longest of all our introductory chapters.
As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history will oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing kind than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in the prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that species of writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall, as well for the sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some certain bounds, and indeed nothing can be more necessary, as critics[*] of different complexions are here apt to run into very different extremes; for while some are, with M. Dacier, ready to allow, that the same thing which is impossible may be yet probable,[**] others have so little historic or poetic faith, that they believe nothing to be either possible or probable, the like to which hath not occurred to their own observation.
As we start this book, which will lead us to discuss some really strange and surprising events in our history, it’s a good idea in this introductory chapter to touch on the kind of writing known as the marvelous. We’ll try to set some clear boundaries for it, which is essential because critics with different viewpoints tend to take very different sides on this issue. Some, like M. Dacier, believe that something impossible can still be seen as probable, while others are so skeptical about history or poetry that they think nothing can be considered possible or probable unless they’ve personally witnessed it.
[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean every reader in the world. [**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean every reader in the world. [**] It’s fortunate for M. Dacier that he wasn’t Irish.
First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every writer, that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still remembers that what it is not possible for man to perform, it is scarce possible for man to believe he did perform. This conviction perhaps gave birth to many stories of the antient heathen deities (for most of them are of poetical original). The poet, being desirous to indulge a wanton and extravagant imagination, took refuge in that power, of the extent of which his readers were no judges, or rather which they imagined to be infinite, and consequently they could not be shocked at any prodigies related of it. This hath been strongly urged in defence of Homer's miracles; and it is perhaps a defence; not, as Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a set of foolish lies to the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but because the poet himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were articles of faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my temper, I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and preserved his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself, when his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think, afterwards, too much regard for man's flesh to be supposed capable of converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that Homer could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce supernatural agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have seen his gods coming on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves so as not only to forfeit all title to respect, but to become the objects of scorn and derision. A conduct which must have shocked the credulity of a pious and sagacious heathen; and which could never have been defended, unless by agreeing with a supposition to which I have been sometimes almost inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he certainly was, had an intent to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own age and country.
First, I think it’s reasonable to expect every writer to stay within the limits of what’s possible and to remember that if something is impossible for humans to do, then it’s hard for them to believe that it actually happened. This belief may have led to many stories about ancient pagan gods (most of which have a poetic origin). The poet, wanting to indulge a fanciful and extravagant imagination, turned to that power, the extent of which his readers couldn't judge, or rather which they believed to be limitless, so they couldn’t be shocked by any wonders associated with it. This has often been used to justify the miracles in Homer’s works; and it might be a justification—not, as Mr. Pope would say, because Ulysses told a bunch of silly lies to the Phaeacians, who were a rather dull people; but because the poet was writing for pagans, for whom poetic myths were taken as truth. Personally, I must admit, being as compassionate as I am, I wish Polyphemus had stuck to his milk diet and kept his eye intact; and I can’t say that Ulysses was any more concerned than I was when his companions were turned into pigs by Circe, who I think later cared too much for human flesh to be believed capable of turning it into bacon. I also truly wish Homer could have followed Horace’s advice to introduce supernatural beings as rarely as possible. If that were the case, we wouldn’t have seen his gods show up for trivial reasons and often acting in ways that not only made them lose any claim to respect but turned them into subjects of mockery. Such behavior must have shocked the belief of any devout and wise pagan, and it could never be justified, except by entertaining the idea I’ve occasionally considered, that this most brilliant poet, as he certainly was, intended to mock the superstitious beliefs of his own time and culture.
But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of that heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid puerility to search the heathen theology for any of those deities who have been long since dethroned from their immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold than the invocation of a muse by a modern; he might have added, that nothing can be more absurd. A modern may with much more elegance invoke a ballad, as some have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale, with the author of Hudibras; which latter may perhaps have inspired much more poetry, as well as prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
But I have spent too much time relying on a belief that isn’t helpful to a Christian writer; since he can’t include any of the heavenly beings that are part of his faith in his work, it’s absolutely ridiculous to look for any gods from ancient mythology who have long been removed from their status as immortal. Lord Shaftesbury points out that nothing is colder than a modern’s call to a muse; he could have also mentioned that nothing is more absurd. A modern might much more gracefully call upon a ballad, as some believe Homer did, or a mug of ale, like the author of Hudibras; the latter may have inspired a lot more poetry, as well as prose, than all the drinks of Hippocrene or Helicon.
The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be extremely sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous drugs in physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I advise the introduction of them at all in those works, or by those authors, to which, or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be any great prejudice or mortification.
The only supernatural beings that we moderns can really accept are ghosts; however, I would recommend that an author use them very sparingly. They are, like arsenic and other dangerous medications, to be handled with great care. I wouldn’t suggest including them at all in works, or by authors, who might provoke a hearty laugh from the reader, as that could be quite embarrassing or discouraging.
As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity the limits of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be considered as a new creation; and who have consequently just right to do what they will with their own.
As for elves, fairies, and all that other fantasy stuff, I intentionally leave them out, as I would really hate to limit those amazing imaginations, which are too big for the confines of human nature; their creations should be seen as a whole new world, and they have every right to do whatever they want with their own.
Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian, or of our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be taken that we do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.
Man is therefore the highest subject (unless in very exceptional cases) that appears before the pen of our historian or poet; and, in telling his story, we must be careful not to go beyond the abilities of the person we are describing.
Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep likewise within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion of Aristotle; or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whose authority will be as weighty when it is as old, “That it is no excuse for a poet who relates what is incredible, that the thing related is really matter of fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true with regard to poetry, but it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the historian; for he is obliged to record matters as he finds them, though they may be of so extraordinary a nature as will require no small degree of historical faith to swallow them. Such was the successless armament of Xerxes described by Herodotus, or the successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian. Such of later years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the Fifth, or that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more astonishing.
Possibility alone isn't enough to justify our claims; we also need to stay within the bounds of probability. I believe this is Aristotle's view, or if not, it's the perspective of some wise person whose authority remains strong with age: “It's no excuse for a poet to say something unbelievable just because the event actually happened.” This might be true for poetry, but it could seem unfeasible to apply it to historians, since they must record events as they occur, even if they are so extraordinary that it takes a significant amount of historical trust to accept them. Take, for example, Xerxes' unsuccessful campaign described by Herodotus, or Alexander's successful expedition mentioned by Arrian. More recently, there’s the victory at Agincourt achieved by Henry the Fifth, or the battle of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. The more we think about these examples, the more astonishing they seem.
Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay, indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is not only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed would be unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are other facts not of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though ever so well attested, may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in complacence to the scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable story of the ghost of George Villiers, which might with more propriety have been made a present of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost of Mrs Veale company, at the head of his Discourse upon Death, than have been introduced into so solemn a work as the History of the Rebellion.
Such facts, however, as they appear in the narrative, and indeed, as they form the essential parts of it, the historian is not only justified in recording as they truly occurred but would be unforgivable if he omitted or altered them. However, there are other facts that are not as significant or necessary, which, although well-supported, may still be ignored in deference to a reader's skepticism. Such is the memorable tale of the ghost of George Villiers, which might have been more fittingly given to Dr. Drelincourt to keep the ghost of Mrs. Veale company at the front of his Discourse on Death, rather than being included in such a serious work as the History of the Rebellion.
To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so well attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes fall into the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often raise the wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that incredulous hatred mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction, therefore, that we generally offend against this rule, of deserting probability, which the historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he forsakes his character and commences a writer of romance. In this, however, those historians who relate public transactions, have the advantage of us who confine ourselves to scenes of private life. The credit of the former is by common notoriety supported for a long time; and public records, with the concurrent testimony of many authors, bear evidence to their truth in future ages. Thus a Trajan and an Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with the belief of posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and so very bad, were once the masters of mankind.
To be honest, if a historian sticks to what actually happened and completely dismisses any situation that, no matter how well-supported, he knows is false, he might sometimes drift into the extraordinary, but he will never cross into the unbelievable. He will often amaze and surprise his readers, but he won't provoke the skepticism and disdain mentioned by Horace. It’s by resorting to fiction that we usually break this rule of straying from probability—something that historians rarely do, unless they abandon their role and start writing romance. However, historians who cover public events have an advantage over those of us focusing on private lives. The credibility of the former is widely recognized for a long time, and public records, along with the agreement of many writers, provide proof of their accuracy for future generations. Thus, figures like Trajan and Antoninus, Nero and Caligula, have all been accepted by posterity, and no one questions that such good and bad individuals once held power over humanity.
But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits not only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more especially in painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and folly, though never so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent; for ill-nature adds great support and strength to faith.
But those of us who delve into personal character, exploring the most hidden corners and pulling out examples of good and bad from the nooks of the world, find ourselves in a riskier position. Since we lack public recognition, corroborating evidence, or records to back up what we present, we need to stick to what is not only possible but also likely; this is especially true when depicting the truly good and admirable. Dishonesty and foolishness, no matter how extreme, are much more readily accepted because negativity reinforces belief.
Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of Fisher; who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby, and having one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands, yet, in order to possess himself of what remained in his friend's scrutore, concealed himself in a public office of the Temple, through which there was a passage into Mr Derby's chambers. Here he overheard Mr Derby for many hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he that evening gave his friends, and to which Fisher had been invited. During all this time, no tender, no grateful reflections arose to restrain his purpose; but when the poor gentleman had let his company out through the office, Fisher came suddenly from his lurking-place, and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed when the bones of Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will be credited, that the villain went two days afterwards with some young ladies to the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one of the ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry out, “Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!” manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even Nero himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the consciousness of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became immediately intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the congratulations of the soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay the horrors of his conscience.”
So we can, perhaps, share the story of Fisher with little risk; who, having long relied on Mr. Derby's generosity for his livelihood, and having received a significant amount of money from him one morning, still decided to sneak into Mr. Derby's office in the Temple to grab what was left in his friend's desk. He listened for hours as Mr. Derby entertained guests that evening, inviting Fisher to join. Throughout this time, no thoughts of gratitude or remorse stopped him; but when the poor man let his guests out through the office, Fisher suddenly emerged from his hiding spot, quietly followed his friend into his room, and shot him in the head. This is believable even when Fisher's bones are as decayed as his heart. Moreover, it might be accepted that the scoundrel went two days later to see Hamlet with some young ladies; and with an unchanged expression, he heard one of them, completely unaware of how close she was to him, exclaim, “Good God! if the man who killed Mr. Derby were here now!” This showed a more hardened and numb conscience than even Nero himself; of whom Suetonius tells us, “that the burden of his guilt, after his mother’s death, became immediately unbearable, and stayed that way; nor could all the congratulations from soldiers, the senate, and the public ease the torment of his conscience.”
But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known a man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large fortune in a way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he had done this with the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and not only without the least injustice or injury to any one individual person, but with the highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase of the public revenue; that he had expended one part of the income of this fortune in discovering a taste superior to most, by works where the highest dignity was united with the purest simplicity, and another part in displaying a degree of goodness superior to all men, by acts of charity to objects whose only recommendations were their merits, or their wants; that he was most industrious in searching after merit in distress, most eager to relieve it, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to conceal what he had done; that his house, his furniture, his gardens, his table, his private hospitality, and his public beneficence, all denoted the mind from which they flowed, and were all intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or external ostentation; that he filled every relation in life with the most adequate virtue; that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most zealously loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a kind relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and a chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind. Should I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,
But now, on another note, should I tell my reader that I knew a man whose sharp intellect allowed him to build a large fortune in a way that had no clear starting point; that he did this while maintaining his integrity perfectly, not only without causing any injustice or harm to anyone but actually benefiting trade and significantly increasing public revenue; that he spent part of the income from this fortune to cultivate a taste superior to most, through works that combined the highest dignity with pure simplicity, and another part to demonstrate a level of goodness unmatched by others through charitable acts for those whose only qualifications were their merits or needs; that he was diligent in seeking out merit in those who were struggling, eager to help them, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to keep his deeds private; that his home, his furniture, his gardens, his dining table, his private hospitality, and his public generosity all reflected the noble mind from which they came, all inherently rich and dignified, without any flashiness or external show; that he filled every role in life with the utmost virtue; that he was deeply religious towards his Creator, fiercely loyal to his monarch; a loving husband to his wife, a caring relative, a generous patron, a warm and steadfast friend, an insightful and cheerful companion, kind to his servants, welcoming to his neighbors, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all humanity. If I added descriptors like wise, brave, elegant, and truly every other kind word in our language, I could certainly say,
—Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;
—Who will believe? No one, Hercule! No one; Either two or no one;
and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to justify us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the person, nor of anything like him. Such rarae aves should be remitted to the epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him in a distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness and neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.
and yet I know a man who fits this description perfectly. But just one example (and honestly, I don’t know another like him) isn’t enough to justify our writing to thousands of people who have never heard of him or anyone like him. Such rarae aves should be left to the epitaph writer or some poet who might bother to fit him into a couplet, or casually include him in a rhyme without offending the reader.
In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be within the compass of human agency, and which human agents may probably be supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very actors and characters themselves to have performed; for what may be only wonderful and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or indeed impossible, when related of another.
Lastly, the actions should be ones that not only fall within the range of what humans can do and what we can expect people to actually do, but they should also be ones that the specific individuals involved could realistically have done. What might seem impressive or surprising for one person could become unlikely or even impossible when attributed to someone else.
This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment, and a most exact knowledge of human nature.
This last requirement is what the drama critics refer to as character conversation; it demands a remarkable level of judgment and a precise understanding of human nature.
It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no more hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid stream can carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to say, that for a man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of his nature, is, if not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as anything which can well be conceived. Should the best parts of the story of M. Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should the worst incidents of Nero's life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more shocking to belief than either instance? whereas both these being related of their proper agent, constitute the truly marvellous.
A very insightful writer once said that a person's passion can't rush them into acting against their own beliefs any more than a strong river can push a boat upstream. I would suggest that for someone to act directly against their own nature is, if not impossible, at least as unlikely and remarkable as anything you could imagine. If we were to attribute the best moments of Marcus Aurelius's life to Nero, or the worst events of Nero's life to Marcus Aurelius, what could be more unbelievable than either situation? Yet when these stories are properly attributed to their rightful figures, they become truly extraordinary.
Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the error here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and their heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the fifth, the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women of virtue and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give himself the least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous change and incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be assigned for it, than because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as if it was no less natural in a rogue to repent in the last act of a play, than in the last of his life; which we perceive to be generally the case at Tyburn, a place which might indeed close the scene of some comedies with much propriety, as the heroes in these are most commonly eminent for those very talents which not only bring men to the gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure when they are there.
Our modern comedy writers have mostly fallen into the same trap mentioned here; their heroes are usually known as scoundrels, and their heroines are often portrayed as untrustworthy women in the first four acts. But by the fifth act, the heroes suddenly become respectable gentlemen, and the heroines turn into virtuous and sensible women. The writers rarely bother to explain or justify this drastic change and inconsistency. The only reason to explain it seems to be that the play is nearing its end, as if it’s just as natural for a rogue to repent in the final act of a play as it is at the end of his life. We can see that’s typically the case at Tyburn, a place that could fittingly close some comedies, since the heroes in these stories are usually famous for the very traits that lead them to the gallows but also allow them to make a heroic exit while they’re there.
Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted to deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps within the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader the more he will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him. As a genius of the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in order to join the credible with the surprizing.”
Within these few limits, I believe any writer can indulge in the extraordinary as much as they want; in fact, if they stay within the bounds of believability, the more they can surprise the reader, the more they will capture their attention and charm them. As a genius of the highest order points out in the fifth chapter of the Bathos, “The great art of all poetry is to blend truth with fiction, in order to link the credible with the surprising.”
For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home articles of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many persons and things, which may possibly have never fallen within the knowledge of great part of his readers. If the writer strictly observes the rules above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and is then intitled to some faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty of critical infidelity if he disbelieves him.
While every good author should stay within the limits of believability, it doesn’t mean that their characters or events should be clichéd, ordinary, or unoriginal—like the things you encounter on every street or in every home, or that might appear in the everyday sections of a newspaper. An author shouldn’t shy away from presenting many people and situations that a large portion of their readers may never have encountered. If the writer follows the guidelines mentioned above, they have done their part and deserve some trust from their readers, who would be lacking in critical honesty if they questioned them.
For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a young lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being unnatural, by the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks and apprentices; though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies of the first rank; one of whom, very eminent for her understanding, declared it was the picture of half the young people of her acquaintance.
For lacking a bit of that faith, I recall a character of a well-born young lady, which was criticized on stage for being unrealistic, by the unanimous opinion of a large group of clerks and apprentices; although it had the prior support of many high-ranking ladies, one of whom, particularly noted for her intelligence, said it represented half of the young people she knew.
Chapter ii. — In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he endeavoured to close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too lively and wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open daylight, he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a visit.
When Jones said goodbye to his friend the lieutenant, he tried to close his eyes, but it was no use; he was far too excited and alert to fall asleep. After keeping himself entertained, or rather tortured, by thoughts of Sophia until dawn, he called for some tea, and his landlady herself came to pay him a visit.
This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken any notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was certainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of those houses where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements, meet with civil treatment for their money.
This was actually the first time she had seen him, or at least really noticed him; but since the lieutenant had assured her that he was definitely some fashionable young man, she decided to give him all the respect she could; because, to be honest, this was one of those places where, to put it like the ads, gentlemen get treated well for their money.
She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to discourse:—“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is great pity that such a pretty young gentleman should under-value himself so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first husband used to say, they should remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard upon us to be obliged to pay them, and to keep 'um too, as we publicans are. I had twenty of 'um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o' that, I had rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever good enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills; la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a good squire's family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a night, besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of those officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a squire of £500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men run about after 'um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come up with such honour, and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then there's such swearing among 'um, to be sure it frightens me out o' my wits: I thinks nothing can ever prosper with such wicked people. And here one of 'um has used you in so barbarous a manner. I thought indeed how well the rest would secure him; they all hang together; for if you had been in danger of death, which I am glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to such wicked people. They would have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon 'um; I would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though you are likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet; and if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he'll make the fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he'll have fled the country before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such chaps. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your loss; and if they was but to know what had happened—La, my seeming! I would not for the world they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the matter is; but if one won't, another will; so pretty a gentleman need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for her.—Nay, don't blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam Sophia.”—“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do you know my Sophia?”—“Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many's the time hath she lain in this house.”—“With her aunt, I suppose,” says Jones. “Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that's the truth on't.”—“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens!”
She had no sooner started making his tea than she began to talk: “Oh my! Sir,” she said, “I think it’s such a shame that a nice young gentleman like yourself undervalues himself by hanging around with those soldier types. They call themselves gentlemen, I promise you; but as my first husband used to say, they should remember that it’s us who pay them. And it’s really tough on us to have to pay them and keep them too, like we publicans do. I had twenty of them last night, plus some officers; honestly, I'd rather have the soldiers than the officers because nothing is ever good enough for those guys. And I’m sure if you saw the bills—oh my! It’s ridiculous. I’ve had less trouble, I swear, with a good squire’s family, where we charge forty or fifty shillings a night, plus the horses. And yet, I bet every one of those officer fellows thinks he’s just as good as any squire making £500 a year. Honestly, it makes me happy to hear their men running around after them calling ‘your honour’ and ‘your honour.’ It's funny how they claim all this honour while eating at a place that charges a shilling a head. Then there’s all that swearing among them, which really frightens me; I think nothing good can come from such wicked people. And here one of them has treated you so cruelly. I thought how well the rest would back him up; they all stick together because, if you had been in real danger, which I’m relieved to see you’re not, it would have been the same with those awful people. They would have let the murderer go free. Goodness, I wouldn’t want such a sin on my conscience for the world. But even though you're likely to recover, there’s trouble for him yet; and if you hire lawyer Small, I’m sure he'll make the guy skip town. Though he might have already fled, it’s here today and gone tomorrow with those kinds. I hope, though, that you’ll gain some wisdom for the future and go back to your friends; I’m sure they’re all miserable about your absence; and if they just knew what had happened—oh my! I wouldn’t want them to find out for anything. Come on now, we both know what this is all about; but if one won’t step up, another will; a charming gentleman like you will never be without a lady. Honestly, if I were you, I’d find the finest woman who’s ever lived before I’d settle for going after a soldier for her. —Now, don’t blush so,” (because he really did blush deeply). “Well, you thought, sir, that I knew nothing about the situation with Madam Sophia, didn’t you?” “What?” Jones exclaimed, jumping up, “Do you know my Sophia?” “Do I! Oh yes,” the landlady replied; “She’s stayed in this house many times.” “With her aunt, I suppose,” said Jones. “Well, there you have it,” the landlady replied. “Yes, yes, yes, I know that old lady very well. And Madam Sophia is such a sweet young lady, that’s the truth.” “A sweet lady,” Jones exclaimed; “Oh heavens!”
Angels are painted fair to look like her. There's in her all that we believe of heav'n, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy and everlasting love.
Angels are depicted beautifully to resemble her. In her, we find everything we believe about heaven, Incredible brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy and everlasting love.
“And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”—“I wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What would you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck she hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in.”—“Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?”—“Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know to the contrary, for she hath mentioned your name to me.”—“Ha!” cries he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can never believe so much.”—“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal more than she said.”—“O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her soft bosom a moment's uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who would undergo all the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented for mankind, to procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be misery to me, did I but know that she was happy.”—“Why, look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her you was a constant lovier.”—“But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew anything of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.”—“Nor is it possible you should,” answered she; “for you was a little thing when I had you in my lap at the squire's.”—“How, the squire's?” says Jones: “what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy then?”—“Yes, marry, do I,” says she: “who in the country doth not?”—“The fame of his goodness indeed,” answered Jones, “must have extended farther than this; but heaven only can know him—can know that benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his own son, to dare by my follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an act of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am. And now, madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for turning soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket.” At which words he shook a purse, which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady to have less.
"And could I have ever imagined that you knew my Sophia!"—"I wish," says the landlady, "you knew half as much about her. What would you have given to sit by her bed? What a beautiful neck she has! Her lovely limbs have stretched out in that very bed you're lying in now."—"Wait!" cries Jones, "has Sophia ever laid here?"—"Yes, yes, here; that very bed," says the landlady; "where I wish you had her right now; and she might wish that too, for all I know, as she has mentioned your name to me."—"Ha!" he exclaims; "did she ever mention her poor Jones? You're flattering me now: I can never believe so much."—"Well then," she replies, "as I hope to be saved, and may the devil take me if I speak a word more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr. Jones; but in a respectful and modest way, I admit; yet I could tell she thought a lot more than she said."—"O my dear woman!" cries Jones, "I will never be worthy of her thoughts of me. Oh, she is all gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever to give her tender heart a moment's distress? Why am I cursed? I, who would endure any suffering or misery that any devil ever created for humanity, just to see her happy; indeed, even torture itself would not be misery to me, if I knew she was well."—"Well, look at that," says the landlady; "I told her you were a constant lover."—"But please, madam, tell me when or where you knew anything about me; for I've never been here before, nor do I remember seeing you."—"And it's impossible you should," she answered; "because you were just a little thing when I had you in my lap at the squire's."—"How, the squire's?" says Jones: "What, do you know that great and good Mr. Allworthy then?"—"Yes, indeed I do," she says: "who in the country doesn't?"—"The fame of his goodness, indeed," replies Jones, "must have spread farther than just this place; but only heaven can truly know him—can know that benevolence it copied from itself, and sent to earth as its own model. Humanity is as blind to such divine goodness as it is unworthy of it; but none are as unworthy as I am. I, who was raised by him to such heights; taken in, as you must know, a poor illegitimate child, adopted by him, and treated like his own son, to dare with my foolishness to displease him, to bring his wrath upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so ungrateful as to think he has acted unjustly towards me. No, I deserve to be turned out, as I am. And now, madam," he says, "I believe you won't fault me for becoming a soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my pocket." At that, he shook a purse that had very little in it, which still seemed to the landlady to have even less.
My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap by this relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were the best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But hark,” says she, “I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the devil's in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs; if you want any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” At which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains.
My good landlady was completely taken aback by this story. She replied coolly, “Well, people know best what’s appropriate for their own situations. But listen,” she said, “I think I hear someone calling. Coming! Coming! It’s like nobody listens around here. I have to go downstairs; if you want more breakfast, the maid will come up. Coming!” With that, without saying goodbye, she rushed out of the room; because those of lower status are very keen on respect, and while they willingly give it for free to those of higher status, they never offer it to their peers without ensuring they’re compensated for it.
Chapter iii. — In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she knew so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant had acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of the quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great curiosity was indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly suffered any one to depart from her house, without enquiring as much as possible into their names, families, and fortunes.
Before we go any further, to avoid any misunderstanding about the landlady's knowledge, it’s important to note that the lieutenant had told her that Sophia’s name was the reason for the argument. As for her other insights, the observant reader will see how she gained that information in the previous scene. She was indeed very curious, alongside her other virtues, and she never let anyone leave her house without asking as much as she could about their names, families, and fortunes.
She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed had held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts, which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our readers. In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to dress his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, declared that he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever was coming on, which he would have prevented by bleeding, but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose no more blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you will be so kind only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well in a day or two.”
As soon as she left, Jones, rather than criticizing her behavior, thought about the fact that he was in the same bed that had held his beloved Sophia. This brought a flood of affectionate and tender memories to mind, which we would like to explore further, but we feel such types of lovers will represent a minor portion of our readers. It was in this state that the surgeon found him when he came to treat his wound. The doctor noticed, upon examination, that his pulse was erratic and, after hearing that he hadn’t slept, declared he was in serious danger because he feared a fever was about to set in. He suggested it could be prevented by bleeding, but Jones refused, stating he wouldn’t lose any more blood; “and, doctor,” he said, “if you’re kind enough to just treat my head, I’m sure I'll be fine in a day or two.”
“I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being well in a month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon well of such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a revulsion before I dress you.”
“I wish,” replied the surgeon, “I could promise that you’d be better in a month or two. Really! No, no, people don’t recover from these kinds of injuries that quickly; but, sir, I’m not going to take advice on my procedures from a patient, and I insist on performing a treatment before I bandage you.”
Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable for the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to acknowledge that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient promised he would.
Jones stubbornly stuck to his refusal, and the doctor finally gave in; at the same time, he told him that he wouldn't be responsible for any negative consequences and hoped he would acknowledge that he had given him opposite advice, to which the patient agreed.
The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.
The doctor went into the kitchen, where he turned to the landlady and expressed his frustration about his patient's ungrateful behavior, refusing to get bled even though he had a fever.
“It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath devoured two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”
“It’s a hunger frenzy then,” says the landlady; “because he has devoured two big buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”
“Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in a fever; and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity occasioned by the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily distinguishable from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular orifices, and thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am afraid will die.”
“Very likely,” says the doctor. “I’ve seen people eat when they have a fever, and it makes sense because the acidity caused by the fever can stimulate the nerves of the diaphragm, leading to a craving that feels a lot like a natural appetite. However, the food won’t break down properly or be absorbed, and it can irritate the blood vessels, making the fever symptoms worse. Honestly, I think the man is in a serious situation, and if he doesn’t get treated with bloodletting, I’m afraid he might die.”
“Every man must die some time or other,” answered the good woman; “it is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not have me hold him while you bleed him. But, hark'ee, a word in your ear; I would advise you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be your paymaster.”
“Every man has to die eventually,” the good woman replied. “That’s not my concern. I hope, doctor, you don’t expect me to hold him while you bleed him. But listen, I have a word of advice for you; before you go too far, make sure you know who’s going to pay you.”
“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I've a gentleman under my hands, have I not?”
“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “I have a gentleman in my care, don’t I?”
“I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He is an arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft always to let one another know such things.”
“I thought the same as you,” said the landlady; “but, as my first husband used to say, everything isn’t always what it seems. He’s a total mess, I promise you. However, don’t pay any attention to me mentioning it; I just think that people in business should always keep each other informed about these things.”
“And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, in a passion, “to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by one who will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I will see now whether he will be blooded or no.” He then immediately went upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning Sophia.
“And have I really had to deal with someone like this,” the doctor exclaimed angrily, “to teach me? Am I going to let my work be disrespected by someone who won’t pay me? I'm glad I figured this out in time. Now, let’s see if he will be bled or not.” He then rushed upstairs, flung open the door to the room with great force, waking poor Jones from a deep nap, and what was even worse, from a wonderful dream about Sophia.
“Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. “I have told you my resolution already,” answered Jones, “and I wish with all my heart you had taken my answer; for you have awaked me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life.”
“Will you get your blood to spill or not?” the doctor shouts, furious. “I've already told you my decision,” Jones replied, “and I really wish you had just accepted my answer; because you’ve woken me from the best sleep I’ve ever had.”
“Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away his life. Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I demand of you for the last time, will you be blooded?”—“I answer you for the last time,” said Jones, “I will not.”—“Then I wash my hands of you,” cries the doctor; “and I desire you to pay me for the trouble I have had already. Two journeys at 5s. each, two dressings at 5s. more, and half a crown for phlebotomy.”—“I hope,” said Jones, “you don't intend to leave me in this condition.”—“Indeed but I shall,” said the other. “Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you a farthing.”—“Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the best. What a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such vagabonds!” At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream was unfortunately gone.
“Hey, hey,” the doctor exclaims, “many a man has wasted away his life sleeping. Sleep isn’t always good, just like food isn’t; but remember, I ask you one last time, will you let me bleed you?” — “I’ll tell you one last time,” Jones replies, “I will not.” — “Then I wash my hands of you,” the doctor says; “and I expect you to pay me for the trouble I've already had. Two visits at 5 shillings each, two dressings at 5 shillings more, and half a crown for the bloodletting.” — “I hope,” says Jones, “you don’t plan to leave me like this.” — “Indeed I shall,” the other responds. “Then,” says Jones, “you’ve treated me poorly, and I won’t pay you a penny.” — “Very well,” the doctor says; “the first loss is the best. What the hell did my landlady mean by calling me to such scoundrels!” With that, he storms out of the room, and his patient soon turns over and falls back asleep, but unfortunately, his dream is gone.
Chapter iv. — In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not excepted.
The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his stomach.
The clock had just struck five when Jones woke up from a seven-hour nap, feeling so refreshed and in such good health and spirits that he decided to get up and get dressed. He unlocked his suitcase and took out some clean clothes, but first he put on a robe and went down to the kitchen to ask for something to calm the rumbling in his stomach.
Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked, “What he could have for dinner?”—“For dinner!” says she; “it is an odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the house, and the fire is almost out.”—“Well, but,” says he, “I must have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for, to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life.”—“Then,” says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot, which will fit you.”—“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the landlady consented, and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so well recovered;” for the sweetness of our heroe's temper was almost irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which had the semblance of poverty.
Meeting the landlady, he approached her politely and asked, “What can I have for dinner?” “Dinner!” she exclaimed. “It’s a strange time of day to think about that. There’s nothing cooked in the house, and the fire is almost out.” “Well, but,” he replied, “I really need something to eat, and it doesn’t matter much to me what it is; to be honest, I’ve never been more hungry in my life.” “Then,” she said, “I think there’s a piece of cold meat and some carrots that would be good for you.” “Nothing better,” Jones replied, “but I’d appreciate it if you could fry it.” The landlady agreed and, smiling, said she was glad to see him looking so well; after all, the charm of our hero's personality was hard to resist. Plus, she wasn’t a mean-spirited woman at heart; she just loved money so much that she despised anything that looked like poverty.
Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.
Jones now came back to get dressed while his dinner was being prepared and was attended to by the barber, as he had requested.
This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech, broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it. This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.
This barber, known as Little Benjamin, was quite a character with a great sense of humor, which often got him into a bit of trouble, like getting slapped in the face, kicked in the rear, or breaking a bone, etc. Not everyone gets a joke, and those who do are often not happy about being the butt of it. This flaw was, however, something he just couldn’t change; and even though he had faced consequences for it many times, whenever he came up with a joke, he was sure to share it, without considering who was around, when it was, or where they were.
He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.
He had many other distinctive traits in his character, which I won't mention, as you'll easily notice them as you get to know this extraordinary person better.
Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds, and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account, “Festina lente, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever touched a razor.”—“I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones. “A poor one,” said the barber, “non omnia possumus omnes.”—“Again!” said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.”—“Excuse me, sir,” said the barber, “non tanto me dignor honore.” And then proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture, sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of your beard, that it is tondenti gravior.”—“I conjecture,” says Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”—“You mistake me widely, sir,” said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of philosophy; hinc illae lacrymae, sir; that's my misfortune. Too much learning hath been my ruin.”—“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess, friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade; but I can't see how it can have injured you.”—“Alas! sir,” answered the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He was a dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other children.—Will you please to have your temples—O la! I ask your pardon, I fancy there is hiatus in manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.”—“Why do you conclude so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals to Newcastle.”
Jones, feeling impatient to get dressed for a reason that's easy to guess, thought the barber was taking way too long to prepare his lather and urged him to hurry up. The barber, maintaining his composure, replied seriously, “Festina lente is a saying I learned long before I ever picked up a razor.” “I see, my friend, you're quite a scholar,” Jones responded. “A poor one,” the barber replied, “non omnia possumus omnes.” “Again!” Jones said; “I suspect you're good at finishing verses.” “Forgive me, sir,” said the barber, “non tanto me dignor honore.” Then, as he continued his work, he said, “Sir, in my experience with lather, I've found only two reasons for shaving: one is to grow a beard, and the other is to get rid of one. I guess, sir, it hasn't been long since you shaved for the former reason. Honestly, you've done well; one could say about your beard that it is tondenti gravior.” “I suspect,” Jones replied, “that you're quite the amusing fellow.” “You’re mistaken, sir,” said the barber. “I’m too much into studying philosophy; hinc illae lacrymae, sir; that’s my misfortune. Too much learning has been my downfall.” “Honestly,” Jones said, “I admit, friend, you have more knowledge than is typical for your trade; but I don’t see how it could have harmed you.” “Alas, sir,” the barber answered, “my father disinherited me because of it. He was a dancing master, and since I could read before I could dance, he grew to dislike me and left every penny to my siblings. Would you like your temples—Oh dear! I apologize, I think there's a hiatus in manuscriptis. I heard you were going to war; but I see that was a mistake.” “Why do you think that?” Jones asked. “Surely, sir,” the barber replied, “you’re too clever to head into battle with a broken head; that would be like carrying coals to Newcastle.”
“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better acquainted with thee.”
“Honestly,” Jones exclaims, “you’re a really strange guy, and I really like your humor; I’d be very happy if you would come over after dinner and have a drink with me; I can’t wait to get to know you better.”
“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a favour, if you will accept of it.”—“What is that, my friend?” cries Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked downstairs neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure; and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy; for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in a moment.
“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you a huge favor if you’re interested.” —“What’s that, my friend?” Jones exclaimed. “Well, I’d love to share a bottle with you if you’re up for it because I really enjoy good company; and since you’ve realized I’m a funny guy, I wouldn’t know how to read faces if you aren’t one of the kindest gentlemen around.” Jones then walked downstairs looking sharp, and maybe the handsome Adonis wasn’t a more attractive sight; yet he held no appeal for my landlady, since that good woman didn’t resemble Venus in her looks, and neither did she in her preferences. It would have been better for Nanny the chambermaid if she had seen things through her mistress’s eyes, as that poor girl fell so head over heels for Jones in five minutes that her feelings later cost her many sighs. Nanny was extremely pretty and quite shy too; she had turned down a drawer and a couple of young farmers from the area, but the sparkling eyes of our hero melted all her reservations in an instant.
When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining in statu quo, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never given, and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.
When Jones returned to the kitchen, his table wasn’t set yet; nor was there any reason for it to be, since his dinner was still in the same state, just like the fire that was supposed to cook it. This disappointment might have made many philosophical people angry, but it didn’t affect Jones that way. He simply gave the landlady a light reproach, saying, “Since it’s so hard to get it heated, I’ll eat the beef cold.” But now the kind woman, whether moved by sympathy, shame, or some other reason, I can’t say, first scolded her staff for not following the orders she had never given, and then told the waiter to lay a napkin in the sun. She got to work on it seriously and soon got it done.
This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as lucus a non lucendo; for it was an apartment into which the sun had scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and happy was it for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry to find any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.
This room, where Jones was now taken, was aptly named, as lucus a non lucendo; because it was a space that the sun hardly ever reached. It was truly the worst room in the house; and Jones was fortunate that it was. However, he was too hungry to complain about it; but after he had satisfied his hunger, he told the servant to bring a bottle of wine to a nicer room and showed some annoyance at being placed in such a dungeon.
The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time, attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait so long for his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to the landlady, who was entertaining a circle that she had gathered round her with the history of poor Jones, part of which she had extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love to his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how else should he come by the little money he hath; and this,” says she, “is your gentleman, forsooth!”—“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says the barber; “what's his name?”—“Why he told me his name was Jones,” says she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too, that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had quarrelled with him now.”—“And if his name be Jones, he told you the truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”—“Why doth he not go by the name of his father?”—“I can't tell that,” said the barber; “many people's sons don't go by the name of their father.”—“Nay,” said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman's son, thof he was a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband used to say, never affront any customer that's a gentleman.”
Once the drawer had followed his orders, he was eventually visited by the barber, who would have come sooner if he hadn't been eavesdropping in the kitchen. There, the landlady was entertaining a group with the story of poor Jones, part of which she had gotten straight from him, while the rest was her own clever invention. She claimed, “He was just a poor parish boy taken into Squire Allworthy's home, where he was raised as an apprentice, and now he's been thrown out for his mischief, especially for falling in love with his young mistress, and probably for stealing from the house; how else would he have any money? And this,” she said, “is your gentleman!”—“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” the barber replied. “What's his name?”—“He told me his name is Jones,” she said. “Maybe he’s using a fake name. He also told me that the squire treated him like his own son, even though they've had a falling out now.” —“If his name is Jones, then he spoke the truth,” said the barber. “I have family that lives in that area, and some say he is his son.” —“Why doesn’t he go by his father's name?” —“I don't know,” said the barber. “Many people don’t take their father’s name.” —“Well,” said the landlady, “if I thought he was the son of a gentleman, even if he was an illegitimate child, I would treat him differently; many of these illegitimate children end up becoming great men. As my late husband used to say, never offend any customer who’s a gentleman.”
Chapter v. — A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.
This conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner in his dungeon, and partly while he was expecting the barber in the parlour. And, as soon as it was ended, Mr Benjamin, as we have said, attended him, and was very kindly desired to sit down. Jones then filling out a glass of wine, drank his health by the appellation of doctissime tonsorum. “Ago tibi gratias, domine” said the barber; and then looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, and with a seeming surprize, as if he had recollected a face he had seen before, “Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your name is not Jones?” To which the other answered, “That it was.”—“Proh deum atque hominum fidem!” says the barber; “how strangely things come to pass! Mr Jones, I am your most obedient servant. I find you do not know me, which indeed is no wonder, since you never saw me but once, and then you was very young. Pray, sir, how doth the good Squire Allworthy? how doth ille optimus omnium patronus?”—“I find,” said Jones, “you do indeed know me; but I have not the like happiness of recollecting you.”—“I do not wonder at that,” cries Benjamin; “but I am surprized I did not know you sooner, for you are not in the least altered. And pray, sir, may I, without offence, enquire whither you are travelling this way?”—“Fill the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more questions.”—“Nay, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be troublesome; and I hope you don't think me a man of an impertinent curiosity, for that is a vice which nobody can lay to my charge; but I ask pardon; for when a gentleman of your figure travels without his servants, we may suppose him to be, as we say, in casu incognito, and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your name.”—“I own,” says Jones, “I did not expect to have been so well known in this country as I find I am; yet, for particular reasons, I shall be obliged to you if you will not mention my name to any other person till I am gone from hence.”—“Pauca verba,” answered the barber;” and I wish no other here knew you but myself; for some people have tongues; but I promise you I can keep a secret. My enemies will allow me that virtue.”—“And yet that is not the characteristic of your profession, Mr Barber,” answered Jones. “Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “Non si male nunc et olim sic erit. I was not born nor bred a barber, I assure you. I have spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, I understand something of gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy of your confidence as you have some other people, I should have shown you I could have kept a secret better. I should not have degraded your name in a public kitchen; for indeed, sir, some people have not used you well; for besides making a public proclamation of what you told them of a quarrel between yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added lies of their own, things which I knew to be lies.”—“You surprize me greatly,” cries Jones. “Upon my word, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I tell the truth, and I need not tell you my landlady was the person. I am sure it moved me to hear the story, and I hope it is all false; for I have a great respect for you, I do assure you I have, and have had ever since the good-nature you showed to Black George, which was talked of all over the country, and I received more than one letter about it. Indeed, it made you beloved by everybody. You will pardon me, therefore; for it was real concern at what I heard made me ask many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity about me: but I love good-nature and thence became amoris abundantia erga te.”
This conversation took place partly while Jones was having dinner in his dungeon and partly while he was waiting for the barber in the parlor. As soon as it was over, Mr. Benjamin, as we mentioned, came to him and was very kindly invited to sit down. Jones then poured a glass of wine and toasted to his health by calling him doctissime tonsorum. “Ago tibi gratias, domine,” said the barber; and then looking very intently at Jones, he said, with great seriousness and a hint of surprise, as if he had recognized a familiar face, “Sir, may I ask if your name is not Jones?” To which the other replied, “It is.” — “Proh deum atque hominum fidem!” exclaimed the barber; “how strange things turn out! Mr. Jones, I am your most obedient servant. I see you don’t remember me, which isn’t surprising since you’ve only seen me once, and you were very young then. Pray, sir, how is the good Squire Allworthy? How is ille optimus omnium patronus?” — “I see,” said Jones, “that you do know me; but I don’t have the fortune to remember you.” — “I’m not surprised by that,” Benjamin replied; “but I am surprised that I didn’t recognize you sooner, since you look exactly the same. And may I, without being rude, ask where you are traveling to?” — “Fill the glass, Mr. Barber,” said Jones, “and don’t ask any more questions.” — “Oh no, sir,” Benjamin answered, “I wouldn’t want to be a bother; and I hope you don’t think of me as someone who just has a lot of curiosity, because that’s not a fault anyone could accuse me of; but I apologize, for when a gentleman of your stature travels without his servants, we might assume he is, as we say, in casu incognito, and perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned your name.” — “I admit,” said Jones, “I didn’t expect to be so recognized in this country as I find I am; yet, for specific reasons, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention my name to anyone else until I’ve left here.” — “Pauca verba,” the barber replied; “and I wish no one else here knew you but me; for some people love to gossip; but I promise I can keep a secret. Even my enemies would admit I have that quality.” — “And yet that’s not typically known as a trait of your profession, Mr. Barber,” Jones replied. “Alas! sir,” Benjamin said, “Non si male nunc et olim sic erit. I assure you, I wasn’t born or raised a barber. I’ve spent most of my time among gentlemen, and even if I say so, I know a thing or two about refinement. If you had considered me as trustworthy as some others, I would have shown you that I could keep a secret better. I wouldn’t have tarnished your name in a public kitchen; indeed, some people haven’t treated you well; along with making a public scene about the quarrel between you and Squire Allworthy, they added their own lies—things I know for certain are lies.” — “You’re quite shocking me,” Jones exclaimed. “Upon my word, sir,” Benjamin replied, “I speak the truth, and I need not tell you that my landlady was the person. I assure you it disturbed me to hear the story, and I hope it’s all false; for I have a great respect for you, and I have ever since the kindness you showed to Black George, which everyone talked about, and I received more than one letter about it. Indeed, it made you loved by all. So please excuse me, for my genuine concern over what I heard made me ask so many questions; I’m not a person of idle curiosity: I just appreciate kindness, which is why I have amoris abundantia erga te.”
Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the miserable; it is no wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable, was extremely open-hearted, very readily believed all the professions of Benjamin, and received him into his bosom. The scraps of Latin, some of which Benjamin applied properly enough, though it did not savour of profound literature, seemed yet to indicate something superior to a common barber; and so indeed did his whole behaviour. Jones therefore believed the truth of what he had said, as to his original and education; and at length, after much entreaty, he said, “Since you have heard, my friend, so much of my affairs, and seem so desirous to know the truth, if you will have patience to hear it, I will inform you of the whole.”—“Patience!” cries Benjamin, “that I will, if the chapter was never so long; and I am very much obliged to you for the honour you do me.”
Every declaration of friendship easily wins over the unhappy; it’s no surprise, then, that Jones, who was not only miserable but also very open-hearted, quickly believed all of Benjamin's claims and welcomed him warmly. The bits of Latin that Benjamin used correctly, even if they didn’t show deep literary knowledge, seemed to suggest he was more than just an ordinary barber; his overall demeanor had the same effect. Therefore, Jones believed what Benjamin said about his background and education, and eventually, after much pleading, he said, “Since you know so much about my life and seem eager to hear the truth, if you can be patient enough to listen, I will tell you everything.” “Patience!” Benjamin exclaimed, “I will gladly show it, no matter how long the chapter is; I truly appreciate the honor you give me.”
Jones now began, and related the whole history, forgetting only a circumstance or two, namely, everything which passed on that day in which he had fought with Thwackum; and ended with his resolution to go to sea, till the rebellion in the North had made him change his purpose, and had brought him to the place where he then was.
Jones began to tell the entire story, omitting just a few details, specifically everything that happened on the day he fought Thwackum. He concluded with his decision to go to sea, a plan that changed due to the rebellion in the North, leading him to where he was now.
Little Benjamin, who had been all attention, never once interrupted the narrative; but when it was ended he could not help observing, that there must be surely something more invented by his enemies, and told Mr Allworthy against him, or so good a man would never have dismissed one he had loved so tenderly, in such a manner. To which Jones answered, “He doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use of to destroy him.”
Little Benjamin, who had been paying close attention, never interrupted the story; but when it was over, he couldn't help but point out that there must be more lies made up by his enemies, and that Mr. Allworthy wouldn't have dismissed someone he cared for so deeply in that way. To which Jones replied, “I have no doubt that such wicked tricks were used to bring him down.”
And surely it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided making the same remark with the barber, who had not indeed heard from Jones one single circumstance upon which he was condemned; for his actions were not now placed in those injurious lights in which they had been misrepresented to Allworthy; nor could he mention those many false accusations which had been from time to time preferred against him to Allworthy: for with none of these he was himself acquainted. He had likewise, as we have observed, omitted many material facts in his present relation. Upon the whole, indeed, everything now appeared in such favourable colours to Jones, that malice itself would have found it no easy matter to fix any blame upon him.
And it was nearly impossible for anyone to avoid agreeing with the barber, who hadn’t heard a single detail from Jones regarding his condemnation. Jones’s actions were no longer viewed in the harmful ways they had been misrepresented to Allworthy; he couldn't even mention the numerous false accusations that had been made against him to Allworthy since he wasn't aware of any of them. Moreover, as we’ve noted, he had left out many important facts in his current account. Overall, everything seemed to shine a positive light on Jones, making it difficult even for his detractors to place any blame on him.
Not that Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the truth; nay, he would have been more unwilling to have suffered any censure to fall on Mr Allworthy for punishing him, than on his own actions for deserving it; but, in reality, so it happened, and so it always will happen; for let a man be never so honest, the account of his own conduct will, in spite of himself, be so very favourable, that his vices will come purified through his lips, and, like foul liquors well strained, will leave all their foulness behind. For though the facts themselves may appear, yet so different will be the motives, circumstances, and consequences, when a man tells his own story, and when his enemy tells it, that we scarce can recognise the facts to be one and the same.
Not that Jones wanted to hide or mask the truth; no, he would have been more reluctant to let any blame fall on Mr. Allworthy for punishing him than on himself for deserving it; but, in reality, that’s how it happened, and that’s how it will always happen. No matter how honest a man is, his account of his own behavior will, despite himself, be so favorable that his faults will come out clean through his words, and, like dirty liquids well filtered, will leave all their impurities behind. Although the facts themselves may be clear, the motives, circumstances, and consequences will be so different when a man tells his own story versus when his enemy tells it that we can hardly recognize the facts as the same.
Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy ears, he was not yet satisfied. There was a circumstance behind which his curiosity, cold as it was, most eagerly longed for. Jones had mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his being the rival of Blifil, but had cautiously concealed the name of the young lady. The barber, therefore, after some hesitation, and many hums and hahs, at last begged leave to crave the name of the lady, who appeared to be the principal cause of all this mischief. Jones paused a moment, and then said, “Since I have trusted you with so much, and since, I am afraid, her name is become too publick already on this occasion, I will not conceal it from you. Her name is Sophia Western.”
Though the barber had listened to this story with eager ears, he was still not satisfied. There was one detail that his curiosity, cold as it was, desperately wanted to know. Jones had mentioned his romance and that he was the rival of Blifil, but he had carefully kept the name of the young lady a secret. So, after some hesitation and a lot of humming and hawing, the barber finally asked for the name of the lady who seemed to be the main cause of all this trouble. Jones paused for a moment and then said, “Since I’ve shared so much with you, and since I fear her name has become too public already in this situation, I won’t hide it from you. Her name is Sophia Western.”
“Proh deum atque hominum fidem! Squire Western hath a daughter grown a woman!”—“Ay, and such a woman,” cries Jones, “that the world cannot match. No eye ever saw anything so beautiful; but that is her least excellence. Such sense! such goodness! Oh, I could praise her for ever, and yet should omit half her virtues!”—“Mr Western a daughter grown up!” cries the barber: “I remember the father a boy; well, Tempus edax rerum.”
“By the faith of gods and men! Squire Western has a daughter who's become a woman!”—“Yeah, and what a woman she is,” exclaims Jones, “that the world can’t compare. No one has ever seen anyone as beautiful; but that's just her least amazing quality. Such intelligence! Such kindness! Oh, I could praise her forever, and still leave out half her virtues!”—“Mr. Western has a grown daughter!” says the barber: “I remember when the father was just a boy; well, Time devours all things.”
The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very eagerly to be his bottle; but Jones absolutely refused, saying, “He had already drank more than he ought: and that he now chose to retire to his room, where he wished he could procure himself a book.”—“A book!” cries Benjamin; “what book would you have? Latin or English? I have some curious books in both languages; such as Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum; and in English I have several of the best books, though some of them are a little torn; but I have a great part of Stowe's Chronicle; the sixth volume of Pope's Homer; the third volume of the Spectator; the second volume of Echard's Roman History; the Craftsman; Robinson Crusoe; Thomas a Kempis; and two volumes of Tom Brown's Works.”
The wine was finished, and the barber eagerly pushed to have his bottle, but Jones flatly refused, saying, “I’ve already had more than I should. I’d rather head to my room, where I wish I could find a book.” “A book?” Benjamin exclaimed. “What kind of book do you want? Latin or English? I have some interesting ones in both languages, like Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum; and in English, I have several great books, though some are a bit worn out; but I have a good chunk of Stowe's Chronicle, the sixth volume of Pope's Homer, the third volume of the Spectator, the second volume of Echard's Roman History, the Craftsman, Robinson Crusoe, Thomas à Kempis, and two volumes of Tom Brown's Works.”
“Those last,” cries Jones, “are books I never saw, so if you please lend me one of those volumes.” The barber assured him he would be highly entertained, for he looked upon the author to have been one of the greatest wits that ever the nation produced. He then stepped to his house, which was hard by, and immediately returned; after which, the barber having received very strict injunctions of secrecy from Jones, and having sworn inviolably to maintain it, they separated; the barber went home, and Jones retired to his chamber.
“Those last ones,” Jones calls out, “are books I’ve never seen, so if you don’t mind, could you lend me one of those volumes?” The barber assured him he would be highly entertained because he considered the author to be one of the greatest wits the nation ever produced. He then went to his nearby house and quickly returned; after which, the barber, having received very strict instructions from Jones to keep it a secret and having sworn to do so, they parted ways—the barber went home, and Jones went to his room.
Chapter vi. — In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear, as well as who this extraordinary person was.
In the morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion of his surgeon, as he apprehended some inconvenience, or even danger, might attend the not dressing his wound; he enquired of the drawer, what other surgeons were to be met with in that neighbourhood. The drawer told him, there was one not far off; but he had known him often refuse to be concerned after another had been sent before him; “but, sir,” says he, “if you will take my advice, there is not a man in the kingdom can do your business better than the barber who was with you last night. We look upon him to be one of the ablest men at a cut in all this neighbourhood. For though he hath not been her above three months, he hath done several great cures.”
In the morning, Jones became a bit worried about his surgeon not showing up, as he feared it might lead to some trouble or even danger from his untreated wound. He asked the innkeeper what other surgeons were around. The innkeeper told him there was one nearby, but he had often seen that surgeon refuse to get involved if someone else had already been called first. "But, sir," he said, "if you want my advice, there’s no one in the kingdom who could do a better job than the barber who was with you last night. We consider him one of the best at making cuts in this area. Although he's only been here for three months, he has already performed several impressive recoveries."
The drawer was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, who being acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, prepared himself accordingly, and attended; but with so different an air and aspect from that which he wore when his basin was under his arm, that he could scarce be known to be the same person.
The drawer was quickly sent for Little Benjamin, who, knowing why he was needed, got ready and showed up. However, he looked so different from when he had his basin under his arm that he was hardly recognizable as the same person.
“So, tonsor,” says Jones, “I find you have more trades than one; how came you not to inform me of this last night?”—“A surgeon,” answered Benjamin, with great gravity, “is a profession, not a trade. The reason why I did not acquaint you last night that I professed this art, was, that I then concluded you was under the hands of another gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my brethren in their business. Ars omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you please, I will inspect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give my opinion of your case.”
“So, barber,” says Jones, “I see you have more than one profession; why didn’t you let me know this last night?”—“A surgeon,” replied Benjamin with serious tone, “is a profession, not a trade. The reason I didn’t tell you last night that I practiced this art was that I assumed you were already being treated by someone else, and I never like to interfere with my colleagues in their work. Ars omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you’d like, I can examine your head, and once I look inside your skull, I’ll offer my thoughts on your situation.”
Jones had no great faith in this new professor; however, he suffered him to open the bandage and to look at his wound; which as soon as he had done, Benjamin began to groan and shake his head violently. Upon which Jones, in a peevish manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell him in what condition he found him. “Shall I answer you as a surgeon, or a friend?” said Benjamin. “As a friend, and seriously,” said Jones. “Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it would require a great deal of art to keep you from being well after a very few dressings; and if you will suffer me to apply some salve of mine, I will answer for the success.” Jones gave his consent, and the plaister was applied accordingly.
Jones didn’t have much faith in this new professor; still, he let him open the bandage and examine his wound. As soon as he did, Benjamin started groaning and shaking his head vigorously. This made Jones, in a grumpy tone, tell him not to act foolish but to explain how he found him. “Should I answer you as a surgeon or a friend?” Benjamin asked. “As a friend, and seriously,” Jones replied. “Well then, honestly,” Benjamin exclaimed, “it would take a lot of skill to keep you from getting better after just a few treatments; and if you let me apply some of my salve, I guarantee it will work.” Jones agreed, and the plaster was applied accordingly.
“There, sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you please, resume my former self; but a man is obliged to keep up some dignity in his countenance whilst he is performing these operations, or the world will not submit to be handled by him. You can't imagine, sir, of how much consequence a grave aspect is to a grave character. A barber may make you laugh, but a surgeon ought rather to make you cry.”
“There, sir,” Benjamin exclaims, “now I will, if you don’t mind, go back to my former self; but a person has to maintain some dignity on their face while doing these tasks, or people won't allow themselves to be treated by them. You can't imagine, sir, how important a serious expression is to a serious character. A barber might make you laugh, but a surgeon should rather make you cry.”
“Mr Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said Jones. “O dear sir!” answered Benjamin, interrupting him, “Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem. You recall to my mind that cruel separation of the united fraternities, so much to the prejudice of both bodies, as all separations must be, according to the old adage, Vis unita fortior; which to be sure there are not wanting some of one or of the other fraternity who are able to construe. What a blow was this to me, who unite both in my own person!” “Well, by whatever name you please to be called,” continued Jones, “you certainly are one of the oddest, most comical fellows I ever met with, and must have something very surprizing in your story, which you must confess I have a right to hear.”—“I do confess it,” answered Benjamin, “and will very readily acquaint you with it, when you have sufficient leisure, for I promise you it will require a good deal of time.” Jones told him, he could never be more at leisure than at present. “Well, then,” said Benjamin, “I will obey you; but first I will fasten the door, that none may interrupt us.” He did so, and then advancing with a solemn air to Jones, said: “I must begin by telling you, sir, that you yourself have been the greatest enemy I ever had.” Jones was a little startled at this sudden declaration. “I your enemy, sir!” says he, with much amazement, and some sternness in his look. “Nay, be not angry,” said Benjamin, “for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of having intended me any wrong; for you was then an infant: but I shall, I believe, unriddle all this the moment I mention my name. Did you never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who had the honour of being reputed your father, and the misfortune of being ruined by that honour?” “I have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” says Jones, “and have always believed myself to be his son.” “Well, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I am that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all filial duty, for I do assure you, you are no son of mine.” “How!” replied Jones, “and is it possible that a false suspicion should have drawn all the ill consequences upon you, with which I am too well acquainted?” “It is possible,” cries Benjamin, “for it is so: but though it is natural enough for men to hate even the innocent causes of their sufferings, yet I am of a different temper. I have loved you ever since I heard of your behaviour to Black George, as I told you; and I am convinced, from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make me amends for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I dreamt, the night before I saw you, that I stumbled over a stool without hurting myself; which plainly showed me something good was towards me: and last night I dreamt again, that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which is a very excellent dream, and betokens much good fortune, which I am resolved to pursue unless you have the cruelty to deny me.”
“Mr. Barber, or Mr. Surgeon, or Mr. Barber-surgeon,” said Jones. “Oh dear sir!” replied Benjamin, interrupting him, “Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem. You remind me of that painful separation of the united fraternities, which is harmful to both sides, as all separations tend to be, as the old saying goes, Vis unita fortior; and surely there are some from each group who can explain that. What a blow this has been to me, who bring both together in my own self!” “Well, whatever name you want to be called,” continued Jones, “you're definitely one of the strangest, most comical people I've ever met, and you must have something surprising in your story, which I have a right to hear.” “I admit it,” answered Benjamin, “and I will gladly share it with you when you have enough time, because I promise it will take quite a while.” Jones assured him he couldn't be more free than he was right then. “Well, then,” Benjamin said, “I will comply; but first I’ll lock the door so no one can interrupt us.” He did just that, then approached Jones with a serious demeanor and said: “I have to start by telling you, sir, that you have been my greatest enemy.” Jones was taken aback by this sudden statement. “I your enemy, sir?” he asked, astonished and a bit stern. “Don’t be angry,” said Benjamin, “because I assure you I’m not. You’re completely innocent of intending me any harm; you were just a baby back then: but I think I’ll clear this up the moment I say my name. Have you ever heard of someone named Partridge, who was considered your father and unfortunately ruined by that title?” “I have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” said Jones, “and I’ve always believed I was his son.” “Well, sir,” replied Benjamin, “I am that Partridge; but I release you from all duties as a son, because I promise you, you are not my child.” “What!” exclaimed Jones, “is it possible that a false suspicion has brought all the negative consequences upon you, which I am all too aware of?” “It is possible,” Benjamin exclaimed, “because it is true: but while it’s natural for people to resent even the innocent causes of their suffering, I feel differently. I’ve admired you ever since I learned about how you treated Black George, as I mentioned; and I’m convinced, due to this extraordinary meeting, that you’re meant to make amends for all I’ve suffered because of that. Besides, I dreamed last night before I met you that I tripped over a stool without hurting myself; which clearly indicated something good was coming my way: and last night I dreamt again that I rode behind you on a white mare, which is a very good dream and suggests great fortune, which I’m determined to pursue unless you cruelly deny me.”
“I should be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to have it in my power to make you amends for your sufferings on my account, though at present I see no likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will deny you nothing which is in my power to grant.”
“I would be very happy, Mr. Partridge,” replied Jones, “to have the chance to make up for what you’ve endured because of me, although right now I don’t see how that’s possible; still, I promise I won’t deny you anything I can offer.”
“It is in your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for I desire nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedition. Nay, I have so entirely set my heart upon it, that if you should refuse me, you will kill both a barber and a surgeon in one breath.”
“It is definitely in your power,” replied Benjamin; “because I want nothing more than to accompany you on this trip. In fact, I want it so much that if you say no, you’ll be putting both a barber and a surgeon out of business at the same time.”
Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be the occasion of so much mischief to the public. He then advanced many prudential reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall hereafter call Partridge) from his purpose; but all were in vain. Partridge relied strongly on his dream of the milk-white mare. “Besides, sir,” says he, “I promise you I have as good an inclination to the cause as any man can possibly have; and go I will, whether you admit me to go in your company or not.”
Jones replied with a smile that he would be very sorry to cause so much trouble for the public. He then put forward several practical reasons to try to convince Benjamin (who we'll refer to as Partridge from now on) against his plan, but all of them were useless. Partridge was very confident about his dream of the milk-white mare. “Besides, sir,” he said, “I assure you that I am just as eager for the cause as anyone could possibly be; and I will go, whether you let me join you or not.”
Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge could be with him, and who had not consulted his own inclination but the good of the other in desiring him to stay behind, when he found his friend so resolute, at last gave his consent; but then recollecting himself, he said, “Perhaps, Mr Partridge, you think I shall be able to support you, but I really am not;” and then taking out his purse, he told out nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune.
Jones, who was as happy with Partridge as Partridge was with him, and who had put aside his own desires for the sake of his friend when he asked him to stay behind, finally agreed when he saw how determined his friend was. But then he remembered something and said, “Maybe, Mr. Partridge, you think I can support you, but honestly, I can't;” and then pulling out his wallet, he counted out nine guineas, which he stated were all he had to his name.
Partridge answered, “That his dependence was only on his future favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough in his power. At present, sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather the richer man of the two; but all I have is at your service, and at your disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole, and I beg only to attend you in the quality of your servant; Nil desperandum est Teucro duce et auspice Teucro”: but to this generous proposal concerning the money, Jones would by no means submit.
Partridge replied, “My reliance is solely on your future goodwill; I truly believe I’ll soon have enough resources at my disposal. Right now, sir,” he said, “I think I’m the wealthier one between us; but everything I have is yours to use however you see fit. I insist that you take it all, and I only ask to serve you as your assistant; Nil desperandum est Teucro duce et auspice Teucro.” However, Jones would not agree to this generous offer regarding the money.
It was resolved to set out the next morning, when a difficulty arose concerning the baggage; for the portmanteau of Mr Jones was too large to be carried without a horse.
It was decided to leave the next morning, but then a problem came up regarding the luggage because Mr. Jones's suitcase was too big to carry without a horse.
“If I may presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, should be left behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry for you, and the rest of your cloaths will remain very safe locked up in my house.”
“If I can give my advice,” says Partridge, “you should leave this suitcase behind, with everything in it except a few shirts. I can easily carry those for you, and the rest of your clothes will stay safe locked up in my house.”
This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber departed, in order to prepare everything for his intended expedition.
This method was quickly agreed upon, and then the barber left to get everything ready for his planned trip.
Chapter vii. — Containing better reasons than any which have yet appeared for the conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of Jones; and some further anecdotes concerning my landlady.
Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, he would hardly perhaps have desired to accompany Jones on his expedition merely from the omens of the joint-stool and white mare, if his prospect had been no better than to have shared the plunder gained in the field of battle. In fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the relation he had heard from Jones, he could not reconcile to himself that Mr Allworthy should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed him to be) out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned. He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that Jones, of whom he had often from his correspondents heard the wildest character, had in reality run away from his father. It came into his head, therefore, that if he could prevail with the young gentleman to return back to his father, he should by that means render a service to Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former anger; nay, indeed, he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that Allworthy had sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this suspicion indeed he well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that excellent man to the foundling child; from his great severity to Partridge, who, knowing himself to be innocent, could not conceive that any other should think him guilty; lastly, from the allowance which he had privately received long after the annuity had been publickly taken from him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or rather by way of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I believe, for men to ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when they can possibly impute them to any other motive. If he could by any means therefore persuade the young gentleman to return home, he doubted not but that he should again be received into the favour of Allworthy, and well rewarded for his pains; nay, and should be again restored to his native country; a restoration which Ulysses himself never wished more heartily than poor Partridge.
Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious men around, he probably wouldn't have wanted to join Jones on his journey just because of the signs from the joint-stool and the white mare, especially if his only reward was to share in the spoils of battle. In fact, when Partridge thought about the story he had heard from Jones, he couldn't believe that Mr. Allworthy would throw his son (who he firmly believed Jones to be) out for any reason given. Therefore, he concluded that the whole thing was made up and that Jones, who he had heard had quite the wild reputation, had actually run away from his father. It then occurred to him that if he could convince the young man to go back to his father, he would be doing a service to Allworthy that would erase any previous anger. He even thought that the anger was fake and that Allworthy had sacrificed him for the sake of his own reputation. This suspicion made sense to him because of Allworthy's kind treatment of the orphaned child, his harshness toward Partridge, who, knowing he was innocent, couldn't understand why anyone would think he was guilty, and finally, because of the money he had received privately long after the annuity had been publicly taken away, which he saw as a form of compensation or atonement for the injustice; after all, it’s pretty rare for people to believe that the help they receive is purely out of kindness when they can relate it to other motives. So, if he could somehow persuade the young gentleman to return home, he was sure he would be welcomed back into Allworthy's favor and rewarded for his efforts; he even thought he might go back to his homeland, a return that poor Partridge wished for just as much as Ulysses.
As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the other had asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other inducements but love to him, and zeal for the cause; a blameable want of caution and diffidence in the veracity of others, in which he was highly worthy of censure. To say the truth, there are but two ways by which men become possessed of this excellent quality. The one is from long experience, and the other is from nature; which last, I presume, is often meant by genius, or great natural parts; and it is infinitely the better of the two, not only as we are masters of it much earlier in life, but as it is much more infallible and conclusive; for a man who hath been imposed on by ever so many, may still hope to find others more honest; whereas he who receives certain necessary admonitions from within, that this is impossible, must have very little understanding indeed, if he ever renders himself liable to be once deceived. As Jones had not this gift from nature, he was too young to have gained it by experience; for at the diffident wisdom which is to be acquired this way, we seldom arrive till very late in life; which is perhaps the reason why some old men are apt to despise the understandings of all those who are a little younger than themselves.
As for Jones, he was quite satisfied with what the other person claimed and believed that Partridge had no motivation other than his love for him and passion for the cause; a blameworthy lack of caution and skepticism regarding the truthfulness of others, for which he deserved criticism. To be honest, there are only two ways people acquire this excellent quality. One is through long experience, and the other is natural talent; the latter, I assume, is often referred to as genius or great innate ability. It is definitely the better option, not just because we master it much earlier in life, but because it is far more reliable and definitive. A person who has been deceived many times may still hope to encounter others who are more honest; however, someone who receives clear internal warnings that this is unlikely must have very little understanding if they ever allow themselves to be tricked again. Since Jones didn’t have this gift by nature, he was too young to have gained it through experience; we hardly achieve the cautious wisdom acquired this way until very late in life, which might explain why some older individuals tend to underestimate the intelligence of those slightly younger than themselves.
Jones spent most part of the day in the company of a new acquaintance. This was no other than the landlord of the house, or rather the husband of the landlady. He had but lately made his descent downstairs, after a long fit of the gout, in which distemper he was generally confined to his room during one half of the year; and during the rest, he walked about the house, smoaked his pipe, and drank his bottle with his friends, without concerning himself in the least with any kind of business. He had been bred, as they call it, a gentleman; that is, bred up to do nothing; and had spent a very small fortune, which he inherited from an industrious farmer his uncle, in hunting, horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and had been married by my landlady for certain purposes, which he had long since desisted from answering; for which she hated him heartily. But as he was a surly kind of fellow, so she contented herself with frequently upbraiding him by disadvantageous comparisons with her first husband, whose praise she had eternally in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress of the profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and government of the family, and, after a long successless struggle, to suffer her husband to be master of himself.
Jones spent most of the day with a new acquaintance. This was none other than the landlord of the house, or more accurately, the husband of the landlady. He had recently come downstairs after a long bout with gout, a condition that generally kept him in his room for half the year; during the other half, he strolled around the house, smoked his pipe, and drank with friends, without caring at all about any kind of business. He had been raised, as they say, as a gentleman; that is, trained to do nothing. He had spent a small fortune he inherited from his hard-working farmer uncle on hunting, horse racing, and cockfighting, and had married my landlady for reasons he had long since stopped fulfilling, which made her resent him deeply. But since he was a grumpy sort of guy, she settled for frequently criticizing him by making unfavorable comparisons to her first husband, whose praises she always sang. And since she mostly controlled the profits, she was okay with taking charge of the family while tolerating her husband’s autonomy after a long, unsuccessful struggle.
In the evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dispute arose between this fond couple concerning him:—“What,” says the wife, “you have been tippling with the gentleman, I see?”—“Yes,” answered the husband, “we have cracked a bottle together, and a very gentlemanlike man he is, and hath a very pretty notion of horse-flesh. Indeed, he is young, and hath not seen much of the world; for I believe he hath been at very few horse-races.”—“Oho! he is one of your order, is he?” replies the landlady: “he must be a gentleman to be sure, if he is a horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry! I am sure I wish I had never seen any of them. I have reason to love horse-racers truly!”—“That you have,” says the husband; “for I was one, you know.”—“Yes,” answered she, “you are a pure one indeed. As my first husband used to say, I may put all the good I have ever got by you in my eyes, and see never the worse.”—“D—n your first husband!” cries he. “Don't d—n a better man than yourself,” answered the wife: “if he had been alive, you durst not have done it.”—“Then you think,” says he, “I have not so much courage as yourself; for you have d—n'd him often in my hearing.”—“If I did,” says she, “I have repented of it many's the good time and oft. And if he was so good to forgive me a word spoken in haste or so, it doth not become such a one as you to twitter me. He was a husband to me, he was; and if ever I did make use of an ill word or so in a passion, I never called him rascal; I should have told a lie, if I had called him rascal.” Much more she said, but not in his hearing; for having lighted his pipe, he staggered off as fast as he could. We shall therefore transcribe no more of her speech, as it approached still nearer and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find any place in this history.
In the evening, when Jones went to his room, a small argument broke out between this affectionate couple about him:—“What,” says the wife, “you’ve been drinking with that gentleman, I see?”—“Yes,” replied the husband, “we shared a bottle, and he’s quite a gentleman, with a pretty good understanding of horses. In fact, he’s young and hasn’t traveled much; I think he’s been to very few horse races.”—“Oh! so he’s one of your kind, is he?” responds the landlady: “he must be a gentleman for sure if he’s into horse racing. I wish I’d never met any of those folks! I honestly have every reason to dislike horse racers!”—“That you do,” says the husband; “because I was one, you know.”—“Yes,” she replies, “you’re a real one indeed. As my first husband used to say, I could put all the good I’ve ever gotten from you in my eyes, and still not see any difference.”—“Damn your first husband!” he exclaims. “Don’t damn a better man than yourself,” the wife replies: “if he were alive, you wouldn’t dare to do it.”—“So you think,” he says, “I’m not as brave as you; because you’ve damned him many times in my hearing.”—“If I did,” she says, “I’ve regretted it countless times. If he was kind enough to forgive me for a hasty word or two, it doesn’t suit someone like you to scold me. He was a good husband to me, he was; and if I ever lost my temper and said something bad, I never called him a rascal; I would have been lying if I did.” She said much more, but not within his hearing, because after lighting his pipe, he staggered off as quickly as he could. Therefore, we shall not transcribe any more of her speech, as it was getting closer to a topic too inappropriate to include in this story.
Early in the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready equipped for the journey, with his knapsack at his back. This was his own workmanship; for besides his other trades, he was no indifferent taylor. He had already put up his whole stock of linen in it, consisting of four shirts, to which he now added eight for Mr Jones; and then packing up the portmanteau, he was departing with it towards his own house, but was stopt in his way by the landlady, who refused to suffer any removals till after the payment of the reckoning.
Early in the morning, Partridge showed up at Jones's bedside, fully prepared for the journey with his backpack on. He had made it himself because, in addition to his other trades, he wasn't a bad tailor. He had already packed all his linen in it, which included four shirts, and now he added eight for Mr. Jones. After packing the suitcase, he was about to head back to his house when the landlady stopped him, refusing to allow any removals until the bill was paid.
The landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess in these regions; it was therefore necessary to comply with her rules; so the bill was presently writ out, which amounted to a much larger sum than might have been expected, from the entertainment which Jones had met with. But here we are obliged to disclose some maxims, which publicans hold to be the grand mysteries of their trade. The first is, If they have anything good in their house (which indeed very seldom happens) to produce it only to persons who travel with great equipages. 2dly, To charge the same for the very worst provisions, as if they were the best. And lastly, If any of their guests call but for little, to make them pay a double price for everything they have; so that the amount by the head may be much the same.
The landlady was, as we mentioned, the ultimate authority in these parts; it was therefore essential to follow her rules. So, the bill was quickly written up, which turned out to be much higher than one might have expected based on the hospitality Jones received. However, we must reveal some principles that tavern owners consider the key secrets of their trade. First, if they have anything decent in their establishment (which is quite rare), they only serve it to guests who arrive with large carriages. Second, they charge the same for the very worst food as if it were the best. Lastly, if any of their guests order only a little, they make them pay double the price for everything they get, so that the total per person remains roughly the same.
The bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge, carrying his knapsack; nor did the landlady condescend to wish him a good journey; for this was, it seems, an inn frequented by people of fashion; and I know not whence it is, but all those who get their livelihood by people of fashion, contract as much insolence to the rest of mankind, as if they really belonged to that rank themselves.
The bill settled, Jones headed out with Partridge, carrying his backpack. The landlady didn’t bother to wish him a good trip because this was, apparently, an inn popular with the upper class. I'm not sure why, but those who earn a living serving the upper class often adopt an attitude of arrogance towards everyone else, as if they actually belong to that social class themselves.
Chapter viii. — Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the character of that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets with.
Mr Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (which epithet of Little was perhaps given him ironically, he being in reality near six feet high), having left their last quarters in the manner before described, travelled on to Gloucester without meeting any adventure worth relating.
Mr. Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (the nickname "Little" was probably meant to be ironic since he was actually almost six feet tall), left their last place the way mentioned earlier and traveled on to Gloucester without encountering any noteworthy adventures.
Being arrived here, they chose for their house of entertainment the sign of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which I do most seriously recommend to every reader who shall visit this antient city. The master of it is brother to the great preacher Whitefield; but is absolutely untainted with the pernicious principles of Methodism, or of any other heretical sect. He is indeed a very honest plain man, and, in my opinion, not likely to create any disturbance either in church or state. His wife hath, I believe, had much pretension to beauty, and is still a very fine woman. Her person and deportment might have made a shining figure in the politest assemblies; but though she must be conscious of this and many other perfections, she seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to, that state of life to which she is called; and this resignation is entirely owing to the prudence and wisdom of her temper; for she is at present as free from any Methodistical notions as her husband: I say at present; for she freely confesses that her brother's documents made at first some impression upon her, and that she had put herself to the expense of a long hood, in order to attend the extraordinary emotions of the Spirit; but having found, during an experiment of three weeks, no emotions, she says, worth a farthing, she very wisely laid by her hood, and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly good-natured woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must be of a very morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied in her house.
Upon arriving here, they chose the Bell as their place to stay, which is truly an excellent establishment, and I highly recommend it to anyone visiting this ancient city. The owner is the brother of the great preacher Whitefield, but is completely uninfluenced by the harmful beliefs of Methodism or any other heretical group. He is genuinely an honest, straightforward man, and in my view, not someone likely to cause any trouble in either church or state. His wife, I believe, once had significant beauty and is still a very attractive woman. Her appearance and demeanor could have made her a standout at the most refined gatherings; however, even though she must be aware of this and many other qualities, she appears completely satisfied and accepting of the life she leads. This acceptance is entirely due to her wise and prudent nature, as she is currently as free from any Methodistical ideas as her husband. I say currently, because she openly admits that her brother's teachings initially had some effect on her, and she even spent money on an elaborate hood to participate in the intense spiritual movements. However, after three weeks of finding no worthwhile experiences, she wisely set aside her hood and left the sect. In short, she is a very kind and good-natured woman, and so eager to please that only those with a very sullen disposition could possibly leave her house unhappy.
Mrs Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his attendant marched in. Her sagacity soon discovered in the air of our heroe something which distinguished him from the vulgar. She ordered her servants, therefore, immediately to show him into a room, and presently afterwards invited him to dinner with herself; which invitation he very thankfully accepted; for indeed much less agreeable company than that of Mrs Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment than she had provided, would have been welcome after so long fasting and so long a walk.
Mrs. Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his assistant walked in. Her sharp perception quickly noticed something in our hero that set him apart from the ordinary. She then instructed her staff to take him to a room and soon after invited him to dinner with her; an invitation he gratefully accepted. Indeed, any company less pleasant than Mrs. Whitefield’s and any meal worse than what she had prepared would have been welcome after such a long fast and a lengthy walk.
Besides Mr Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down at table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had brought the news of Mrs Blifil's death to Mr Allworthy, and whose name, which I think we did not before mention, was Dowling: there was likewise present another person, who stiled himself a lawyer, and who lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This fellow, I say, stiled himself a lawyer, but was indeed a most vile petty-fogger, without sense or knowledge of any kind; one of those who may be termed train-bearers to the law; a sort of supernumeraries in the profession, who are the hackneys of attorneys, and will ride more miles for half-a-crown than a postboy.
Besides Mr. Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down at the table an attorney from Salisbury, the very same one who had brought the news of Mrs. Blifil's death to Mr. Allworthy, and whose name, which I think we didn't mention before, was Dowling. There was also another person, who called himself a lawyer, and who lived somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This guy, I say, called himself a lawyer, but was actually a terrible petty-fogger, without any sense or knowledge; one of those who can be described as hangers-on to the law; a sort of extra in the profession, who are the workhorses of attorneys and will travel more miles for half a crown than a postboy.
During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recollected the face of Jones, which he had seen at Mr Allworthy's; for he had often visited in that gentleman's kitchen. He therefore took occasion to enquire after the good family there with that familiarity which would have become an intimate friend or acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and indeed he did all in his power to insinuate himself to be such, though he had never had the honour of speaking to any person in that family higher than the butler. Jones answered all his questions with much civility, though he never remembered to have seen the petty-fogger before; and though he concluded, from the outward appearance and behaviour of the man, that he usurped a freedom with his betters, to which he was by no means intitled.
During dinner, the Somerset lawyer remembered Jones's face from when he had seen him at Mr. Allworthy's, as he had often visited that gentleman’s kitchen. He took the opportunity to ask about the good family there with the kind of familiarity that would suit a close friend or acquaintance of Mr. Allworthy; in fact, he did everything he could to suggest that he was such, even though he had never had the honor of speaking to anyone in that family who was above the butler. Jones answered all his questions politely, even though he didn’t recall ever having seen the petty lawyer before; and he guessed, based on the man's appearance and behavior, that he was taking liberties with his betters that he definitely did not deserve.
As the conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed than Mr Jones withdrew, and a little barbarously left poor Mrs Whitefield to do a penance, which I have often heard Mr Timothy Harris, and other publicans of good taste, lament, as the severest lot annexed to their calling, namely, that of being obliged to keep company with their guests.
As the talk among these kinds of people is the most unbearable for anyone with sense, the moment the drinks were taken away, Mr. Jones left, somewhat cruelly leaving poor Mrs. Whitefield to endure a punishment that I've often heard Mr. Timothy Harris and other respectable pub owners complain about as the worst part of their job: having to socialize with their customers.
Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, in a whispering tone, asked Mrs Whitefield, “If she knew who that fine spark was?” She answered, “She had never seen the gentleman before.”—“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the petty-fogger; “a pretty gentleman, truly! Why, he's the bastard of a fellow who was hanged for horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire Allworthy's door, where one of the servants found him in a box so full of rain-water, that he would certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for another fate.”—“Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest: we understand what that fate is very well,” cries Dowling, with a most facetious grin.—“Well,” continued the other, “the squire ordered him to be taken in; for he is a timbersome man everybody knows, and was afraid of drawing himself into a scrape; and there the bastard was bred up, and fed, and cloathified all to the world like any gentleman; and there he got one of the servant-maids with child, and persuaded her to swear it to the squire himself; and afterwards he broke the arm of one Mr Thwackum a clergyman, only because he reprimanded him for following whores; and afterwards he snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind his back; and once, when Squire Allworthy was sick, he got a drum, and beat it all over the house to prevent him from sleeping; and twenty other pranks he hath played, for all which, about four or five days ago, just before I left the country, the squire stripped him stark naked, and turned him out of doors.”
Jones had barely left the room when the petty-fogger leaned in and whispered to Mrs. Whitefield, “Do you know who that fine guy was?” She replied, “I've never seen him before.” “The guy, really!” said the petty-fogger; “a fine gentleman, indeed! He’s the illegitimate child of a man who was hanged for horse theft. He was dropped off at Squire Allworthy's doorstep, where one of the servants found him in a box so full of rainwater that he would have drowned if he hadn’t been saved for another fate.” “Oh, you don’t need to explain, I swear: we all know what that fate is,” chimed in Dowling, with a big grin. “Well,” the petty-fogger continued, “the squire had him taken in because he’s a nervous man, as everyone knows, and didn’t want to get himself into trouble. So, the illegitimate child was raised, fed, and dressed like any gentleman; and there he got one of the maids pregnant and convinced her to tell the squire it was his child. Later, he broke the arm of a clergyman named Mr. Thwackum just because the man scolded him for chasing after prostitutes. Then he pointed a pistol at Mr. Blifil from behind, and once, when Squire Allworthy was sick, he got a drum and beat it all over the house to keep him from sleeping. He’s pulled all sorts of pranks, and just about four or five days ago, right before I left the area, the squire stripped him completely naked and kicked him out.”
“And very justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I would turn my own son out of doors, if he was guilty of half as much. And pray what is the name of this pretty gentleman?”
“And very justly too, I swear,” says Dowling; “I would kick my own son out of the house if he did even half as much. By the way, what’s the name of this charming guy?”
“The name o' un?” answered Petty-fogger; “why, he is called Thomas Jones.”
"The name of him?" replied the lawyer; "well, he's called Thomas Jones."
“Jones!” answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr Jones that lived at Mr Allworthy's? was that the gentleman that dined with us?”—“The very same,” said the other. “I have heard of the gentleman,” cries Dowling, “often; but I never heard any ill character of him.”—“And I am sure,” says Mrs Whitefield, “if half what this gentleman hath said be true, Mr Jones hath the most deceitful countenance I ever saw; for sure his looks promise something very different; and I must say, for the little I have seen of him, he is as civil a well-bred man as you would wish to converse with.”
“Jones!” Dowling replied a bit eagerly; “are you talking about Mr. Jones who stayed at Mr. Allworthy's? Was he the guy who dined with us?”—“That’s the one,” the other confirmed. “I’ve heard about him,” Dowling said, “often; but I’ve never heard anything bad about him.” —“And I’m sure,” Mrs. Whitefield added, “if even half of what this gentleman has said is true, Mr. Jones has the most deceitful face I’ve ever seen; his looks suggest something very different. I have to say, from the little I’ve seen of him, he’s as polite and well-mannered as anyone you’d want to talk to.”
Petty-fogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as he usually was, before he gave his evidence, now bound what he had declared with so many oaths and imprecations that the landlady's ears were shocked, and she put a stop to his swearing, by assuring him of her belief. Upon which he said, “I hope, madam, you imagine I would scorn to tell such things of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What interest have I in taking away the reputation of a man who never injured me? I promise you every syllable of what I have said is fact, and the whole country knows it.”
Petty-fogger realizing that he hadn't been sworn in like he usually was before giving his testimony, now reinforced what he had said with so many oaths and curses that the landlady was appalled, prompting her to stop his swearing by assuring him she believed him. He then replied, “I hope, madam, you think I would stoop to say such things about anyone unless I knew them to be true. What reason do I have to tarnish the reputation of a man who has never wronged me? I assure you, everything I’ve said is true, and the whole country knows it.”
As Mrs Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petty-fogger had any motive or temptation to abuse Jones, the reader cannot blame her for believing what he so confidently affirmed with many oaths. She accordingly gave up her skill in physiognomy, and hence-forwards conceived so ill an opinion of her guest, that she heartily wished him out of her house.
As Mrs. Whitefield had no reason to think that the petty-fogger had any motive or temptation to mistreat Jones, the reader can't blame her for believing what he confidently claimed with many oaths. She therefore set aside her ability to read people's faces and from then on had such a poor opinion of her guest that she sincerely wished he would leave her house.
This dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr Whitefield made from the kitchen, where Partridge had informed the company, “That though he carried the knapsack, and contented himself with staying among servants, while Tom Jones (as he called him) was regaling in the parlour, he was not his servant, but only a friend and companion, and as good a gentleman as Mr Jones himself.”
This dislike was further fueled by a report from Mr. Whitefield in the kitchen, where Partridge told everyone, “Even though I carry the knapsack and keep to the servants' area while Tom Jones—like I call him—enjoys himself in the parlor, I’m not his servant; I’m just a friend and companion, and just as good a gentleman as Mr. Jones himself.”
Dowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making faces, grinning, and looking wonderfully arch; at last he opened his lips, and protested that the gentleman looked like another sort of man. He then called for his bill with the utmost haste, declared he must be at Hereford that evening, lamented his great hurry of business, and wished he could divide himself into twenty pieces, in order to be at once in twenty places.
Dowling sat there quietly, biting his fingers, making faces, grinning, and looking quite mischievous. Finally, he spoke up and insisted that the gentleman seemed like a different kind of person. He then quickly asked for his bill, claimed he needed to be in Hereford that evening, expressed his frustration at being so busy, and wished he could split himself into twenty pieces so he could be in twenty places at once.
The petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones desired the favour of Mrs Whitefield's company to drink tea with him; but she refused, and with a manner so different from that with which she had received him at dinner, that it a little surprized him. And now he soon perceived her behaviour totally changed; for instead of that natural affability which we have before celebrated, she wore a constrained severity on her countenance, which was so disagreeable to Mr Jones, that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that evening.
The petty lawyer also left, and then Jones asked Mrs. Whitefield if she would join him for tea; however, she declined, and her attitude was so different from how she had treated him at dinner that it surprised him a bit. He quickly noticed her behavior had completely changed; instead of the warm friendliness he had previously praised, she now had a stiff, serious expression that was so unpleasant to Mr. Jones that he decided, even though it was late, to leave the house that evening.
He did indeed account somewhat unfairly for this sudden change; for besides some hard and unjust surmises concerning female fickleness and mutability, he began to suspect that he owed this want of civility to his want of horses; a sort of animals which, as they dirty no sheets, are thought in inns to pay better for their beds than their riders, and are therefore considered as the more desirable company; but Mrs Whitefield, to do her justice, had a much more liberal way of thinking. She was perfectly well-bred, and could be very civil to a gentleman, though he walked on foot. In reality, she looked on our heroe as a sorry scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such, for which not even Jones himself, had he known as much as the reader, could have blamed her; nay, on the contrary, he must have approved her conduct, and have esteemed her the more for the disrespect shown towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating circumstance, which attends depriving men unjustly of their reputation; for a man who is conscious of having an ill character, cannot justly be angry with those who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise such as affect his conversation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have convinced them that their friend's character hath been falsely and injuriously aspersed.
He unfairly blamed this sudden change on a few harsh and unjust assumptions about women's fickleness and inconsistency. He started to think he was getting this lack of respect because he didn’t have any horses. Horses, which don't mess up sheets, are considered better guests in inns than their riders and are seen as more desirable company. However, to give Mrs. Whitefield her due, she had a much more open-minded perspective. She was well-mannered and could be polite to a gentleman, even if he was on foot. In truth, she regarded our hero as a worthless scoundrel and treated him accordingly, which even Jones, if he knew what the reader does, couldn’t have blamed her for. On the contrary, he would have likely respected her more for showing him such disrespect. This is indeed a frustrating situation that comes with unjustly tarnishing a man’s reputation. A man who knows he has a bad reputation can’t truly be angry at those who ignore and look down on him; instead, he should despise those who pretend to care about his company, unless they are close enough friends to realize that his reputation has been falsely and harmfully damaged.
This was not, however, the case of Jones; for as he was a perfect stranger to the truth, so he was with good reason offended at the treatment he received. He therefore paid his reckoning and departed, highly against the will of Mr Partridge, who having remonstrated much against it to no purpose, at last condescended to take up his knapsack and to attend his friend.
This wasn't the situation for Jones; since he was completely unaware of the truth, it made sense that he was upset by how he was treated. He then settled his bill and left, much to the dismay of Mr. Partridge, who had protested against it without success, but eventually gave in, picked up his backpack, and went to follow his friend.
Chapter ix. — Containing several dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the lucky and narrow escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of making a fatal
discovery to his friend.
disclosure to his friend.
The shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the feathered creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the highest order of mortals were sitting down to their dinners, and the lowest order to their suppers. In a word, the clock struck five just as Mr Jones took his leave of Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was now mid-winter) the dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable curtain over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all night. Jones had not travelled far before he paid his compliments to that beautiful planet, and, turning to his companion, asked him if he had ever beheld so delicious an evening? Partridge making no ready answer to his question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty of the moon, and repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the moon; thus pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both employed in contemplating the same object at the same time. “Those lovers,” added he, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling all the tenderness of the sublimest of all human passions.”—“Very probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had bodies incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am very much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to another house of entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some judgment should happen to us for our folly in running away so by night from one of the most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure I never saw more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the land cannot live better in his own house than he may there. And to forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, the Lord knows whither, per devia rura viarum, I say nothing for my part; but some people might not have charity enough to conclude we were in our sober senses.”—“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a better heart; consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you afraid of facing a little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to advise which of these roads we should take.”—“May I be so bold,” says Partridge, “to offer my advice? Interdum stultus opportuna loquitur”—“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you recommend?”—“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only road we can be certain of finding, is the road we came. A good hearty pace will bring us back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive at any place; for I see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in all the way.”—“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones, “which receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the moon. However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that seems to lead directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not far from Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, you may, and return back again; but for my part, I am resolved to go forward.”
The shadows were starting to stretch down from the tall mountains; the birds had settled in for the night. The upper class was sitting down to dinner, while the lower class was having their supper. In short, the clock struck five just as Mr. Jones left Gloucester; at this time of year, being mid-winter, Night's dirty fingers would have pulled her dark curtain over the world if the moon hadn't stopped her. The moon, with a face as wide and red as that of some cheerful people who, like her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, where she had slept through the day, to stay up all night. Jones hadn't traveled far before he greeted that beautiful planet and turned to his friend, asking if he had ever seen such a lovely evening. Partridge didn’t respond immediately, so Jones started to praise the beauty of the moon and recited some lines from Milton, who has certainly outdone all other poets in describing the heavenly bodies. He then told Partridge the story from the Spectator about two lovers who had agreed to look at the moon at a specific time from far apart, pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both admiring the same sight simultaneously. “Those lovers,” he added, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling the tenderness of the greatest human passions.” “Very likely,” replied Partridge, “but I envy them more if they had bodies that couldn’t feel the cold; I feel like I’m freezing to death, and I’m really worried I’ll lose part of my nose before we reach another place to rest. Honestly, we should expect some punishment for our foolishness in leaving one of the best inns I’ve ever been to. I’ve never seen more good things in my life, and not even the richest lord in the land could live better than he does there. And to leave such a place and wander around the countryside without knowing where we’re going, I won’t say anything for myself; but some people might not think we were acting rationally.” “Come now, Mr. Partridge!” says Jones, “cheer up; remember you’re about to face an enemy; are you really afraid of a little cold? I wish we had a guide to tell us which way to go.” “May I be so bold,” says Partridge, “to offer my advice? Sometimes a fool speaks at the right time.” “Well, which one would you suggest?” asks Jones. “Honestly, neither of them,” Partridge answered. “The only road we can be sure of is the one we came from. If we walk at a good pace, we can get back to Gloucester in an hour; but if we go forward, God knows when we’ll reach anywhere, as I see at least fifty miles ahead of us with not a single house in sight.” “You’re right; it is a nice view,” says Jones, “which is made even prettier by the bright shine of the moon. However, I’ll stick to the left path, as it seems to lead directly to those hills we heard are not far from Worcester. And if you want to leave me, you can go back; but I’m determined to keep going.”
“It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of any such intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your account as on my own: but since you are determined to go on, I am as much determined to follow. I prae sequar te.”
“It’s unkind of you, sir,” Partridge says, “to think I have any such intention. What I’ve advised has been for your benefit as much as for mine: but since you’re set on going ahead, I’m just as set on following. I prae sequar te.”
They now travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during which suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned as bitterly, though from a very different reason. At length Jones made a full stop, and turning about, cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the loveliest creature in the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that very moon which I behold at this instant?” “Very likely, sir,” answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good surloin of roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the bargain.” “Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones. “Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life, or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy memory?” “Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge, “well would it have been for me if I had never known what love was. Infandum regina jubes renovare dolorem. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and sublimities, and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your mistress unkind, then?” says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the world. However, heaven be praised, she's gone; and if I believed she was in the moon, according to a book I once read, which teaches that to be the receptacle of departed spirits, I would never look at it for fear of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a looking-glass for your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now placed before it.” “My dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was there! A thought which I am certain could never have entered into any mind but that of a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to see that face; but, alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever, and my only refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my former happiness.” “And do you really despair of ever seeing Miss Western again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow my advice I will engage you shall not only see her but have her in your arms.” “Ha! do not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: “I have struggled sufficiently to conquer all such wishes already.” “Nay,” answered Partridge, “if you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you are a most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones, “let us avoid this subject; but pray what is your advice?” “To give it you in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge, “as we are soldiers, `To the right about.' Let us return the way we came; we may yet reach Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if we proceed, we are likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without coming either to house or home.” “I have already told you my resolution is to go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged to you for your company hither; and I beg you to accept a guinea as a small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be cruel in me to suffer you to go any farther; for, to deal plainly with you, my chief end and desire is a glorious death in the service of my king and country.” “As for your money,” replied Partridge, “I beg, sir, you will put it up; I will receive none of you at this time; for at present I am, I believe, the richer man of the two. And as your resolution is to go on, so mine is to follow you if you do. Nay, now my presence appears absolutely necessary to take care of you, since your intentions are so desperate; for I promise you my views are much more prudent; as you are resolved to fall in battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think there will be but little danger; for a popish priest told me the other day the business would soon be over, and he believed without a battle.” “A popish priest!” cries Jones, “I have heard is not always to be believed when he speaks in behalf of his religion.” “Yes, but so far,” answered the other, “from speaking in behalf of his religion, he assured me the Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers by the change; for that Prince Charles was as good a Protestant as any in England; and that nothing but regard to right made him and the rest of the popish party to be Jacobites.”—“I believe him to be as much a Protestant as I believe he hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no doubt of our success, but not without a battle. So that I am not so sanguine as your friend the popish priest.” “Nay, to be sure, sir,” answered Partridge, “all the prophecies I have ever read speak of a great deal of blood to be spilt in the quarrel, and the miller with three thumbs, who is now alive, is to hold the horses of three kings, up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send better times!” “With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy head!” answered Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper arguments to support monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King George is the cause of liberty and true religion. In other words, it is the cause of common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed, though Briarius himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to turn miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast into the utmost confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the reader of a secret, which he had no proper opportunity of revealing before, Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had concluded that Jones was of the same party, and was now proceeding to join the rebels. An opinion which was not without foundation. For the tall, long-sided dame, mentioned by Hudibras—that many-eyed, many-tongued, many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of the quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to truth. She had, indeed, changed the name of Sophia into that of the Pretender, and had reported, that drinking his health was the cause for which Jones was knocked down. This Partridge had heard, and most firmly believed. 'Tis no wonder, therefore, that he had thence entertained the above-mentioned opinion of Jones; and which he had almost discovered to him before he found out his own mistake. And at this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder, if he pleases to recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first communicated his resolution to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words been less ambiguous, Partridge might very well have construed them as he did; being persuaded as he was that the whole nation were of the same inclination in their hearts; nor did it stagger him that Jones had travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the same opinion of the army which he had of the rest of the people.
They traveled several miles without speaking, during which Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned just as bitterly, though for very different reasons. Finally, Jones came to a complete stop and turned around, exclaiming, “Who knows, Partridge, if the most beautiful creature in the universe might be looking at that very moon I’m staring at right now?” “Very likely, sir,” Partridge replied, “and if my eyes were on a nice roast beef, the devil can take the moon and its horns as well.” “Has any soldier ever given such an answer?” Jones exclaimed. “Tell me, Partridge, have you ever felt love in your life, or has time erased all traces of it from your memory?” “Oh, alas!” Partridge said, “I would have been better off never knowing what love is. Infandum regina jubes renovare dolorem. I’m sure I’ve felt all the tenderness, highs, and bitterness of that passion.” “Was your mistress unkind, then?” Jones asked. “Very unkind indeed, sir,” Partridge answered, “for she married me, and became one of the most confounded wives in the world. However, thank heaven, she’s gone; and if I believed she was in the moon, according to a book I once read that says it’s where departed spirits go, I wouldn’t dare look at it for fear of seeing her. But I do wish, sir, that the moon were a mirror for your sake, with Miss Sophia Western standing before it.” “My dear Partridge,” Jones cried, “what an idea! A thought I’m sure could only come from a lover’s mind. Oh, Partridge! I wish I could see that face again; but alas! all those sweet dreams are gone forever, and my only escape from future misery is to forget the one who was my happiness.” “Do you really think you’ll never see Miss Western again?” Partridge replied. “If you follow my advice, I promise you not only will you see her, but you’ll hold her in your arms.” “Ha! don’t awaken such thoughts,” Jones said: “I’ve struggled hard enough to overcome all those wishes.” “Nay,” Partridge replied, “if you don’t want to hold your mistress in your arms, you’re a most extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” Jones said, “let’s change the subject; but what’s your advice?” “To put it in military terms,” Partridge said, “since we’re soldiers, ‘To the right about.’ Let’s go back the way we came; we might still reach Gloucester tonight, late as it may be; whereas if we keep going, we’ll likely wander forever without arriving anywhere.” “I’ve already told you my decision is to continue,” Jones replied, “but I want you to go back. I appreciate your company here, and I ask you to take a guinea as a small token of my gratitude. No, it would be cruel of me to let you go any further; honestly, my main goal is a glorious death in the service of my king and country.” “As for your money,” Partridge said, “I insist, sir, that you keep it; I won’t take any from you at this time; for I believe I’m currently the richer of the two. And since you’ve decided to press on, I’m determined to follow you. It’s clear now that my presence is absolutely necessary to look after you, given how desperate your intentions are; because I assure you my plans are much more sensible; while you are resolved to die in battle if possible, I’m just as firmly resolved to avoid any harm if I can help it. And, in truth, I find comfort in thinking there will be little danger; for a Catholic priest told me the other day that the situation would be resolved soon, and he believed without any fighting.” “A Catholic priest!” Jones said, “I’ve heard he’s not always trustworthy when it comes to his religion.” “Yes, but insofar as his beliefs, he assured me the Catholics didn’t expect to gain anything from the change; for Prince Charles is as good a Protestant as anyone in England; and it’s only out of principle that he and the rest of the Catholics are Jacobites.” “I believe he’s as much a Protestant as I believe he has any right,” Jones said; “and I have no doubts about our success, but not without a fight. So I’m not as optimistic as your Catholic priest.” “Nay, for sure, sir,” Partridge replied, “all the prophecies I’ve ever read talk about a lot of blood being spilled in this conflict, and the miller with three thumbs, who is still alive, is supposed to hold the horses of three kings, up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy on us and bring better times!” “What nonsense have you filled your head with!” Jones replied: “I suppose this comes from the Catholic priest as well. Monsters and omens are the perfect arguments to support ridiculous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King George is the cause of liberty and true religion. In other words, it’s the cause of common sense, my boy, and I bet you will succeed, even if Briarius himself were to rise again with his hundred thumbs and turn miller.” Partridge didn’t respond to this. He was indeed completely confused by Jones’s statement. To inform the reader of a secret he had no opportunity to reveal earlier, Partridge was actually a Jacobite and had assumed Jones was of the same party, heading to join the rebels. An assumption not without basis. For the tall, long-sided woman mentioned by Hudibras—that many-eyed, many-tongued, many-mouthed, many-eared monster of Virgil—had relayed the story of the quarrel between Jones and the officer, with the usual attention to truth. She had, however, changed Sophia’s name to that of the Pretender and reported that drinking to his health was the reason Jones got knocked down. Partridge had heard this and firmly believed it. It’s no wonder he had come to the aforementioned conclusion about Jones, which he had nearly revealed to him before realizing his own mistake. And the reader should be less surprised if they recall the ambiguous way Jones first communicated his intentions to Mr. Partridge; indeed, if his words had been less vague, Partridge might have understood them as he initially did, believing as he did that the entire nation shared his silent inclination; nor did it surprise him that Jones traveled with soldiers, as he held the same view of the army as he did of the rest of the people.
But however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was still much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which reason he no sooner discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller than he thought proper to conceal and outwardly give up his own to the man on whom he depended for the making his fortune, since he by no means believed the affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really were with Mr Allworthy; for as he had kept a constant correspondence with some of his neighbours since he left that country, he had heard much, indeed more than was true, of the great affection Mr Allworthy bore this young man, who, as Partridge had been instructed, was to be that gentleman's heir, and whom, as we have said, he did not in the least doubt to be his son.
But no matter how fond he was of James or Charles, he was still much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either of them. For this reason, as soon as he realized the beliefs of his traveling companion, he decided to hide and completely give up his own for the man he relied on to make his fortune. He certainly didn't think Jones's situation was as hopeless as it truly was with Mr. Allworthy. Since he had kept in touch with some of his neighbors after leaving that area, he had heard a lot—actually more than was true—about the great affection Mr. Allworthy had for this young man, who, as Partridge had been told, was supposed to be that gentleman's heir, and whom, as we mentioned, he had no doubt was his son.
He imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would be certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he promised great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of ingratiating himself with that young gentleman; and if he could by any means be instrumental in procuring his return, he doubted not, as we have before said, but it would as highly advance him in the favour of Mr Allworthy.
He imagined that whatever disagreement they had would definitely be resolved when Mr. Jones returned; an event he anticipated would bring him great benefits if he could use this chance to win over that young man. He was confident that if he could somehow help bring Mr. Jones back, it would greatly improve his standing with Mr. Allworthy.
We have already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and he hath himself declared the violent attachment he had to the person and character of Jones; but possibly the views which I have just before mentioned, might likewise have some little share in prompting him to undertake this expedition, at least in urging him to continue it, after he had discovered that his master and himself, like some prudent fathers and sons, though they travelled together in great friendship, had embraced opposite parties. I am led into this conjecture, by having remarked, that though love, friendship, esteem, and such like, have very powerful operations in the human mind; interest, however, is an ingredient seldom omitted by wise men, when they would work others to their own purposes. This is indeed a most excellent medicine, and, like Ward's pill, flies at once to the particular part of the body on which you desire to operate, whether it be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce ever fails of immediately producing the desired effect.
We've already seen that he was a really easygoing guy, and he himself admitted the strong bond he had with Jones. But perhaps the motivations I just mentioned also played a role in pushing him to go on this journey, at least in encouraging him to keep going after realizing that both he and his master, like some wise parents and children, traveled together as good friends but had aligned with opposing sides. I'm led to this idea because I've noticed that while love, friendship, respect, and similar feelings have a significant impact on the human mind, self-interest is usually a factor that clever people consider when trying to influence others for their own goals. This truly is a remarkable remedy, and much like Ward's pill, it targets the specific area of the mind you want to influence, whether it's speech, action, or any other aspect, and it almost always succeeds in achieving the desired result instantly.
Chapter x. — In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary adventure.
Just as Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill. Here Jones stopt short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a while silent. At length he called to his companion, and said, “Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must certainly afford a most charming prospect, especially by this light; for the solemn gloom which the moon casts on all objects, is beyond expression beautiful, especially to an imagination which is desirous of cultivating melancholy ideas.”—“Very probably,” answered Partridge; “but if the top of the hill be properest to produce melancholy thoughts, I suppose the bottom is the likeliest to produce merry ones, and these I take to be much the better of the two. I protest you have made my blood run cold with the very mentioning the top of that mountain; which seems to me to be one of the highest in the world. No, no, if we look for anything, let it be for a place under ground, to screen ourselves from the frost.”—“Do so,” said Jones; “let it be but within hearing of this place, and I will hallow to you at my return back.”—“Surely, sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.—“Indeed, I am,” answered Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you complain so much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I will certainly return to you within an hour.”—“Pardon me, sir,” cries Partridge; “I have determined to follow you wherever you go.” Indeed he was now afraid to stay behind; for though he was coward enough in all respects, yet his chief fear was that of ghosts, with which the present time of night, and the wildness of the place, extremely well suited.
Just as Jones and his friend finished their conversation in the previous chapter, they reached the bottom of a very steep hill. Jones stopped abruptly, looked up, and stood silent for a moment. Finally, he called to his companion and said, “Partridge, I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must have a stunning view, especially in this light. The solemn gloom cast by the moon on everything is incredibly beautiful, especially for someone with a mind inclined toward melancholy thoughts.” —“Very true,” replied Partridge; “but if the top of the hill is best for melancholy thoughts, then the bottom is probably better for happy ones, and I think those are far superior. You've made my blood run cold just by mentioning the top of that hill; it looks to me like one of the highest in the world. No, no, if we're looking for anything, let’s find a place underground to shield ourselves from the cold.” —“Sure,” said Jones; “as long as it's within earshot of this spot, I’ll call out to you when I come back.” —“Surely, sir, you can’t be serious,” said Partridge. —“I am indeed,” replied Jones, “if climbing this hill is madness; but since you complain so much about the cold already, I suggest you stay down here. I will definitely return within an hour.” —“Excuse me, sir,” shouted Partridge; “I’ve made up my mind to follow you wherever you go.” He was now too scared to stay behind; even though he was cowardly in every way, his biggest fear was of ghosts, which matched perfectly with the time of night and the wildness of the place.
At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard my prayers, and hath brought us to a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let me beseech you, sir, if you have any compassion either for me or yourself, do not despise the goodness of Providence, but let us go directly to yon light. Whether it be a public-house or no, I am sure if they be Christians that dwell there, they will not refuse a little house-room to persons in our miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly towards the place whence the light issued.
At that moment, Partridge spotted a shining light through the trees, which seemed very close to them. He immediately shouted in excitement, “Oh, sir! Heaven has finally heard my prayers and has led us to a house; maybe it’s an inn. Please, sir, if you have any compassion for either me or yourself, don’t overlook the goodness of Providence, but let’s head straight for that light. Whether it’s a public house or not, I’m sure if the people living there are Christians, they won’t turn away someone in our dire situation.” Jones eventually gave in to Partridge’s urgent pleas, and together they headed toward the source of the light.
They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might be called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several times without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge, whose head was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began to tremble, crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely the people must be all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I am certain I saw a candle burning but a moment before.—Well! I have heard of such things.”—“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones. “The people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely place, are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate pretty loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked, Who they were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were travellers who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the window, had been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm themselves. “Whoever you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time of night.” Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be admitted for a few minutes to the fire, saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to which fear had indeed contributed equally with the frost. He assured her that the gentleman who spoke to her was one of the greatest squires in the country; and made use of every argument, save one, which Jones afterwards effectually added; and this was, the promise of half-a-crown;—a bribe too great to be resisted by such a person, especially as the genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the moon plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour, had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she had at first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let them in; where Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire ready for his reception.
They soon reached the door of this house or cottage—it could be called either without much issue. Jones knocked several times but didn’t get any response from inside. Partridge, who was only thinking about ghosts, devils, witches, and similar things, started to panic, saying, “Oh my God, have mercy on us! Surely, everyone inside must be dead. I can't see any light now, but I’m sure I saw a candle burning just a moment ago. Well! I’ve heard about things like this.” “What have you heard?” asked Jones. “The people are either fast asleep or, since this is such a lonely place, they’re too scared to open their door.” He then began to shout fairly loudly, and finally, an old woman opened an upper window and asked who they were and what they wanted. Jones replied that they were travelers who had lost their way and had seen a light in the window, hoping to find some fire to warm themselves. “Whoever you are,” the woman exclaimed, “you have no business here, and I won’t open the door to anyone at this time of night.” Partridge, whose fear had faded at the sound of a human voice, began fervently begging to be admitted for just a few minutes to the fire, saying he was almost frozen with cold; fear had really contributed to his shivering as much as the chill. He assured her that the gentleman speaking to her was one of the wealthiest squires in the area and used every argument he could think of—except for one, which Jones later effectively added. This was the promise of half a crown—a bribe that was hard to resist for someone like her, especially since Jones's respectable appearance, illuminated by the moonlight, and his friendly manner had completely eased her initial fears of thieves. Eventually, she agreed to let them in, and Partridge found a nice fire waiting for him, much to his delight.
The poor fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, began a little to disturb his brain. There was no article of his creed in which he had a stronger faith than he had in witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive a figure more adapted to inspire this idea, than the old woman who now stood before him. She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway in his Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of James the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost without any evidence.
The poor guy, however, had barely warmed himself up when those thoughts that were always on his mind started to disrupt his brain a bit. There was no part of his beliefs that he had stronger faith in than witchcraft, and you couldn’t imagine anyone more likely to inspire that idea than the old woman standing in front of him. She matched the description that Otway painted in his Orphan perfectly. Honestly, if this woman had lived during the reign of James the First, her appearance alone would have been enough to get her hanged, almost without any evidence.
Many circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his opinion. Her living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a place; and in a house, the outside of which seemed much too good for her, but its inside was furnished in the most neat and elegant manner. To say the truth, Jones himself was not a little surprized at what he saw; for, besides the extraordinary neatness of the room, it was adorned with a great number of nicknacks and curiosities, which might have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.
Many factors also contributed to Partridge's belief. He thought she lived all alone in such an isolated place, and the outside of the house seemed way too nice for her. However, the inside was decorated in a very tidy and stylish way. To be honest, Jones was quite surprised by what he saw; in addition to the amazing cleanliness of the room, it was filled with many trinkets and curiosities that could have captivated the attention of an art lover.
While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat trembling with the firm belief that he was in the house of a witch, the old woman said, “I hope, gentlemen, you will make what haste you can; for I expect my master presently, and I would not for double the money he should find you here.”—“Then you have a master?” cried Jones. “Indeed, you will excuse me, good woman, but I was surprized to see all those fine things in your house.”—“Ah, sir,” said she, “if the twentieth part of these things were mine, I should think myself a rich woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I look for him in every minute.”—“Why, sure he would not be angry with you,” said Jones, “for doing a common act of charity?”—“Alack-a-day, sir!” said she, “he is a strange man, not at all like other people. He keeps no company with anybody, and seldom walks out but by night, for he doth not care to be seen; and all the country people are as much afraid of meeting him; for his dress is enough to frighten those who are not used to it. They call him, the Man of the Hill (for there he walks by night), and the country people are not, I believe, more afraid of the devil himself. He would be terribly angry if he found you here.”—“Pray, sir,” says Partridge, “don't let us offend the gentleman; I am ready to walk, and was never warmer in my life. Do pray, sir, let us go. Here are pistols over the chimney: who knows whether they be charged or no, or what he may do with them?”—“Fear nothing, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I will secure thee from danger.”—“Nay, for matter o' that, he never doth any mischief,” said the woman; “but to be sure it is necessary he should keep some arms for his own safety; for his house hath been beset more than once; and it is not many nights ago that we thought we heard thieves about it: for my own part, I have often wondered that he is not murdered by some villain or other, as he walks out by himself at such hours; but then, as I said, the people are afraid of him; and besides, they think, I suppose, he hath nothing about him worth taking.”—“I should imagine, by this collection of rarities,” cries Jones, “that your master had been a traveller.”—“Yes, sir,” answered she, “he hath been a very great one: there be few gentlemen that know more of all matters than he. I fancy he hath been crost in love, or whatever it is I know not; but I have lived with him above these thirty years, and in all that time he hath hardly spoke to six living people.” She then again solicited their departure, in which she was backed by Partridge; but Jones purposely protracted the time, for his curiosity was greatly raised to see this extraordinary person. Though the old woman, therefore, concluded every one of her answers with desiring him to be gone, and Partridge proceeded so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he still continued to invent new questions, till the old woman, with an affrighted countenance, declared she heard her master's signal; and at the same instant more than one voice was heard without the door, crying, “D—n your blood, show us your money this instant. Your money, you villain, or we will blow your brains about your ears.”
While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat shaking, convinced that he was in a witch's house, the old woman said, “I hope, gentlemen, you’ll hurry along; I expect my master soon, and I wouldn’t want him to find you here.” — “So you have a master?” Jones exclaimed. “I must apologize, good woman, but I’m surprised to see all these fine things in your house.” — “Oh, sir,” she replied, “if even a twentieth of these things were mine, I’d consider myself rich. But please, sir, don’t stay too long, I expect him any minute.” — “Surely he wouldn’t be angry with you,” said Jones, “for doing a simple act of charity?” — “Oh dear, sir!” she said, “he’s a peculiar man, not like others. He doesn’t associate with anyone and rarely goes out except at night because he doesn’t like being seen. The local people are just as scared of running into him; his clothing is enough to frighten anyone who isn’t used to it. They call him the Man of the Hill (since that’s where he walks at night), and I believe the locals are more afraid of him than the devil himself. He would be extremely angry if he found you here.” — “Please, sir,” said Partridge, “let’s not offend the gentleman; I’m ready to leave and have never felt warmer in my life. Please, let’s go. There are pistols over the fireplace: who knows if they’re loaded or what he might do with them?” — “Don’t worry, Partridge,” Jones replied; “I’ll keep you safe.” — “Well, to be fair, he never does any harm,” said the woman; “but it’s essential for him to have some weapons for his own safety; his house has been attacked more than once, and it’s not long ago that we thought we heard thieves nearby: honestly, I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t been murdered by some scoundrel while he’s out at these hours; but as I said, the people are afraid of him, and besides, they think he has nothing of value.” — “I’d think, from this collection of rarities,” Jones said, “that your master must have been a traveler.” — “Yes, sir,” she answered, “he has traveled a lot: few gentlemen know as much about everything as he does. I suspect he’s been hurt in love, or something like that; I really don't know. I’ve lived with him for over thirty years, and in all that time, he’s hardly spoken to six people.” She then insisted they leave again, supported by Partridge, but Jones deliberately delayed, his curiosity piqued to meet this unusual man. So even though the old woman ended each of her answers with a plea for him to go, and Partridge even tugged at his sleeve, he kept coming up with new questions until the old woman, looking alarmed, declared she heard her master’s signal; and at the same moment, more than one voice was heard outside the door, shouting, “Damn your blood, show us your money right now. Your money, you scoundrel, or we’ll blow your brains out!”
“O, good heaven!” cries the old woman, “some villains, to be sure, have attacked my master. O la! what shall I do? what shall I do?”—“How!” cries Jones, “how!—Are these pistols loaded?”—“O, good sir, there is nothing in them, indeed. O pray don't murder us, gentlemen!” (for in reality she now had the same opinion of those within as she had of those without). Jones made her no answer; but snatching an old broad sword which hung in the room, he instantly sallied out, where he found the old gentleman struggling with two ruffians, and begging for mercy. Jones asked no questions, but fell so briskly to work with his broad sword, that the fellows immediately quitted their hold; and without offering to attack our heroe, betook themselves to their heels and made their escape; for he did not attempt to pursue them, being contented with having delivered the old gentleman; and indeed he concluded he had pretty well done their business, for both of them, as they ran off, cried out with bitter oaths that they were dead men.
“Oh my goodness!” exclaims the old woman, “some villains must have attacked my master. What should I do? What should I do?”—“What?” exclaims Jones, “What? Are these pistols loaded?”—“Oh, good sir, there’s nothing in them, really. Please don’t kill us, gentlemen!” (for she actually thought the same of those inside as she did of those outside). Jones didn’t respond, but grabbed an old broadsword hanging in the room and rushed out, where he found the old gentleman struggling with two thugs and begging for mercy. Without asking questions, Jones swung his broadsword so fiercely that the thugs immediately let go, and without trying to fight him, they ran away. He didn’t chase them, satisfied that he had saved the old gentleman; in fact, he figured he had really scared them off, as both of them shouted with curses as they fled that they were dead men.
Jones presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had been thrown down in the scuffle, expressing at the same time great concern lest he should have received any harm from the villains. The old man stared a moment at Jones, and then cried, “No, sir, no, I have very little harm, I thank you. Lord have mercy upon me!”—“I see, sir,” said Jones, “you are not free from apprehensions even of those who have had the happiness to be your deliverers; nor can I blame any suspicions which you may have; but indeed you have no real occasion for any; here are none but your friends present. Having mist our way this cold night, we took the liberty of warming ourselves at your fire, whence we were just departing when we heard you call for assistance, which, I must say, Providence alone seems to have sent you.”—“Providence, indeed,” cries the old gentleman, “if it be so.”—“So it is, I assure you,” cries Jones. “Here is your own sword, sir; I have used it in your defence, and I now return it into your hand.” The old man having received the sword, which was stained with the blood of his enemies, looked stedfastly at Jones during some moments, and then with a sigh cried out, “You will pardon me, young gentleman; I was not always of a suspicious temper, nor am I a friend to ingratitude.”
Jones quickly ran over to help the old gentleman, who had fallen during the scuffle, showing great concern that he might have been hurt by the attackers. The old man stared at Jones for a moment and then exclaimed, “No, sir, no, I’m fine, thank you. Lord have mercy on me!”—“I see, sir,” said Jones, “you’re still wary even of those who have had the pleasure of helping you; I can’t fault any suspicions you might have, but honestly, you have no reason to fear us; we are all your friends here. We got lost on this chilly night and took the liberty of warming ourselves by your fire, from which we were just about to leave when we heard your call for help, which I must say seems to have been sent by Providence alone.”—“Providence, indeed,” the old gentleman replied, “if that’s the case.”—“It certainly is, I assure you,” Jones continued. “Here’s your sword, sir; I used it to defend you, and I’m now returning it to you.” The old man took the sword, which was stained with the blood of his attackers, looked intently at Jones for a few moments, and then, with a sigh, said, “You’ll forgive me, young man; I wasn’t always suspicious, and I’m not one to be ungrateful.”
“Be thankful then,” cries Jones, “to that Providence to which you owe your deliverance: as to my part, I have only discharged the common duties of humanity, and what I would have done for any fellow-creature in your situation.”—“Let me look at you a little longer,” cries the old gentleman. “You are a human creature then? Well, perhaps you are. Come pray walk into my little hutt. You have been my deliverer indeed.”
“Be thankful then,” Jones shouts, “to that Providence that you owe your rescue to: as for me, I’ve just done the basic duties of humanity, and what I would have done for anyone else in your situation.” — “Let me look at you a little longer,” the old gentleman replies. “So, you are a human being then? Well, maybe you are. Please, come walk into my little hut. You really have saved me.”
The old woman was distracted between the fears which she had of her master, and for him; and Partridge was, if possible, in a greater fright. The former of these, however, when she heard her master speak kindly to Jones, and perceived what had happened, came again to herself; but Partridge no sooner saw the gentleman, than the strangeness of his dress infused greater terrors into that poor fellow than he had before felt, either from the strange description which he had heard, or from the uproar which had happened at the door.
The old woman was caught between her fears of her master and her concern for him, while Partridge was even more scared. However, when she heard her master speak kindly to Jones and realized what had happened, she regained her composure. But as soon as Partridge saw the man, the oddness of his clothing filled him with even more fear than he had previously experienced, whether from the strange stories he had heard or from the chaos that had occurred at the door.
To say the truth, it was an appearance which might have affected a more constant mind than that of Mr Partridge. This person was of the tallest size, with a long beard as white as snow. His body was cloathed with the skin of an ass, made something into the form of a coat. He wore likewise boots on his legs, and a cap on his head, both composed of the skin of some other animals.
To be honest, it was a look that could have influenced someone with a more stable mindset than Mr. Partridge. This man was very tall, with a long beard that was as white as snow. His body was dressed in a coat made from the skin of a donkey. He also wore boots on his legs and a cap on his head, both made from the skin of different animals.
As soon as the old gentleman came into his house, the old woman began her congratulations on his happy escape from the ruffians. “Yes,” cried he, “I have escaped, indeed, thanks to my preserver.”—“O the blessing on him!” answered she: “he is a good gentleman, I warrant him. I was afraid your worship would have been angry with me for letting him in; and to be certain I should not have done it, had not I seen by the moon-light, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel that sent him hither, and tempted me to do it.”
As soon as the old man walked into his house, the old woman started congratulating him on his narrow escape from the attackers. “Yes,” he exclaimed, “I really did escape, thanks to my savior.” “Oh, bless him!” she replied. “He’s a good man, I’m sure of it. I was worried you would be mad at me for letting him in; but I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t seen by the moonlight that he was a gentleman and nearly frozen to death. It must have been some good angel who sent him here and urged me to help.”
“I am afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that I have nothing in this house which you can either eat or drink, unless you will accept a dram of brandy; of which I can give you some most excellent, and which I have had by me these thirty years.” Jones declined this offer in a very civil and proper speech, and then the other asked him, “Whither he was travelling when he mist his way?” saying, “I must own myself surprized to see such a person as you appear to be, journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose, sir, you are a gentleman of these parts; for you do not look like one who is used to travel far without horses?”
“I’m afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that I don’t have anything in this house for you to eat or drink, unless you’d like a shot of brandy; I have some excellent stuff that I’ve kept for thirty years.” Jones politely declined this offer with a very courteous response, and then the old man asked him, “Where were you traveling when you got lost?” adding, “I must admit I’m surprised to see someone like you walking at this hour. I assume, sir, you’re from around here; you don’t look like someone who usually travels far without a horse?”
“Appearances,” cried Jones, “are often deceitful; men sometimes look what they are not. I assure you I am not of this country; and whither I am travelling, in reality I scarce know myself.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Jones exclaimed. “People sometimes appear to be something they’re not. I assure you, I’m not from here; and where I’m actually going, I hardly know myself.”
“Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going,” answered the old man, “I have obligations to you which I can never return.”
“Whoever you are, or wherever you’re headed,” replied the old man, “I have debts to you that I can never repay.”
“I once more,” replied Jones, “affirm that you have none; for there can be no merit in having hazarded that in your service on which I set no value; and nothing is so contemptible in my eyes as life.”
“I say again,” replied Jones, “that you have none; because there’s no worth in risking something in your service that I place no value on; and nothing is as pathetic to me as life.”
“I am sorry, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “that you have any reason to be so unhappy at your years.”
“I’m sorry, young man,” replied the stranger, “that you have any reason to feel so unhappy at your age.”
“Indeed I am, sir,” answered Jones, “the most unhappy of mankind.”—“Perhaps you have had a friend, or a mistress?” replied the other. “How could you,” cries Jones, “mention two words sufficient to drive me to distraction?”—“Either of them are enough to drive any man to distraction,” answered the old man. “I enquire no farther, sir; perhaps my curiosity hath led me too far already.”
“Indeed I am, sir,” Jones replied, “the most unhappy person in the world.” —“Maybe you’ve had a friend or a lover?” the other man responded. “How could you,” Jones exclaimed, “mention two words that are enough to drive me to madness?” —“Either one is enough to drive any man mad,” the old man said. “I won’t pry any further, sir; maybe my curiosity has already gotten the best of me.”
“Indeed, sir,” cries Jones, “I cannot censure a passion which I feel at this instant in the highest degree. You will pardon me when I assure you, that everything which I have seen or heard since I first entered this house hath conspired to raise the greatest curiosity in me. Something very extraordinary must have determined you to this course of life, and I have reason to fear your own history is not without misfortunes.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Jones exclaims, “I can’t criticize a feeling that I’m experiencing right now to the fullest extent. You’ll forgive me when I say that everything I’ve seen or heard since I first stepped into this house has sparked immense curiosity in me. Something quite extraordinary must have led you to this way of life, and I’m afraid your own story isn’t without its troubles.”
Here the old gentleman again sighed, and remained silent for some minutes: at last, looking earnestly on Jones, he said, “I have read that a good countenance is a letter of recommendation; if so, none ever can be more strongly recommended than yourself. If I did not feel some yearnings towards you from another consideration, I must be the most ungrateful monster upon earth; and I am really concerned it is no otherwise in my power than by words to convince you of my gratitude.”
Here, the old man sighed again and stayed quiet for a few minutes. Finally, looking intently at Jones, he said, “I’ve read that a good face is a recommendation; if that’s true, then you’re the most recommended person I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t feel some deep affection for you for another reason, I’d have to be the most ungrateful person on earth. Honestly, I’m worried that all I can do to show my gratitude is through my words.”
Jones, after a moment's hesitation, answered, “That it was in his power by words to gratify him extremely. I have confest a curiosity,” said he, “sir; need I say how much obliged I should be to you, if you would condescend to gratify it? Will you suffer me therefore to beg, unless any consideration restrains you, that you would be pleased to acquaint me what motives have induced you thus to withdraw from the society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of life to which it sufficiently appears you were not born?”
Jones, after a brief pause, replied, “That it was within his power to satisfy him greatly with his words. I have admitted my curiosity,” he said, “sir; should I mention how grateful I would be to you if you would kindly indulge it? May I therefore ask, unless something prevents you, if you would please tell me what reasons have led you to withdraw from society and to adopt a way of life that clearly seems not meant for you?”
“I scarce think myself at liberty to refuse you anything after what hath happened,” replied the old man. “If you desire therefore to hear the story of an unhappy man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you judge rightly, in thinking there is commonly something extraordinary in the fortunes of those who fly from society; for however it may seem a paradox, or even a contradiction, certain it is, that great philanthropy chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind; not on account so much of their private and selfish vices, but for those of a relative kind; such as envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with every other species of malevolence. These are the vices which true philanthropy abhors, and which rather than see and converse with, she avoids society itself. However, without a compliment to you, you do not appear to me one of those whom I should shun or detest; nay, I must say, in what little hath dropt from you, there appears some parity in our fortunes: I hope, however, yours will conclude more successfully.”
“I hardly think I can refuse you anything after what has happened,” replied the old man. “If you want to hear the story of an unhappy man, I’ll share it with you. You’re right to think there’s often something extraordinary about the lives of those who escape from society; for, although it may sound like a paradox or even a contradiction, the truth is that deep compassion often leads us to avoid and dislike mankind—not so much because of their individual selfish vices, but because of those that affect relationships, like envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, and all other forms of ill-will. These are the vices that true compassion cannot stand, and rather than face them, it chooses to stay away from society altogether. However, without flattering you, you don’t seem like someone I would want to avoid or dislike; in fact, I must say, from what little you’ve shared, our experiences seem somewhat similar: I hope yours turns out more positively.”
Here some compliments passed between our heroe and his host, and then the latter was going to begin his history, when Partridge interrupted him. His apprehensions had now pretty well left him, but some effects of his terrors remained; he therefore reminded the gentleman of that excellent brandy which he had mentioned. This was presently brought, and Partridge swallowed a large bumper.
Here, some compliments were exchanged between our hero and his host, and just as the host was about to start his story, Partridge interrupted him. His fears had mostly subsided, but some traces of his earlier fright lingered; so he reminded the gentleman about that excellent brandy he had mentioned. It was quickly brought, and Partridge downed a large glass.
The gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may read in the next chapter.
The gentleman then, without any further introduction, started as you can read in the next chapter.
Chapter xi. — In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his history.
“I was born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year 1657. My father was one of those whom they call gentlemen farmers. He had a little estate of about £300 a year of his own, and rented another estate of near the same value. He was prudent and industrious, and so good a husbandman, that he might have led a very easy and comfortable life, had not an arrant vixen of a wife soured his domestic quiet. But though this circumstance perhaps made him miserable, it did not make him poor; for he confined her almost entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal upbraidings in his own house, than to injure his fortune by indulging her in the extravagancies she desired abroad.
“I was born in a village in Somersetshire called Mark in 1657. My father was one of those called gentlemen farmers. He owned a small estate worth about £300 a year and rented another estate of similar value. He was careful and hard-working, and such a skilled farmer that he could have lived a very easy and comfortable life, if it weren't for a truly difficult wife who ruined his home life. But although this situation made him unhappy, it didn’t make him poor; he kept her mostly at home and preferred to endure constant complaints in his own house rather than risk his financial stability by letting her indulge in the extravagances she wanted outside."
“By this Xanthippe” (so was the wife of Socrates called, said Partridge)—“by this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was the younger. He designed to give us both good education; but my elder brother, who, unhappily for him, was the favourite of my mother, utterly neglected his learning; insomuch that, after having been five or six years at school with little or no improvement, my father, being told by his master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer there, at last complied with my mother in taking him home from the hands of that tyrant, as she called his master; though indeed he gave the lad much less correction than his idleness deserved, but much more, it seems, than the young gentleman liked, who constantly complained to his mother of his severe treatment, and she as constantly gave him a hearing.”
“By this Xanthippe” (that’s what Socrates' wife was called, according to Partridge)—“by this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was the younger. He planned to give us both a good education; however, my older brother, who unfortunately was my mother’s favorite, completely ignored his studies. After spending five or six years in school with little to no progress, my father was informed by his teacher that it would be pointless to keep him there any longer. Eventually, he agreed with my mother to bring him home from that tyrant, as she referred to his teacher; although, in truth, the teacher punished the boy much less than his laziness deserved, but apparently more than the young man liked, as he constantly complained to his mother about his harsh treatment, and she always listened to him.”
“Yes, yes,” cries Partridge, “I have seen such mothers; I have been abused myself by them, and very unjustly; such parents deserve correction as much as their children.”
“Yes, yes,” Partridge exclaims, “I have seen those kinds of mothers; I’ve been mistreated by them myself, and quite unfairly; those parents deserve punishment just as much as their children do.”
Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger proceeded.
Jones scolded the teacher for interrupting, and then the stranger continued.
“My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all learning, and to everything else but to his dog and gun; with which latter he became so expert, that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he could not only hit a standing mark with great certainty, but hath actually shot a crow as it was flying in the air. He was likewise excellent at finding a hare sitting, and was soon reputed one of the best sportsmen in the country; a reputation which both he and his mother enjoyed as much as if he had been thought the finest scholar.
“My brother, now fifteen, said farewell to all learning and to everything else except for his dog and gun. With the latter, he became so skilled that, though you might find it hard to believe, he could not only hit a stationary target with great accuracy but actually shot a crow while it was flying. He was also great at finding a sitting hare and quickly gained a reputation as one of the best hunters in the area; a reputation that both he and his mother cherished as much as if he had been considered the best student.”
“The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the harder, in being continued at school: but I soon changed my opinion; for as I advanced pretty fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my exercise so delightful, that holidays were my most unpleasant time; for my mother, who never loved me, now apprehending that I had the greater share of my father's affection, and finding, or at least thinking, that I was more taken notice of by some gentlemen of learning, and particularly by the parson of the parish, than my brother, she now hated my sight, and made home so disagreeable to me, that what is called by school-boys Black Monday, was to me the whitest in the whole year.
“The situation with my brother initially made me feel like my own situation was tougher since I had to stay in school. But I soon changed my mind; as I progressed quite quickly in my studies, my work became easier, and my studies were so enjoyable that holidays became the worst time for me. My mother, who never really cared for me, was worried that I had a bigger share of my father's affection. She thought or at least believed that I was getting more attention from some learned gentlemen, especially the parish priest, than my brother was. She began to hate the sight of me and made home so unpleasant that what schoolboys call Black Monday felt like the brightest day of the whole year to me.”
“Having at length gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence removed to Exeter College in Oxford, where I remained four years; at the end of which an accident took me off entirely from my studies; and hence, I may truly date the rise of all which happened to me afterwards in life.
“After finishing school in Taunton, I was then moved to Exeter College in Oxford, where I stayed for four years. At the end of that time, an accident completely took me away from my studies; and from that moment, I can genuinely mark the beginning of everything that happened to me later in life."
“There was at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a young fellow who was intitled to a very considerable fortune, which he was not, by the will of his father, to come into full possession of till he arrived at the age of twenty-five. However, the liberality of his guardians gave him little cause to regret the abundant caution of his father; for they allowed him five hundred pounds a year while he remained at the university, where he kept his horses and his whore, and lived as wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done had he been never so entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five hundred a year which he received from his guardians, he found means to spend a thousand more. He was above the age of twenty-one, and had no difficulty in gaining what credit he pleased.
There was a guy named Sir George Gresham at the same college as me. He was a young man set to inherit a significant fortune, but his father’s will said he couldn’t access it fully until he turned twenty-five. Fortunately, his guardians were generous and he didn’t really miss the strictness of his father; they gave him five hundred pounds a year while he was at university. With that money, he kept his horses and his mistress, living a wild and reckless life as if he had complete control of his fortune. In addition to the five hundred pounds from his guardians, he managed to spend an extra thousand. He was over twenty-one and had no trouble getting whatever credit he wanted.
“This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, had one very diabolical. He had a great delight in destroying and ruining the youth of inferior fortune, by drawing them into expenses which they could not afford so well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and soberer any young man was, the greater pleasure and triumph had he in his destruction. Thus acting the character which is recorded of the devil, and going about seeking whom he might devour.
“This young guy, despite many other pretty bad qualities, had one especially wicked trait. He took great pleasure in destroying the lives of less fortunate youth by luring them into expenses they couldn't afford as well as he could. The better, more decent, and more responsible a young man was, the more satisfaction and triumph he felt in their downfall. He played the role often associated with the devil, going around looking for whom he could devour.”
“It was my misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy with this gentleman. My reputation of diligence in my studies made me a desirable object of his mischievous intention; and my own inclination made it sufficiently easy for him to effect his purpose; for though I had applied myself with much industry to books, in which I took great delight, there were other pleasures in which I was capable of taking much greater; for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of animal spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely amorous.
“It was unfortunate for me to become acquainted and close with this guy. My reputation for working hard at my studies made me an appealing target for his mischievous plans, and my own inclinations made it easy for him to achieve his goals. Even though I had dedicated a lot of time to books, which I really enjoyed, there were other pleasures that I found even more enticing. I was spirited, had a lot of energy, was a bit ambitious, and was really romantic.”
“I had not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George before I became a partaker of all his pleasures; and when I was once entered on that scene, neither my inclination nor my spirit would suffer me to play an under part. I was second to none of the company in any acts of debauchery; nay, I soon distinguished myself so notably in all riots and disorders, that my name generally stood first in the roll of delinquents; and instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of Sir George, I was now accused as the person who had misled and debauched that hopeful young gentleman; for though he was the ringleader and promoter of all the mischief, he was never so considered. I fell at last under the censure of the vice-chancellor, and very narrowly escaped expulsion.
“I hadn’t known Sir George for long before I got involved in all his fun; and once I was in that scene, I couldn’t hold back my enthusiasm. I was just as wild as anyone else in our group, and I quickly made a name for myself during all the parties and chaos, often topping the list of troublemakers. Instead of being seen as the unfortunate student of Sir George, I was now blamed for leading that promising young man astray; even though he was the one instigating all the trouble, no one saw it that way. Eventually, I found myself facing criticism from the vice-chancellor and barely avoided being expelled.”
“You will easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now describing must be incompatible with my further progress in learning; and that in proportion as I addicted myself more and more to loose pleasure, I must grow more and more remiss in application to my studies. This was truly the consequence; but this was not all. My expenses now greatly exceeded not only my former income, but those additions which I extorted from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums being necessary for preparing for my approaching degree of batchelor of arts. These demands, however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant, that my father by slow degrees opened his ears to the accounts which he received from many quarters of my present behaviour, and which my mother failed not to echo very faithfully and loudly; adding, `Ay, this is the fine gentleman, the scholar who doth so much honour to his family, and is to be the making of it. I thought what all this learning would come to. He is to be the ruin of us all, I find, after his elder brother hath been denied necessaries for his sake, to perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay us such interest: I thought what the interest would come to,' with much more of the same kind; but I have, I believe, satisfied you with this taste.
"You will easily believe, sir, that a life like the one I'm describing must be incompatible with my progress in learning; and the more I indulged in carefree pleasures, the more neglectful I became towards my studies. This was definitely the result; but it wasn’t the whole story. My expenses now far exceeded not just my previous income but also the extra money I wrung from my poor, generous father, claiming it was necessary for preparing for my upcoming degree of Bachelor of Arts. Eventually, these demands became so frequent and outrageous that my father gradually started to listen to the reports he received from various sources about my current behavior, which my mother didn’t hesitate to echo very faithfully and loudly; adding, 'Ah, this is the fine gentleman, the scholar who brings so much honor to his family, and who is supposed to elevate it. I wondered what all this learning would lead to. He’s going to ruin us all, I see, after his older brother has been denied necessities for his sake, to complete his education, for which he was supposed to pay us back with such interest: I wondered what that interest would add up to,' and much more of that sort; but I believe I’ve given you enough of this flavor."
“My father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances instead of money to my demands, which brought my affairs perhaps a little sooner to a crisis; but had he remitted me his whole income, you will imagine it could have sufficed a very short time to support one who kept pace with the expenses of Sir George Gresham.
“My father, therefore, started to respond to my requests with complaints instead of money, which may have hastened my situation to a breaking point; but even if he had sent me his entire income, you can imagine it wouldn’t have lasted long enough to support someone who matched the spending of Sir George Gresham.”
“It is more than possible that the distress I was now in for money, and the impracticability of going on in this manner, might have restored me at once to my senses and to my studies, had I opened my eyes before I became involved in debts from which I saw no hopes of ever extricating myself. This was indeed the great art of Sir George, and by which he accomplished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards laughed at as fools and coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a man of his fortune. To bring this about, he would now and then advance a little money himself, in order to support the credit of the unfortunate youth with other people; till, by means of that very credit, he was irretrievably undone.
“It’s very likely that the stress I was in over money, and the impossibility of continuing down this path, could have brought me back to my senses and my studies if I had realized what was happening before I got into debts I couldn’t see a way out of. This was truly the skill of Sir George, who caused the downfall of many people, whom he later mocked as fools and idiots for trying to compete with someone of his wealth. To achieve this, he occasionally lent a bit of money himself to help the unfortunate young man's reputation with others; until, through that very reputation, he was completely ruined.”
“My mind being by these means grown as desperate as my fortune, there was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my relief. Self-murder itself became the subject of my serious deliberation; and I had certainly resolved on it, had not a more shameful, though perhaps less sinful, thought expelled it from my head.”—Here he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, “I protest, so many years have not washed away the shame of this act, and I shall blush while I relate it.” Jones desired him to pass over anything that might give him pain in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out, “Oh, pray, sir, let us hear this; I had rather hear this than all the rest; as I hope to be saved, I will never mention a word of it.” Jones was going to rebuke him, but the stranger prevented it by proceeding thus: “I had a chum, a very prudent, frugal young lad, who, though he had no very large allowance, had by his parsimony heaped up upwards of forty guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritore. I took therefore an opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches-pocket, while he was asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches: after which I again conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting sleep—though I never once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he arose and went to prayers—an exercise to which I had long been unaccustomed.
“My mind had become as desperate as my situation, and there was hardly a wicked thing I didn’t consider to find relief. I seriously thought about ending my life; I would have definitely gone through with it if a more shameful, though maybe less sinful, thought hadn’t pushed it out of my mind.” He hesitated for a moment and then exclaimed, “I swear, so many years haven’t erased the shame of this act, and I’ll blush while I tell it.” Jones asked him to skip anything that might cause him pain in his story, but Partridge eagerly responded, “Oh, please, sir, let us hear this; I’d rather hear this than anything else; I swear I won’t mention it again.” Jones was about to scold him, but the stranger continued: “I had a close friend, a very sensible, thrifty young man, who, even though he didn’t have a large allowance, had saved up over forty guineas through his frugality. I knew he kept them in his desk. So, I took the chance to steal his key from his pants pocket while he was asleep and made myself the owner of all his money. After that, I put his key back in his pocket and pretended to be asleep—though I never actually closed my eyes—until after he woke up and went to pray, an activity I had long been unaccustomed to.”
“Timorous thieves, by extreme caution, often subject themselves to discoveries, which those of a bolder kind escape. Thus it happened to me; for had I boldly broke open his escritore, I had, perhaps, escaped even his suspicion; but as it was plain that the person who robbed him had possessed himself of his key, he had no doubt, when he first missed his money, but that his chum was certainly the thief. Now as he was of a fearful disposition, and much my inferior in strength, and I believe in courage, he did not dare to confront me with my guilt, for fear of worse bodily consequences which might happen to him. He repaired therefore immediately to the vice-chancellor, and upon swearing to the robbery, and to the circumstances of it, very easily obtained a warrant against one who had now so bad a character through the whole university.
“Cautious thieves often end up getting caught, while bolder ones manage to get away with it. That’s what happened to me; if I had confidently broken into his desk, I might have avoided his suspicion altogether. But since it was clear that the person who stole from him had his key, he suspected that his friend was definitely the thief as soon as he noticed his money was gone. He was fearful by nature, and much weaker than I was, both physically and, I believe, in terms of courage, so he didn’t dare confront me about my guilt, afraid of the potential harm that could come to him. Instead, he went straight to the vice-chancellor, swore about the theft and the details surrounding it, and easily got a warrant out for someone who already had such a terrible reputation throughout the university.”
“Luckily for me, I lay out of the college the next evening; for that day I attended a young lady in a chaise to Witney, where we staid all night, and in our return, the next morning, to Oxford, I met one of my cronies, who acquainted me with sufficient news concerning myself to make me turn my horse another way.”
“Fortunately for me, I skipped college the next evening; because that day I took a young lady in a carriage to Witney, where we stayed the night, and on our way back to Oxford the next morning, I ran into one of my friends, who filled me in on enough news about myself to make me change direction with my horse.”
“Pray, sir, did he mention anything of the warrant?” said Partridge. But Jones begged the gentleman to proceed without regarding any impertinent questions; which he did as follows:—
“Excuse me, sir, did he say anything about the warrant?” asked Partridge. But Jones urged the gentleman to continue without paying attention to any irrelevant questions; which he did as follows:—
“Having now abandoned all thoughts of returning to Oxford, the next thing which offered itself was a journey to London. I imparted this intention to my female companion, who at first remonstrated against it; but upon producing my wealth, she immediately consented. We then struck across the country, into the great Cirencester road, and made such haste, that we spent the next evening, save one, in London.
“Having now given up on the idea of going back to Oxford, the next option that came to mind was a trip to London. I shared this plan with my female companion, who initially opposed it; but when I showed her my money, she quickly agreed. We then traveled across the country, heading toward the main Cirencester road, and hurried so much that we spent the next evening, except for one, in London.”
“When you consider the place where I now was, and the company with whom I was, you will, I fancy, conceive that a very short time brought me to an end of that sum of which I had so iniquitously possessed myself.
“When you think about where I was and who I was with at that moment, I believe you’ll understand that it didn’t take long for me to reach the end of that fortune I had so wrongfully acquired.”
“I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before: the necessaries of life began to be numbered among my wants; and what made my case still the more grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I was now grown immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with myself. To see a woman you love in distress; to be unable to relieve her, and at the same time to reflect that you have brought her into this situation, is perhaps a curse of which no imagination can represent the horrors to those who have not felt it.”—“I believe it from my soul,” cries Jones, “and I pity you from the bottom of my heart:” he then took two or three disorderly turns about the room, and at last begged pardon, and flung himself into his chair, crying, “I thank Heaven, I have escaped that!”
“I was now in a much deeper state of distress than before: the essentials of life started to feel like luxuries; and what made my situation even worse was that the woman I had come to adore was suffering alongside me. Watching someone you love struggle, feeling powerless to help her, and knowing you’re the cause of her troubles is a torment that’s unimaginable to anyone who hasn’t experienced it.” —“I truly believe that,” Jones exclaimed, “and I feel for you with all my heart.” He then paced around the room a couple of times, before finally apologizing and collapsing into his chair, saying, “I thank Heaven I’ve managed to avoid that!”
“This circumstance,” continued the gentleman, “so severely aggravated the horrors of my present situation, that they became absolutely intolerable. I could with less pain endure the raging in my own natural unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, than I could submit to leave ungratified the most whimsical desires of a woman on whom I so extravagantly doated, that, though I knew she had been the mistress of half my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her. But the good creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the world might think so much to my disadvantage. And as, possibly, she compassionated the daily anxieties which she must have perceived me suffer on her account, she resolved to put an end to my distress. She soon, indeed, found means to relieve me from my troublesome and perplexed situation; for while I was distracted with various inventions to supply her with pleasures, she very kindly—betrayed me to one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose care and diligence I was immediately apprehended and committed to gaol.
“This situation,” the gentleman continued, “made the horrors of my current predicament so much worse that they became completely unbearable. I could endure my own unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, with less pain than I could bear leaving the most bizarre desires of a woman I was so madly in love with unfulfilled. Even though I knew she had been involved with half my friends, I fully intended to marry her. But she was reluctant to agree to something that the world might see as a disadvantage for me. Perhaps, considering the daily worries she must have noticed I was suffering because of her, she decided to put an end to my distress. She quickly found a way to get me out of my tricky situation; while I was busy trying various ways to provide her with pleasure, she kindly betrayed me to one of her former lovers at Oxford, who then had me arrested and thrown in jail.
“Here I first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my former life; on the errors I had been guilty of; on the misfortunes which I had brought on myself; and on the grief which I must have occasioned to one of the best of fathers. When I added to all these the perfidy of my mistress, such was the horror of my mind, that life, instead of being longer desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence; and I could have gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it had offered itself to my choice unattended by shame.
“Here I first started to seriously think about the mistakes of my past life; about the errors I had made; about the misfortunes I had caused for myself; and about the sadness I must have caused to one of the best fathers. When I added to all this the betrayal of my mistress, the horror in my mind made life, instead of being something I wanted, become something I despised; and I would have gladly welcomed death as my closest friend if it had come to me without the shame attached.”
“The time of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by habeas corpus to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction and condemnation; but, to my great surprize, none appeared against me, and I was, at the end of the sessions, discharged for want of prosecution. In short, my chum had left Oxford, and whether from indolence, or from what other motive I am ignorant, had declined concerning himself any farther in the affair.”
“The time for the court sessions arrived, and I was taken to Oxford by habeas corpus, where I expected to be found guilty and condemned; but, to my surprise, no one showed up against me, and by the end of the sessions, I was released due to lack of prosecution. In short, my friend had left Oxford, and for reasons unknown to me, whether out of laziness or something else, he chose not to get involved any further in the matter.”
“Perhaps,” cries Partridge, “he did not care to have your blood upon his hands; and he was in the right on't. If any person was to be hanged upon my evidence, I should never be able to lie alone afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.”
“Maybe,” Partridge exclaims, “he didn’t want your blood on his hands; and he was right about that. If someone were to be hanged based on my testimony, I’d never be able to sleep alone afterward, afraid of seeing his ghost.”
“I shall shortly doubt, Partridge,” says Jones, “whether thou art more brave or wise.”—“You may laugh at me, sir, if you please,” answered Partridge; “but if you will hear a very short story which I can tell, and which is most certainly true, perhaps you may change your opinion. In the parish where I was born—” Here Jones would have silenced him; but the stranger interceded that he might be permitted to tell his story, and in the meantime promised to recollect the remainder of his own.
“I’m starting to wonder, Partridge,” says Jones, “if you’re more brave or wise.” — “You can laugh at me, sir, if you want,” replied Partridge; “but if you’ll listen to a very short story I have, which is definitely true, maybe you’ll change your mind. In the parish where I was born—” Here, Jones tried to cut him off, but the stranger stepped in, saying that he should be allowed to tell his story, and in the meantime promised to remember the rest of his own.
Partridge then proceeded thus: “In the parish where I was born, there lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and he had a son named Francis, a good hopeful young fellow: I was at the grammar-school with him, where I remember he was got into Ovid's Epistles, and he could construe you three lines together sometimes without looking into a dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good lad, never missed church o' Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers in the whole parish. He would indeed now and then take a cup too much, and that was the only fault he had.”—“Well, but come to the ghost,” cries Jones. “Never fear, sir; I shall come to him soon enough,” answered Partridge. “You must know, then, that farmer Bridle lost a mare, a sorrel one, to the best of my remembrance; and so it fell out that this young Francis shortly afterward being at a fair at Hindon, and as I think it was on—, I can't remember the day; and being as he was, what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father's mare. Frank called out presently, Stop thief; and it being in the middle of the fair, it was impossible, you know, for the man to make his escape. So they apprehended him and carried him before the justice: I remember it was Justice Willoughby, of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman; and he committed him to prison, and bound Frank in a recognisance, I think they call it—a hard word compounded of re and cognosco; but it differs in its meaning from the use of the simple, as many other compounds do. Well, at last down came my Lord Justice Page to hold the assizes; and so the fellow was had up, and Frank was had up for a witness. To be sure, I shall never forget the face of the judge, when he began to ask him what he had to say against the prisoner. He made poor Frank tremble and shake in his shoes. `Well you, fellow,' says my lord, `what have you to say? Don't stand humming and hawing, but speak out.' But, however, he soon turned altogether as civil to Frank, and began to thunder at the fellow; and when he asked him if he had anything to say for himself, the fellow said, he had found the horse. `Ay!' answered the judge, `thou art a lucky fellow: I have travelled the circuit these forty years, and never found a horse in my life: but I'll tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst know of; for thou didst not only find a horse, but a halter too, I promise thee.' To be sure, I shall never forget the word. Upon which everybody fell a laughing, as how could they help it? Nay, and twenty other jests he made, which I can't remember now. There was something about his skill in horse-flesh which made all the folks laugh. To be certain, the judge must have been a very brave man, as well as a man of much learning. It is indeed charming sport to hear trials upon life and death. One thing I own I thought a little hard, that the prisoner's counsel was not suffered to speak for him, though he desired only to be heard one very short word, but my lord would not hearken to him, though he suffered a counsellor to talk against him for above half-an-hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there should be so many of them; my lord, and the court, and the jury, and the counsellors, and the witnesses, all upon one poor man, and he too in chains. Well, the fellow was hanged, as to be sure it could be no otherwise, and poor Frank could never be easy about it. He never was in the dark alone, but he fancied he saw the fellow's spirit.”—“Well, and is this thy story?” cries Jones. “No, no,” answered Partridge. “O Lord have mercy upon me! I am just now coming to the matter; for one night, coming from the alehouse, in a long, narrow, dark lane, there he ran directly up against him; and the spirit was all in white, and fell upon Frank; and Frank, who was a sturdy lad, fell upon the spirit again, and there they had a tussel together, and poor Frank was dreadfully beat: indeed he made a shift at last to crawl home; but what with the beating, and what with the fright, he lay ill above a fortnight; and all this is most certainly true, and the whole parish will bear witness to it.”
Partridge then continued: “In the village where I was born, there was a farmer named Bridle, and he had a son named Francis, a good, promising young man. I was in grammar school with him, and I remember he got into Ovid's Epistles, and he could translate three lines together sometimes without even looking in a dictionary. Besides all this, he was a really good kid, never missed church on Sundays, and was considered one of the best psalm-singers in the whole parish. He did occasionally drink a bit too much, but that was his only flaw.” — “Well, but get to the ghost,” Jones interrupts. “Don't worry, sir; I'll get to that soon enough,” Partridge replied. “You should know that farmer Bridle lost a mare, a sorrel one, if I remember correctly. It happened that young Francis was at a fair in Hindon shortly afterward, though I can’t recall the exact day. While he was there, he happened to see a man riding his father’s mare. Frank yelled out, 'Stop thief!' and since it was in the middle of the fair, it was impossible for the man to escape. They caught him and took him to the justice. I remember it was Justice Willoughby of Noyle, a very respectable gentleman, and he sent the man to prison and required Frank to sign a recognizance, I believe it’s called—a complicated word made up of re and cognosco; but it has a different meaning from the simple word, like many compounds do. Eventually, Lord Justice Page came to hold the assizes, and so the fellow was brought up, and Frank was brought in as a witness. I’ll never forget the look on the judge's face when he started asking Frank what he had to say against the accused. He made poor Frank tremble in his shoes. 'Well you, fellow,' the judge said, 'what do you have to say? Don’t just mumble, speak up.' But soon enough, he switched to being polite to Frank and started to grill the guy. When he asked if he had anything to say for himself, the man said he had found the horse. 'Oh!' replied the judge, 'you’re a lucky one: I’ve traveled the circuit for forty years and never found a horse in my life: but I’ll tell you what, friend, you were luckier than you realized; because you didn’t just find a horse, you found a halter too, I promise you.' I’ll never forget those words. Everyone burst out laughing, as how could they not? Plus, he made about twenty other jokes that I can’t recall now. There was something about his expertise in horses that made everyone laugh. It’s clear the judge was a very brave man as well as a well-educated one. It’s quite entertaining to hear trials concerning life and death. I did think it was a bit unfair that the prisoner’s lawyer wasn’t allowed to speak for him, even though he only wanted to say a few words, but my lord wouldn’t listen, yet allowed a lawyer to argue against him for over half an hour. I thought it was tough, I admit, that there were so many of them; my lord, the court, the jury, the lawyers, and the witnesses, all against one poor man who was in chains. Well, the guy was hanged, as it could be no other way, and poor Frank could never shake it off. Whenever he was in the dark alone, he imagined he saw the man’s spirit." — “Well, is that your story?” Jones asks. “No, no,” Partridge replies. “Oh Lord, have mercy on me! I’m just getting to the point; one night, returning from the pub, in a long, narrow, dark lane, he ran straight into him; and the spirit was all in white and attacked Frank. Frank, who was a strong lad, fought back, and they had a scuffle, and poor Frank was terribly beaten: he eventually managed to crawl home; but from the beating and the fright, he was ill for over two weeks; and all of this is absolutely true, and the whole parish will vouch for it.”
The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; upon which Partridge cried, “Ay, you may laugh, sir; and so did some others, particularly a squire, who is thought to be no better than an atheist; who, forsooth, because there was a calf with a white face found dead in the same lane the next morning, would fain have it that the battle was between Frank and that, as if a calf would set upon a man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be a spirit, and could swear to him in any court in Christendom; and he had not drank above a quart or two or such a matter of liquor, at the time. Lud have mercy upon us, and keep us all from dipping our hands in blood, I say!”
The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; at which Partridge exclaimed, “Yeah, you can laugh, sir; and so did some others, especially a squire, who is thought to be nothing more than an atheist; who, for crying out loud, because there was a calf with a white face found dead in the same lane the next morning, wants to suggest that the battle was between Frank and that, as if a calf could actually attack a man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it was a spirit and could swear to it in any court in Christendom; and he hadn’t drunk more than a quart or two of liquor at the time. May God have mercy on us and keep us all from staining our hands with blood, I say!”
“Well, sir,” said Jones to the stranger, “Mr Partridge hath finished his story, and I hope will give you no future interruption, if you will be so kind to proceed.” He then resumed his narration; but as he hath taken breath for a while, we think proper to give it to our reader, and shall therefore put an end to this chapter.
“Well, sir,” Jones said to the stranger, “Mr. Partridge has finished his story, and I hope he won’t interrupt you again if you’re kind enough to continue.” He then went back to his narration; but since he has taken a moment to catch his breath, we think it’s best to share that with our reader, and so we’ll end this chapter here.
Chapter xii. — In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
“I had now regained my liberty,” said the stranger; “but I had lost my reputation; for there is a wide difference between the case of a man who is barely acquitted of a crime in a court of justice, and of him who is acquitted in his own heart, and in the opinion of the people. I was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face; so resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight discovered me to the eyes of any beholders.
“I had now regained my freedom,” said the stranger; “but I had lost my reputation; because there’s a big difference between being cleared of a crime in a court of law and being cleared in your own heart and in the eyes of others. I was aware of my guilt and embarrassed to face anyone; so I decided to leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight exposed me to any onlookers.
“When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to return home to my father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; but as I had no reason to doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and as I was well assured of his great aversion to all acts of dishonesty, I could entertain no hopes of being received by him, especially since I was too certain of all the good offices in the power of my mother; nay, had my father's pardon been as sure, as I conceived his resentment to be, I yet question whether I could have had the assurance to behold him, or whether I could, upon any terms, have submitted to live and converse with those who, I was convinced, knew me to have been guilty of so base an action.
"When I finally got away from the city, I first thought about going back home to my dad and trying to get his forgiveness. But since I had no reason to believe he didn’t know everything that had happened, and I was well aware of his deep dislike for any dishonest behavior, I couldn’t feel hopeful about being welcomed by him. Especially since I was fully aware of all the good things my mom could do for me. In fact, even if I thought my dad's forgiveness was guaranteed, just considering the intensity of his anger made me doubt whether I could even face him. I also questioned if I could ever be comfortable living and interacting with those who I knew were aware of my shameful actions."
“I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of either grief or shame, unless for persons of a very public character; for here you have the advantage of solitude without its disadvantage, since you may be alone and in company at the same time; and while you walk or sit unobserved, noise, hurry, and a constant succession of objects, entertain the mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on themselves, or rather on grief or shame, which are the most unwholesome diet in the world; and on which (though there are many who never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very plentifully and very fatally when alone.
“I quickly went back to London, the best place to retreat from either grief or shame, unless you're someone very well-known; here you can enjoy solitude without its downsides, since you can be alone and still be among others at the same time. While you walk or sit unnoticed, the noise, rush, and constant stream of sights keep your mind engaged and help prevent your spirits from dwelling on themselves—or rather, on grief or shame, which are the worst things to consume in life. Although many only experience these feelings in public, there are some who can indulge in them quite a lot, and it can be really harmful when they're alone.”
“But as there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil, so there are people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving temper of mankind; I mean persons who have no money; for as you are not put out of countenance, so neither are you cloathed or fed by those who do not know you. And a man may be as easily starved in Leadenhall-market as in the deserts of Arabia.
“But since there’s hardly any human good without its accompanying bad, there are people who see a problem with the careless attitude of society; I’m talking about those who don’t have any money. Just like you're not embarrassed, you’re also not clothed or fed by those who don’t know you. A person can be just as easily starving in Leadenhall Market as in the deserts of Arabia.”
“It was at present my fortune to be destitute of that great evil, as it is apprehended to be by several writers, who I suppose were overburthened with it, namely, money.”—“With submission, sir,” said Partridge, “I do not remember any writers who have called it malorum; but irritamenta malorum. Effodiuntur opes, irritamenta malorum”—“Well, sir,” continued the stranger, “whether it be an evil, or only the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the same time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance; when one evening, as I was passing through the Inner Temple, very hungry, and very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden hailing me with great familiarity by my Christian name; and upon turning about, I presently recollected the person who so saluted me to have been my fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year, and long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman, whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing great joy at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle together. I first declined the proposal, and pretended business, but as he was very earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride, and I fairly confessed to him I had no money in my pocket; yet not without framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having changed my breeches that morning. Mr Watson answered, `I thought, Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance for you to mention such a matter.' He then took me by the arm, and was pulling me along; but I gave him very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled me much stronger than he could do.
“It was currently my luck to be free of that great evil, as many writers seem to think it is, namely, money.” — “With all due respect, sir,” said Partridge, “I don’t recall any writers who have called it malorum; but irritamenta malorum. Effodiuntur opes, irritamenta malorum” — “Well, sir,” continued the stranger, “whether it’s an evil or just the cause of evil, I was completely without it, and at the same time without friends, and, as I believed, without acquaintances; when one evening, as I was walking through the Inner Temple, very hungry and very miserable, I suddenly heard a voice calling me very familiarly by my first name; and when I turned around, I immediately recognized the person who greeted me as a fellow student of mine who had left the university over a year ago, long before any of my troubles had started. This gentleman, named Watson, warmly shook my hand; and expressing great joy at seeing me, suggested we grab a drink together right away. I initially turned down the offer and pretended to have business to attend to, but as he was very insistent, hunger eventually got the better of my pride, and I admitted to him I had no money in my pocket; though not without making up a lie as an excuse, claiming it was because I had changed my pants that morning. Mr. Watson replied, 'I thought, Jack, we were such old friends that you wouldn’t need to bring that up.' He then took me by the arm and started pulling me along; but I gave him very little resistance, as my own desire to go was much stronger than any tug he could give.
“We then went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all mirth and jollity. Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson applied himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of the cook; for he had no suspicion but that I had dined long since. However, as the case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood, and told my companion I had been at the further end of the city on business of consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in haste; so that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his bottle.”—“Some people,” cries Partridge, “ought to have good memories; or did you find just money enough in your breeches to pay for the mutton-chop?”—“Your observation is right,” answered the stranger, “and I believe such blunders are inseparable from all dealing in untruth.—But to proceed—I began now to feel myself extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what had happened at the university since his leaving it.
“We then went into the Friars, which you know is the place for all fun and enjoyment. When we arrived at the tavern, Mr. Watson only focused on the server, without giving the cook any attention; he had no idea that I hadn’t eaten yet. However, since that was actually the case, I invented another lie and told my friend that I had been on important business at the other end of the city and had grabbed a mutton chop in a rush, so I was hungry again and asked him to order a steak to go with his drink.” — “Some people,” said Partridge, “really should have better memories; or did you have just enough change in your pockets to pay for that mutton chop?” — “You’re right,” replied the stranger, “and I think such mistakes come with all kinds of lying. — But to continue — I started to feel very happy. The food and wine quickly lifted my spirits, and I enjoyed chatting with my old friend, especially because I thought he was completely unaware of what had happened at the university since he left.”
“But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion; for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here, my boy,' cries he, `here's wishing you joy of your being so honourably acquitted of that affair laid to your charge.' I was thunderstruck with confusion at those words, which Watson observing, proceeded thus: `Nay, never be ashamed, man; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now dares call thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who am thy friend—I hope thou didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a meritorious action to strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come, come, my boy, don't be shy of confessing to me: you are not now brought before one of the pimps. D—n me if I don't honour you for it; for, as I hope for salvation, I would have made no manner of scruple of doing the same thing.'
"But he didn't let me stay in this nice illusion for long; taking a drink in one hand and holding me with the other, he said, 'Here, my boy, cheers to you for being honorably cleared of that charge against you.' I was completely taken aback by those words, and Watson, noticing my reaction, continued, 'Come on, don't be ashamed, man; you've been cleared, and no one can call you guilty now. But really, tell me, who is your friend—I hope you actually did rob him? Because I swear it was a commendable act to take down such a sneaky, pitiful jerk; and instead of two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken thousands. Come on, don’t be shy about confessing to me: you’re not in front of a bunch of creeps. I swear to God, I admire you for it; because, as I hope for salvation, I wouldn’t have hesitated to do the same thing.'"
“This declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had now somewhat opened my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but acquainted him that he had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which was little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned.
“This declaration eased my embarrassment a bit; and since the wine had loosened me up, I openly admitted to the theft but let him know that he had been misinformed about the amount taken, which was just a little more than a fifth of what he had said.”
“`I am sorry for it with all my heart,' quoth he, `and I wish thee better success another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you shall have no occasion to run any such risque. Here,' said he, taking some dice out of his pocket, `here's the stuff. Here are the implements; here are the little doctors which cure the distempers of the purse. Follow but my counsel, and I will show you a way to empty the pocket of a queer cull without any danger of the nubbing cheat.'”
“I’m really sorry about that,” he said, “and I wish you better luck next time. But if you take my advice, you won’t need to take any risks like that. Here,” he continued, pulling some dice from his pocket, “here’s what you need. These are the tools; these are the little gadgets that fix money problems. Just follow my advice, and I’ll show you how to clean out a shady character’s pockets without any risk of getting caught.”
“Nubbing cheat!” cries Partridge: “pray, sir, what is that?”
“Nubbing cheat!” yells Partridge. “Come on, what does that mean?”
“Why that, sir,” says the stranger, “is a cant phrase for the gallows; for as gamesters differ little from highwaymen in their morals, so do they very much resemble them in their language.
“Why that, sir,” says the stranger, “is a common term for the gallows; because gamblers are hardly different from highway robbers in their morals, and they resemble them quite a bit in their language.”
“We had now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board was sitting, and that he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same time to go with him and try my fortune. I answered he knew that was at present out of my power, as I had informed him of the emptiness of my pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not from his many strong expressions of friendship, but that he would offer to lend me a small sum for that purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e'en boldly run a levant' [Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of that word, but Jones stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the man. I will tip you the proper person, which may be necessary, as you do not know the town, nor can distinguish a rum cull from a queer one.”
“We had both finished our bottles when Mr. Watson said the board was in session and that he had to attend. He urged me to go with him and try my luck. I told him he knew I couldn't do that right now since I had already mentioned how empty my pockets were. To be honest, I didn't doubt that he would offer to lend me a little money for that purpose, but he replied, 'Never mind that, man; just boldly go for it' [Partridge was about to ask what that meant, but Jones stopped him]: 'but be careful about who you trust. I’ll point you to the right person, which is important since you don’t know the town and can’t tell a good guy from a shady one.'”
“The bill was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no money. He answered, `That signifies nothing; score it behind the door, or make a bold brush and take no notice.—Or—stay,' says he; `I will go down-stairs first, and then do you take up my money, and score the whole reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you at the corner.' I expressed some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations that he would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another sixpence in his pocket.
“The bill was brought to the table, and Watson paid his share as he was getting ready to leave. I reminded him, blushing a little, that I didn’t have any money. He replied, ‘That doesn’t matter; just keep track of it behind the door, or go ahead and ignore it altogether. —Or—wait,’ he said; ‘I’ll go downstairs first, and then you can take my money, settle the whole bill at the bar, and I’ll meet you at the corner.’ I expressed some reluctance about this and hinted that I expected him to cover the whole bill, but he insisted he didn’t have another sixpence on him.”
“He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and follow him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the reckoning was upon the table. The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I made such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to my instructions.
“He then went downstairs, and I was convinced to grab the money and follow him. I stayed close enough to hear him tell the cashier the bill was on the table. The cashier passed by me upstairs, but I rushed out into the street so quickly that I didn’t hear anything about his disappointment, nor did I say a word at the bar, as I had been instructed.”
“We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my surprize, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it before him, as did many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as so many decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the heaps of their neighbours.
“We went straight to the gaming table, where Mr. Watson, to my surprise, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it in front of him, just like many others did; they all probably thought of their own piles as decoy birds meant to lure over the piles of their neighbors.”
“Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in a few moments reduced to nothing at one part of the table, and rose as suddenly in another. The rich grew in a moment poor, and the poor as suddenly became rich; so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least he could nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of their duration.
“Here it would be boring to describe all the wild turns that Fortune, or rather the dice, took in this place. Mountains of gold were wiped out in an instant at one part of the table, and just as quickly appeared in another. The rich suddenly became poor, and the poor just as quickly became rich; so it seemed that a philosopher couldn't have better taught his students to despise wealth, or shown them more clearly how uncertain it is.”
“For my own part, after having considerably improved my small estate, I at last entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much variety of luck, rose from the table in some heat, and declared he had lost a cool hundred, and would play no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked me to return with him to the tavern; but I positively refused, saying, I would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemma, and especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my own condition. `Pooh!' says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas of a friend, and one of them is at your service.' He immediately put one of them into my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.
“For my part, after significantly improving my small estate, I finally completely destroyed it. Mr. Watson also, after a lot of ups and downs, got up from the table in a bit of a huff and declared he had lost a solid hundred and wouldn’t play anymore. Then he came over to me and asked me to go back to the tavern with him, but I flat-out refused, saying I wouldn’t put myself in that situation again, especially since he had lost all his money and was now in the same boat as me. ‘Nonsense!’ he said, ‘I just borrowed a couple of guineas from a friend, and one of them is yours.’ He immediately placed one of them in my hand, and I no longer resisted his wishes.”
“I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same house whence we had departed in so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer, with very civil address, told us, `he believed we had forgot to pay our reckoning,' I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a guinea, bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the unjust charge which had been laid on my memory.
“I was initially a bit surprised to be returning to the same house we had left in such an embarrassing way; however, when the clerk, quite politely, informed us that he thought we had forgotten to settle our bill, I felt completely at ease and quickly handed him a guinea, told him to keep it, and accepted the unfair charge that had been placed on my memory.”
“Mr Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think of; and though he had contented himself with simple claret before, nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.
“Mr. Watson now ordered the fanciest supper he could think of; and although he had been satisfied with simple claret before, now nothing but the finest Burgundy would do.”
“Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen from the gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not to the tavern to drink, but in the way of business; for the true gamesters pretended to be ill, and refused their glass, while they plied heartily two young fellows, who were to be afterwards pillaged, as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I had the good fortune to be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret.
“Our company soon grew with the addition of several gentlemen from the gaming table; most of whom, as I later discovered, didn’t come to the tavern to drink, but for business purposes. The real gamblers pretended to be unwell and declined their drinks while enthusiastically working two young guys, who were later taken advantage of, which they indeed were without mercy. I was lucky enough to be part of this plunder, even though I wasn’t yet let in on the secret.”
“There was one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for the money by degrees totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which it did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon, there was scarce a single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger as every person present, except myself, declared he had lost; and what was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is difficult to determine.”
“There was one unusual incident during this tavern play; the money gradually vanished completely. At first, the table was half-covered with gold, but by the time the play ended— which didn’t happen until Sunday at noon the next day— there was almost no guinea left on the table. Everyone there, except me, insisted that they had lost their money, and it’s hard to say what happened to it, unless the devil himself took it away.”
“Most certainly he did,” says Partridge, “for evil spirits can carry away anything without being seen, though there were never so many folk in the room; and I should not have been surprized if he had carried away all the company of a set of wicked wretches, who were at play in sermon time. And I could tell you a true story, if I would, where the devil took a man out of bed from another man's wife, and carried him away through the keyhole of the door. I've seen the very house where it was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years.”
“Definitely he did,” says Partridge, “because evil spirits can take anything away without being noticed, even if there are tons of people in the room. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had taken away everyone in that group of wicked people who were messing around during the sermon. I could share a true story, if I wanted to, about how the devil took a man out of bed from another man's wife and carried him away through the keyhole of the door. I've seen the exact house where it happened, and no one’s lived in it for thirty years.”
Though Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge, he could not however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did the same, and then proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the next chapter.
Though Jones was a bit offended by Partridge's rudeness, he couldn't help but smile at his naivety. The stranger did the same and then continued with his story, as will be seen in the next chapter.
Chapter xiii. — In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
“My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I soon became acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was let into their secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross cheats which are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for there are some tricks of a finer kind, which are known only to a few of the gang, who are at the head of their profession; a degree of honour beyond my expectation; for drink, to which I was immoderately addicted, and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from arriving at any great success in an art which requires as much coolness as the most austere school of philosophy.
"My college buddy had now introduced me to a new chapter in life. I quickly got to know the entire group of con artists and learned their secrets; I mean, the obvious scams that are designed to trick the naive and inexperienced. There are also some more sophisticated tricks known only to a few top players in the game, which was a level of skill I didn't expect; because my excessive drinking and the natural intensity of my emotions stopped me from achieving any real success in a field that demands the same level of composure as the strictest school of philosophy."
“Mr Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had unluckily the former failing to a very great excess; so that instead of making a fortune by his profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends, over a bottle which they never tasted, that plunder that he had taken from culls at the public table.
“Mr. Watson, with whom I now lived in close friendship, unfortunately had this flaw to a great degree; so instead of making a fortune in his profession like some others, he alternated between being rich and poor, and often had to give up to his more level-headed friends, over a bottle they never touched, the money he had taken from the drunks at the public table."
“However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood; and for two years I continued of the calling; during which time I tasted all the varieties of fortune, sometimes flourishing in affluence, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost incredible difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and to-morrow reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next morning.
“However, we both changed our paths to take on a challenging way to make a living; and for two years I stuck with it; during which time I experienced all sorts of luck, sometimes thriving in wealth, and at other times having to face almost unbelievable hardships. One day I was living in luxury, and the next I was back to the simplest and most basic meals. My nice clothes were often on my back in the evening and at the pawn shop the next morning.”
“One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together in the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into the croud, where upon enquiry I found that a man had been robbed and very ill used by some ruffians. The wounded man appeared very bloody, and seemed scarce able to support himself on his legs. As I had not therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present life and conversation, though they had left me very little of either honesty or shame, I immediately offered my assistance to the unhappy person, who thankfully accepted it, and, putting himself under my conduct, begged me to convey him to some tavern, where he might send for a surgeon, being, as he said, faint with loss of blood. He seemed indeed highly pleased at finding one who appeared in the dress of a gentleman; for as to all the rest of the company present, their outside was such that he could not wisely place any confidence in them.
“One night, as I was coming back broke from the casino, I noticed a huge commotion and a large crowd gathered in the street. Since I wasn't at risk of being pickpocketed, I stepped into the crowd, where I found out that a man had been robbed and badly hurt by some thugs. The injured man looked pretty bloody and seemed barely able to stand. Even though my current life and conversations had stripped me of much honesty and shame, I hadn't lost my humanity, so I immediately offered my help to the unfortunate guy, who gratefully accepted it. He asked me to take him to a tavern where he could call for a doctor, saying he felt weak from blood loss. He seemed genuinely relieved to find someone dressed like a gentleman since he couldn't trust anyone else in the crowd based on their appearance.”
“I took the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we kept our rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A surgeon happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended, and applied himself to dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure to hear were not likely to be mortal.
“I took the poor guy by the arm and led him to the bar where we usually met, since it was the closest place. A surgeon happened to be in the house and immediately came to help, focusing on treating his wounds, which I was glad to hear were not life-threatening.”
“The surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his business, began to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man lodged; who answered, `That he was come to town that very morning; that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had no other lodging, and very little or no acquaintance in town.'
“The surgeon quickly and skillfully finished his task and started to ask where the injured man was staying in town. The man replied, 'I just arrived in town this morning; my horse is at an inn in Piccadilly, and I have no other place to stay and very few acquaintances here.'”
“This surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began with an R, had the first character in his profession, and was serjeant-surgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and was a very generous good-natured man, and ready to do any service to his fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use of his chariot to carry him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, `That if he wanted any money, he would furnish him.'
"This surgeon, whose name I've forgotten but remember starts with an R, was highly respected in his profession and served as the king's sergeant-surgeon. He had many good qualities, was very generous, and was always willing to help others. He offered his patient the use of his carriage to take him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, 'If you need any money, just let me know.'"
“The poor man was not now capable of returning thanks for this generous offer; for having had his eyes for some time stedfastly on me, he threw himself back in his chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!' and then fainted away.
“The poor man was no longer able to express his gratitude for this generous offer; after having gazed intently at me for a while, he sank back in his chair, crying, ‘Oh, my son! my son!’ and then fainted.”
“Many of the people present imagined this accident had happened through his loss of blood; but I, who at the same time began to recollect the features of my father, was now confirmed in my suspicion, and satisfied that it was he himself who appeared before me. I presently ran to him, raised him in my arms, and kissed his cold lips with the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a scene which I cannot describe; for though I did not lose my being, as my father for a while did, my senses were however so overpowered with affright and surprize, that I am a stranger to what passed during some minutes, and indeed till my father had again recovered from his swoon, and I found myself in his arms, both tenderly embracing each other, while the tears trickled a-pace down the cheeks of each of us.
“Many of the people there thought this accident was caused by his blood loss; but I, who began to remember my father’s features, was now sure it was him standing before me. I quickly ran to him, lifted him in my arms, and eagerly kissed his cold lips. Here I have to cover up a moment that I can’t describe; even though I didn’t lose consciousness like my father did for a bit, my senses were so overwhelmed with fear and surprise that I don’t know what happened for several minutes, until my father came to again, and I found myself in his arms, both of us holding each other tenderly, with tears streaming down our cheeks.”
“Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing from the eyes of all spectators as fast as we could; my father therefore accepted the kind offer of the surgeon's chariot, and I attended him in it to his inn.
“Most of the people there seemed moved by this scene, which we, the ones involved, wanted to quickly hide from the view of all onlookers; my father therefore accepted the generous offer of the surgeon's carriage, and I accompanied him in it to his inn.
“When we were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having neglected to write to him during so long a time, but entirely omitted the mention of that crime which had occasioned it. He then informed me of my mother's death, and insisted on my returning home with him, saying, `That he had long suffered the greatest anxiety on my account; that he knew not whether he had most feared my death or wished it, since he had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he said, a neighbouring gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the same place, informed him where I was; and that to reclaim me from this course of life was the sole cause of his journey to London.' He thanked Heaven he had succeeded so far as to find me out by means of an accident which had like to have proved fatal to him; and had the pleasure to think he partly owed his preservation to my humanity, with which he profest himself to be more delighted than he should have been with my filial piety, if I had known that the object of all my care was my own father.
"When we were alone, he gently scolded me for not writing to him for such a long time, but he completely left out the reason for my silence. He then told me about my mother’s death and insisted that I come home with him, saying, 'He had been very worried about me for a long time; he didn't know whether he was more afraid of my death or if he secretly wanted it, since he had so many worse fears for me. Finally, he said, a nearby gentleman, who had just brought his son back from the same place, told him where I was; and that rescuing me from this way of life was the only reason for his trip to London.' He thanked Heaven that he had managed to find me by an accident that could have ended badly for him; and felt pleased to think he partly owed his safety to my kindness, more than he would have to my sense of duty, if I had realized that the focus of all my care was my own father."
“Vice had not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an insensibility of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I presently promised to obey his commands in my return home with him, as soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few days, by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his cure.
“Bad behavior hadn't corrupted my heart enough to make me insensitive to the deep paternal love I felt for him, even if it felt undeserved. I quickly promised to follow his orders and go home with him as soon as he was strong enough to travel, which was just a few days later, thanks to that amazing surgeon who had taken on his treatment.”
“The day preceding my father's journey (before which time I scarce ever left him), I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate acquaintance, particularly of Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with the fond desires of a foolish old fellow. Such sollicitations, however, had no effect, and I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly sollicited me to think of marriage; but my inclinations were utterly averse to any such thoughts. I had tasted of love already, and perhaps you know the extravagant excesses of that most tender and most violent passion.”—Here the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at Jones; whose countenance, within a minute's space, displayed the extremities of both red and white. Upon which the old man, without making any observations, renewed his narrative.
“The day before my father's trip (before which I hardly ever left his side), I went to say goodbye to some of my closest friends, especially Mr. Watson, who tried to talk me out of isolating myself, as he put it, just to satisfy the wishes of a foolish old man. However, his arguments didn’t change my mind, and I returned to my home once again. My father was now urging me to consider marriage, but I was completely opposed to any such ideas. I had already experienced love, and maybe you know how intense and overwhelming that most tender and passionate feeling can be.” —Here the old man paused and looked closely at Jones, whose face showed a mix of red and white within a minute. The old man, without commenting, continued his story.
“Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself once again to study, and that with a more inordinate application than I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely were those, as well antient as modern, which treat of true philosophy, a word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the rest of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had bequeathed to the world.
"Now that I had everything I needed to live, I threw myself back into studying with an even greater focus than I ever had before. The books I was reading were both ancient and modern, all about true philosophy, which many consider just a joke or something to laugh at. I was diving into the works of Aristotle and Plato, along with the other priceless treasures that ancient Greece had left for the world."
“These authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men may promise to themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly power, taught me, however, the art of despising the highest acquisitions of both. They elevate the mind, and steel and harden it against the capricious invasions of fortune. They not only instruct in the knowledge of Wisdom, but confirm men in her habits, and demonstrate plainly, that this must be our guide, if we propose ever to arrive at the greatest worldly happiness, or to defend ourselves, with any tolerable security, against the misery which everywhere surrounds and invests us.
“These authors, while they didn’t teach me any science that could help people gain wealth or power, did show me how to look down on the highest achievements of both. They uplift the mind and toughen it against the unpredictable changes of fate. They not only teach the principles of Wisdom but also help people develop those habits, making it clear that this must be our guide if we want to achieve the greatest happiness in life or protect ourselves, with some degree of safety, from the misery that constantly surrounds us.”
“To this I added another study, compared to which, all the philosophy taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream, and is indeed as full of vanity as the silliest jester ever pleased to represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which is alone to be found in the Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the knowledge and assurance of things much more worthy our attention than all which this world can offer to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which the highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers was little more than labour lost: for, however pleasant and delightful their lessons may be, or however adequate to the right regulation of our conduct with respect to this world only; yet, when compared with the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest documents will appear as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the rules by which children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is, that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men. Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the latter of Divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal happiness.—But I am afraid I tire you with my rhapsody.”
“To this, I added another study, which makes all the philosophy taught by the smartest non-believers seem like nothing more than a dream, and it’s actually as full of emptiness as the most foolish joke ever told. This is the Divine wisdom found only in the Holy Scriptures; they give us knowledge and certainty about things far more deserving of our attention than anything this world can offer us. These are the things that Heaven itself has chosen to reveal to us, and without Divine help, no amount of human intelligence could ever grasp them. I began to feel that all the time I spent with the best non-believer writers was mostly wasted: because, no matter how enjoyable or insightful their lessons may be, or how well they guide us in our lives here on Earth, when we compare them to the glory revealed in Scripture, their greatest teachings seem trivial and insignificant, like the rules kids use to play their silly little games. It’s true that philosophy can make us smarter, but Christianity makes us better people. Philosophy lifts and sharpens the mind, while Christianity softens and sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, while the latter makes us the objects of Divine love. Philosophy brings us temporary happiness, but Christianity brings us eternal joy.—But I worry I’m boring you with my rambling.”
“Not at all,” cries Partridge; “Lud forbid we should be tired with good things!”
“Not at all,” Partridge exclaims; “Heaven forbid we should be tired of good things!”
“I had spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years in the most delightful manner to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world, when I lost the best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my grief at his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and gave myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy and despair. Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me relief.”—“Ay, ay; Tempus edax rerum” said Partridge.—“I then,” continued the stranger, “betook myself again to my former studies, which I may say perfected my cure; for philosophy and religion may be called the exercises of the mind, and when this is disordered, they are as wholesome as exercise can be to a distempered body. They do indeed produce similar effects with exercise; for they strengthen and confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble strain of Horace—
“I had spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years in the most enjoyable way for me, completely absorbed in contemplation and totally free from the worries of the world, when I lost my beloved father. I loved him so much that my grief over his loss is beyond description. I then put aside my books and gave myself completely to a month of sadness and despair. Time, however, the best healer of the mind, eventually brought me relief.” — “Yes, yes; Tempus edax rerum” said Partridge. — “I then,” continued the stranger, “returned to my previous studies, which I can honestly say helped me heal; for philosophy and religion can be seen as exercises for the mind, and when the mind is troubled, they are as beneficial as physical exercise can be for a sick body. They really do have similar effects to exercise; they strengthen and fortify the mind, until a person becomes, in the noble words of Horace—
Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;
In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna.”[*]
[*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
Polish'd and round, who runs his proper course
And breaks misfortunes with superior force.—MR FRANCIS.
Strong and self-sufficient, smooth and well-rounded, He who doesn’t let external troubles affect him; On whom Fortune always falls short.”[*] [*] Steady in himself, who trusts in himself, Polished and rounded, who stays on his path And overcomes misfortunes with greater strength.—MR FRANCIS.
Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and proceeded thus:—
Here, Jones smiled at some idea that popped into his mind; but the stranger, I believe, did not notice it and continued speaking:—
“My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best of men; for my brother, who was now become master of the house, differed so widely from me in his inclinations, and our pursuits in life had been so very various, that we were the worst of company to each other: but what made our living together still more disagreeable, was the little harmony which could subsist between the few who resorted to me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who often attended my brother from the field to the table; for such fellows, besides the noise and nonsense with which they persecute the ears of sober men, endeavour always to attack them with affront and contempt. This was so much the case, that neither I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit down to a meal with them without being treated with derision, because we were unacquainted with the phrases of sportsmen. For men of true learning, and almost universal knowledge, always compassionate the ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little, low, contemptible art, are always certain to despise those who are unacquainted with that art.
“My situation changed drastically after the death of that amazing man; my brother, now in charge of the household, was so different from me in his interests, and our life paths had been so varied that we were the worst company for each other. What made living together even more unpleasant was the lack of harmony between the few people who came to see me and the large group of sportsmen who frequently followed my brother from the field to the dinner table. These guys, besides the loud noise and nonsense that they clamor in the ears of sensible people, always seem to attack them with disrespect and scorn. It got to the point where neither I nor my friends could ever sit down to a meal with them without being mocked for not knowing the jargon of sportsmen. True scholars, with broad knowledge, always sympathize with others' ignorance; but those who excel in some small, insignificant skill are always sure to look down on those who aren’t familiar with it.”
“In short, we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a physician, to drink the Bath waters; for my violent affliction, added to a sedentary life, had thrown me into a kind of paralytic disorder, for which those waters are accounted an almost certain cure. The second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun shone so intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I retired to the shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river side. Here I had not been seated long before I heard a person on the other side of the willows sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a sudden, having uttered a most impious oath, he cried, `I am resolved to bear it no longer,' and directly threw himself into the water. I immediately started, and ran towards the place, calling at the same time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler happened luckily to be a-fishing a little below me, though some very high sedge had hid him from my sight. He immediately came up, and both of us together, not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At first we perceived no sign of life remaining; but having held the body up by the heels (for we soon had assistance enough), it discharged a vast quantity of water at the mouth, and at length began to discover some symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both its hands and its legs.
“In short, we quickly parted ways, and I went, on a doctor’s advice, to drink the Bath waters; my severe illness, combined with a sedentary lifestyle, had put me in a kind of paralysis that those waters are said to cure almost certainly. On the second day after I arrived, while walking by the river, the sun was shining so hot (even though it was early in the year) that I sought refuge under some willows and sat down by the riverbank. I hadn’t been seated long when I heard someone on the other side of the willows sighing and lamenting deeply. Suddenly, after shouting a terrible curse, he yelled, ‘I can’t take this anymore,’ and jumped into the water. I immediately sprang up and ran toward the spot, shouting as loudly as I could for help. Fortunately, an angler was fishing a bit downstream, although some tall reeds had hidden him from view. He came over right away, and together, risking our lives, we pulled the body to shore. At first, we saw no signs of life; but after we lifted the body by its feet (soon enough, we had plenty of help), it expelled a huge amount of water from its mouth, and eventually started showing signs of breathing, then began to move its hands and legs a little while later.
“An apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised that the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should be directly taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly performed, the apothecary and myself attending.
“An apothecary, who was present with others, suggested that the body, which now seemed to have mostly emptied itself of water and was starting to have many convulsive movements, should be immediately lifted and taken to a warm bed. This was done, with the apothecary and me assisting.”
“As we were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man's lodgings, luckily a woman met us, who, after some violent screaming, told us that the gentleman lodged at her house.
“As we were heading toward an inn, since we didn’t know where the man was staying, we fortunately ran into a woman who, after some loud shouting, told us that the gentleman was staying at her place.”
“When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the care of the apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods with him, for the next morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his senses.
“When I had seen the man safely settled there, I left him in the care of the pharmacist; who, I assume, used all the right methods with him, because by the next morning I heard he had fully regained his senses.
“I then went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and to prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for the future. I was no sooner admitted into his chamber, than we both instantly knew each other; for who should this person be but my good friend Mr Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what past at our first interview; for I would avoid prolixity as much as possible.”—“Pray let us hear all,” cries Partridge; “I want mightily to know what brought him to Bath.”
“I then went to visit him, hoping to figure out why he had attempted such a desperate act and to stop him from pursuing such wicked intentions in the future. As soon as I was allowed into his room, we both recognized each other immediately; it was my good friend Mr. Watson! I won’t bore you with the details of our first meeting; I want to keep it as brief as possible.” — “Please tell us everything,” Partridge says eagerly; “I really want to know what brought him to Bath.”
“You shall hear everything material,” answered the stranger; and then proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have given a short breathing time to both ourselves and the reader.
“You're going to hear everything important,” replied the stranger; and then he went on to tell the story we will write down after we give both ourselves and the reader a brief pause.
Chapter xiv. — In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
“Mr Watson,” continued the stranger, “very freely acquainted me, that the unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of ill luck, had in a manner forced him to a resolution of destroying himself.
“Mr. Watson,” the stranger continued, “freely told me that his unfortunate situation, caused by a string of bad luck, had basically pushed him to the decision to take his own life.
“I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this heathenish, or indeed diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of self-murder; and said everything which occurred to me on the subject; but, to my great concern, it seemed to have very little effect on him. He seemed not at all to repent of what he had done, and gave me reason to fear he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind.
“I started to seriously argue with him against this barbaric, or really evil, idea that it's okay to commit suicide. I shared everything I could think of on the topic, but, to my dismay, it seemed to have very little impact on him. He didn't seem to regret what he'd done at all and made me worry that he might soon try something as horrific again.”
“When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer my arguments, he looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile said, `You are strangely altered, my good friend, since I remember you. I question whether any of our bishops could make a better argument against suicide than you have entertained me with; but unless you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either hang, or drown, or starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is the most terrible of the three.'
“When I finished my talk, instead of trying to counter my points, he looked me straight in the eye and smiled, saying, ‘You’ve really changed, my good friend, since I last saw you. I wonder if any of our bishops could make a better case against suicide than what you just shared; but unless you can find someone to lend me a cool hundred bucks, I’m left with the choice of hanging, drowning, or starving, and honestly, I think starving to death is the worst way to go.’”
“I answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had seen him last. That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps; and at last concluded with an assurance that I myself would lend him a hundred pound, if it would be of any service to his affairs, and he would not put it into the power of a die to deprive him of it.
“I replied seriously that I had indeed changed since I last saw him. I had taken the time to reflect on my mistakes and regret them. I then suggested that he should follow the same path; and finally, I assured him that I would lend him a hundred pounds if it would help his situation, as long as he didn't leave it to chance to lose it.”
“Mr Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly, gave me a thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding that he hoped I had a better opinion of him than to imagine he had profited so little by experience, as to put any confidence in those damned dice which had so often deceived him. `No, no,' cries he; `let me but once handsomely be set up again, and if ever Fortune makes a broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive her.'
“Mr. Watson, who seemed almost at peace in sleep during the first part of my talk, was awakened by the latter. He grabbed my hand eagerly, thanked me profusely, and declared I was a true friend; adding that he hoped I thought better of him than to believe he had learned so little from experience as to trust those damn dice that had deceived him so many times. ‘No, no,’ he exclaimed; ‘just let me get back on my feet nicely, and if Fortune ever turns me into a broken merchant again after that, I will forgive her.’”
“I very well understood the language of setting up, and broken merchant. I therefore said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson, you must endeavour to find out some business or employment, by which you may procure yourself a livelihood; and I promise you, could I see any probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much larger sum than what you have mentioned, to equip you in any fair and honourable calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own knowledge, unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin.
"I completely understood the idea of setting up a business and the struggles of a failing merchant. So I told him, with a serious expression, 'Mr. Watson, you need to try and find a job or some kind of work that can help you support yourself. And I promise you, if I could see any chance of getting my money back later on, I would lend you a much bigger amount than what you’ve mentioned to help you start in any fair and honorable line of work. But regarding gambling, aside from the disgrace and immorality of making it your profession, I know for a fact that you're not suited for it, and it will ultimately lead to your downfall.'"
“`Why now, that's strange,' answered he; `neither you, nor any of my friends, would ever allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I believe I am as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I heartily wish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune: I should desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into the bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your pocket?”
“That's odd,” he replied. “Neither you nor any of my friends would ever let me in on what's going on, yet I believe I'm just as skilled at every game as all of you. I really wish I could play with you for your entire fortune; that would be the perfect challenge for me, and I'd even let you choose the game. But come on, my friend, do you have the hundred in your pocket?”
“I answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and promised to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a little more advice, took my leave.
“I said I only had a £50 note, which I gave him, and promised to bring him the rest the next morning; and after giving him a bit more advice, I took my leave."
“I was indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very afternoon. When I entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed at cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine, shocked me not a little; to which I may add the mortification of seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas only given in exchange for it.
“I was definitely better than my promise; I went back to him that very afternoon. When I walked into the room, I found him sitting up in bed playing cards with a known gambler. This sight, as you can imagine, shocked me quite a bit; on top of that, it was humiliating to see him hand over my bill to his opponent and only receive thirty guineas in return.”
“The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson declared he was ashamed to see me; `but,' says he, `I find luck runs so damnably against me, that I will resolve to leave off play for ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and I promise you there shall be no fault in me, if I do not put it in execution.'
“The other player quickly left the room, and then Watson said he was embarrassed to see me; 'but,' he continued, 'I find that luck is just terribly against me, so I’ve decided to stop playing for good. I’ve been thinking about the kind offer you made me since then, and I promise you that I won’t let it be my fault if I don’t act on it.'”
“Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own; for which he gave me a note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my money.
“Even though I didn’t really trust his promises, I gave him the rest of the hundred because of my own beliefs; in exchange, he gave me a note, which was all I ever expected to get back for my money."
“We were prevented from any further discourse at present by the arrival of the apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and without even asking his patient how he did, proclaimed there was great news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast army of Dutch; and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of Norfolk, and was to make a descent there, in order to favour the duke's enterprize with a diversion on that side.'
“We couldn't continue our conversation because the apothecary arrived, looking very happy. Without even checking on his patient, he announced that he had received a letter with great news that would soon be made public: 'The Duke of Monmouth has landed in the west with a large army of Dutch, and another big fleet is off the coast of Norfolk, ready to launch an attack to support the duke's plans on that side.'”
“This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He was more delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best patient, and the highest joy he was capable of, he received from having a piece of news in his possession an hour or two sooner than any other person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom authentic; for he would swallow almost anything as a truth—a humour which many made use of to impose upon him.
“This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He was more pleased with the smallest package than with the best patient, and the greatest joy he felt came from having a piece of news an hour or two before anyone else in town. However, his advice was rarely reliable; he would accept almost anything as truth—a tendency that many took advantage of to trick him.”
“Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was known within a short time afterwards that the duke was really landed, but that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely false.
“Thus it happened with what he was currently sharing; for it became clear shortly after that the duke had actually arrived, but his army was comprised of only a few attendants; and regarding the distraction in Norfolk, that was completely untrue.”
“The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted us with his news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient on any other subject, departed to spread his advices all over the town.
“The apothecary stayed in the room only long enough to share his news with us; then, without saying a word to his patient about anything else, he left to spread his recommendations throughout the town."
“Events of this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse all private concerns. Our discourse therefore now became entirely political.[*] For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly exposed under a Popish prince, and thought the apprehension of it alone sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no real security can ever be found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when armed with power, except the depriving it of that power, as woeful experience presently showed. You know how King James behaved after getting the better of this attempt; how little he valued either his royal word, or coronation oath, or the liberties and rights of his people. But all had not the sense to foresee this at first; and therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly supported; yet all could feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore all united, at last, to drive out that king, against whose exclusion a great party among us had so warmly contended during the reign of his brother, and for whom they now fought with such zeal and affection.”
“Events like these in public often overshadow all private concerns. Our conversation then became completely political.[*] Personally, I had been very worried for some time about the danger to the Protestant religion, which was so clearly threatened under a Catholic king, and I thought that the fear of it alone justified the uprising; because no real safety can ever be found against the oppressive nature of Catholic rule when it holds power, except by taking that power away, as sad experience quickly showed. You know how King James acted after overcoming this attempt; how little he valued his royal promises, his coronation oath, or the rights and freedoms of his people. But not everyone realized this at first; and so the Duke of Monmouth had weak support; yet everyone could feel when the threat arrived, and ultimately, they all came together to remove that king, against whose removal a significant faction among us had fought so passionately during his brother's reign, and for whom they now fought with such enthusiasm and loyalty.”
“What you say,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it has often struck me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in history, that so soon after this convincing experience which brought our whole nation to join so unanimously in expelling King James, for the preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be a party among us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the throne.” “You are not in earnest!” answered the old man; “there can be no such party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot believe them infatuated to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed Papists led by their priests to engage in this desperate cause, and think it a holy war; but that Protestants, that are members of the Church of England, should be such apostates, such felos de se, I cannot believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with what has past in the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so imposed upon as to credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind to sport with my ignorance.”—“Can it be possible,” replied Jones, “that you have lived so much out of the world as not to know that during that time there have been two rebellions in favour of the son of King James, one of which is now actually raging in the very heart of the kingdom.” At these words the old gentleman started up, and in a most solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to tell him if what he said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming, he walked several turns about the room in a profound silence, then cried, then laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed God, in a loud thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all society with human nature, which could be capable of such monstrous extravagances. After which, being reminded by Jones that he had broke off his story, he resumed it again in this manner:—
“What you’re saying,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it’s always struck me as the most amazing thing I’ve ever read in history that so soon after this convincing experience that united our entire nation in kicking out King James to protect our religion and freedoms, there could be a faction among us so crazy as to want his family back on the throne.” “You can’t be serious!” the old man replied; “there can’t be such a faction. As low as my opinion of humanity is, I can’t believe people would be that deluded. There might be some hot-headed Catholics led by their priests to take up this desperate cause, thinking it’s a holy war; but for Protestants, who are members of the Church of England, to be such traitors, such felos de se, I just can’t believe it. No, no, young man, even though I’m not familiar with what’s happened in the world over the past thirty years, I can’t be fooled into believing such a ridiculous story; but I see you’re just trying to make fun of my ignorance.” “Is it possible,” Jones replied, “that you’ve been so out of touch that you don’t know there have been two rebellions in favor of King James’s son during that time, one of which is currently ongoing in the very heart of the kingdom?” At these words, the old gentleman jumped up and, in a very serious tone, urged Jones by his Maker to tell him if what he said was really true; which Jones solemnly confirmed. The old man then walked several times around the room in deep silence, then cried, then laughed, and finally fell on his knees, thanking God loudly in prayer for delivering him from any association with human nature capable of such monstrous acts. Afterward, when Jones reminded him that he had stopped his story, he picked it up again like this:—
“As mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at that pitch of madness which I find they are capable of now, and which, to be sure, I have only escaped by living alone, and at a distance from the contagion, there was a considerable rising in favour of Monmouth; and my principles strongly inclining me to take the same part, I determined to join him; and Mr Watson, from different motives concurring in the same resolution (for the spirit of a gamester will carry a man as far upon such an occasion as the spirit of patriotism), we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the duke at Bridgewater.
“As humanity, back in the days I’m talking about, hadn’t yet reached the level of insanity that I see now, which I’ve only managed to avoid by living alone, away from the chaos, there was a significant rise in support for Monmouth. My beliefs led me to feel the same way, so I decided to join him. Mr. Watson, driven by different reasons but arriving at the same conclusion (because the urge to gamble can motivate a person just as much as patriotism), we quickly gathered everything we needed and went to meet the duke at Bridgewater.”
“The unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as well acquainted with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson, from the battle at Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight wound. We rode near forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then abandoning our horses, scrambled as well as we could through the fields and bye-roads, till we arrived at a little wild hut on a common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it.”
“You're probably as familiar with the unfortunate outcome of this endeavor as I am. I managed to escape, along with Mr. Watson, from the battle at Sedgemoor, where I got a minor wound. We rode about forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then, after leaving our horses, we made our way through the fields and back roads until we reached a small, rundown hut on a common. There, a kind old woman did her best to take care of us and treated my wound with some salve that healed it quickly.”
“Pray, sir, where was the wound?” says Partridge. The stranger satisfied him it was in his arm, and then continued his narrative. “Here, sir,” said he, “Mr Watson left me the next morning, in order, as he pretended, to get us some provision from the town of Collumpton; but—can I relate it, or can you believe it?—this Mr Watson, this friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a party of horse belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me into their hands.
“Excuse me, sir, where was the wound?” asks Partridge. The stranger assures him it was in his arm, and then goes on with his story. “Here, sir,” he says, “Mr. Watson left me the next morning, supposedly to get us some supplies from the town of Collumpton; but—can I even say it, or can you believe it?—this Mr. Watson, this friend, this despicable, cruel, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a group of soldiers loyal to King James, and when he came back, he handed me over to them.
“The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were conducting me to Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor the apprehensions of what might happen to me, were half so irksome to my mind as the company of my false friend, who, having surrendered himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner, though he was better treated, as being to make his peace at my expense. He at first endeavoured to excuse his treachery; but when he received nothing but scorn and upbraiding from me, he soon changed his note, abused me as the most atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to my charge, who, as he declared, had solicited, and even threatened him, to make him take up arms against his gracious as well as lawful sovereign.
The six soldiers had now captured me and were taking me to Taunton jail; however, my current situation and worries about what might happen to me were far less bothersome than being in the company of my treacherous friend. He had surrendered himself too and was considered a prisoner, but he was treated better since he was trying to save himself at my expense. At first, he tried to justify his betrayal, but when I responded with nothing but scorn and accusations, he quickly shifted tactics. He insulted me as the most dreadful and malicious rebel and blamed all his own wrongdoing on me, claiming that I had pressured and even threatened him to rise up against his gracious and lawful king.
“This false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder of the two) stung me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce conceivable by those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length took pity on me; for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the enemy were at hand; upon which they shifted for themselves, and left me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from me, and I am glad he did, or I should have certainly endeavoured, though I had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness.
“This false evidence (because in reality he was much more to blame than I was) hurt me deeply and ignited a level of anger that’s hard to imagine for those who haven’t experienced it. However, luck finally smiled on me; as we moved a bit beyond Wellington, in a narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm that about fifty of the enemy were nearby; at that, they took off to save themselves, leaving me and my betrayer to fend for ourselves. That scoundrel immediately ran away from me, and I’m relieved he did, or I would have definitely tried, even without any weapons, to take revenge for his treachery.”
“I was now once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from the highway into the fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I went, and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads and all towns—nay, even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human creature whom I saw desirous of betraying me.
“I was free again; and as soon as I stepped off the highway into the fields, I kept walking, hardly aware of which direction I was headed, all while making it my main priority to steer clear of any public roads and towns—even the simplest houses; I thought every person I saw wanted to turn me in.”
“At last, after rambling several days about the country, during which the fields afforded me the same bed and the same food which nature bestows on our savage brothers of the creation, I at length arrived at this place, where the solitude and wildness of the country invited me to fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation was the mother of this old woman, with whom I remained concealed till the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own home, and of enquiring a little into my affairs, which I soon settled as agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned everything to him, for which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on me an annuity for life.
After wandering around the countryside for several days, living off the same simple food and shelter that nature provides to our wild counterparts, I finally reached this place, where the isolation and ruggedness of the land tempted me to settle down. The first person I stayed with was the mother of this elderly woman. I remained hidden there until the news of the great revolution eased all my fears of danger and gave me the chance to visit my home again and check on my affairs. I quickly sorted things out to be fair for both my brother and me, handing everything over to him in exchange for a payment of a thousand pounds and a lifetime annuity.
“His behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish and ungenerous. I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did he desire that I should; so I presently took my leave of him, as well as of my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is little better than a blank.”
“His behavior this time, like every other time, was selfish and unkind. I couldn’t see him as my friend, nor did he want me to; so I quickly said goodbye to him and my other acquaintance. Since that day, my life has been little more than a blank.”
“And is it possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you can have resided here from that day to this?”—“O no, sir,” answered the gentleman; “I have been a great traveller, and there are few parts of Europe with which I am not acquainted.” “I have not, sir,” cried Jones, “the assurance to ask it of you now; indeed it would be cruel, after so much breath as you have already spent: but you will give me leave to wish for some further opportunity of hearing the excellent observations which a man of your sense and knowledge of the world must have made in so long a course of travels.”—“Indeed, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as far as I am able.” Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented; and while he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the stranger proceeded as in the next chapter.
“And is it possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you have been living here all this time?”—“Oh no, sir,” replied the gentleman; “I have traveled extensively, and there are few places in Europe I’m not familiar with.” “I have not, sir,” exclaimed Jones, “the confidence to ask you that right now; it would indeed be unfair after all the time you've already spent talking: but I hope you'll allow me to wish for another chance to hear the insightful observations that someone with your intelligence and worldly experience must have gathered over such extensive travels.” “Indeed, young man,” said the stranger, “I will try to satisfy your curiosity about this as much as I can.” Jones attempted further apologies, but he was cut off; and while he and Partridge listened eagerly and impatiently, the stranger continued as in the next chapter.
[*] The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs in the first edition were as follows: “For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly exposed, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which, probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion, and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the dreadful sin of rebellion in any people.” “I promise you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our liberties.” “Prodigious indeed!” answered the stranger. “You tell me what would be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that Virgil gives of a woman, varium et mutabile semper. Surely this is to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of mankind is as wonderful as their knavery—But to conclude my story: I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion, and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at Bridgewater.” “The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from the battle at Sedgemore,...
The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs in the first edition were as follows: “For my part, I had been seriously worried about the danger that the Protestant religion was clearly facing, to the point that only a direct intervention from Providence seemed capable of saving it; for King James had indeed declared war on the Protestant cause. He had brought known Catholics into the army and tried to recruit them into the Church and the University. Catholic priests multiplied throughout the country, appearing openly in their garb, and boasted that they would soon march in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbidden from preaching against Catholicism, and bishops were instructed to suspend those who did; furthermore, to address this issue decisively, an illegal ecclesiastical commission was established, not unlike an inquisition, of which, it was likely, was meant to be the leading force. Thus, as our duty to the king can only be considered our second duty, he had absolved us of this by making it incompatible with fulfilling our primary duty, which is surely to heaven. In addition, he had released his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his Coronation Oath, which is tied to their loyalty; for he had imprisoned bishops because they refused to abandon their faith, and ousted judges because they wouldn’t surrender the law entirely into his control; indeed, he took this authority himself, and when he claimed a dispensing power, he effectively declared himself as absolute as any tyrant ever was or could be. I have recapped these issues in detail to ensure that none of them have been overlooked in history; and I believe that nothing less than the provocations I have mentioned, nothing less than a clear and imminent threat to their religion and freedoms, can justify or even lessen the grave sin of rebellion in any people.” “I assure you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have read in history, but I will share a fact that is not yet recorded and of which I suppose you are unaware. There is currently a rebellion underway in this kingdom in favor of the son of that very King James, a self-proclaimed Catholic, more zealous, if possible, than his father, and this is being supported by Protestants against a king who has never once invaded our liberties.” “Truly astonishing!” replied the stranger. “You tell me something that would be unbelievable of a nation that does not deserve the description Virgil gives of a woman, varium et mutabile semper. Surely, this is to be unworthy of the care that Providence seems to have taken of us in guarding our religion against the powerful schemes and ongoing plots of Catholicism, a preservation so strange and inexplicable that I almost think we may regard it as a miracle that proves its holiness. Truly astonishing! A Protestant rebellion in favor of a Catholic prince! The folly of mankind is as remarkable as their deceit—But to conclude my story: I resolved to take up arms in defense of my country, my religion, and my freedom, and Mr. Watson shared the same resolve. We quickly gathered the necessary supplies and joined the Duke at Bridgewater.” “The unfortunate outcome of this venture you are perhaps more familiar with than I am. I escaped along with Mr. Watson from the battle at Sedgemoor,...
Chapter xv. — A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr Jones and the Man of the Hill.
“In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally very impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty equal in all those countries. The laquais à louange are sure to lose no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think they are pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the observations on men which I made in my travels; for these were the only men I ever conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to divert myself by seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts, birds, fishes, insects, and vegetables, with which God has been pleased to enrich the several parts of this globe; a variety which, as it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it admirably display the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole creation that doth him any dishonour, and with that I have long since avoided holding any conversation.”
“In Italy, the landlords are very quiet. In France, they talk more, but still remain polite. In Germany and the Netherlands, they tend to be rather rude. As for their honesty, I think it’s pretty much the same in all those countries. The laquais à louange are sure to take every chance to cheat you, and the postilions are pretty much the same everywhere. These, sir, are the observations on people that I made during my travels; because these were the only people I ever spoke with. My intention when I went abroad was to enjoy the amazing variety of landscapes, animals, birds, fish, insects, and plants that God has generously provided across different parts of the world; a variety that, while it certainly brings great joy to a thoughtful observer, also beautifully displays the power, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. Honestly, there is only one aspect of his entire creation that brings him any shame, and I've long since stopped discussing that.”
“You will pardon me,” cries Jones; “but I have always imagined that there is in this very work you mention as great variety as in all the rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and climates have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human nature.”
“You’ll forgive me,” Jones exclaims, “but I’ve always thought that in this very work you’re mentioning, there’s as much variety as in all the others; because, aside from differences in preference, I’ve heard that the varying customs and climates have brought an incredible diversity to human nature.”
“Very little indeed,” answered the other: “those who travel in order to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object of detestation and scorn.
“Not much at all,” replied the other. “Those who travel to learn about the different ways of life might save themselves a lot of trouble by visiting a carnival in Venice; there, they’ll see everything they could find in the various courts of Europe all at once. The same hypocrisy, the same deceit; in short, the same foolishness and vices, just dressed in different clothes. In Spain, they come off as very serious; in Italy, they look incredibly glamorous. In France, a rogue is dressed like a dandy; and in the northern countries, like a slob. But human nature is the same everywhere, always the target of disdain and contempt.”
“As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them, holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me.”
“As for me, I went through all these nations like you might push through a crowd at a show—jostling to get past them, holding my nose with one hand and guarding my pockets with the other, without saying a word to anyone, while I kept moving to see what I wanted to see. Even though it might have been entertaining, it hardly made up for the annoyance that the crowd caused me.”
“Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less troublesome to you than others?” said Jones. “O yes,” replied the old man: “the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians; for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never disturb a stranger with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short curse upon him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they have done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw, heaven defend me from the French! With their damned prate and civilities, and doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity; they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass my life with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They are a nasty people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in France, and some other nations that I won't name, it is all within, and makes them stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots does to my nose.
“Did you find some of the countries you traveled through less annoying than others?” asked Jones. “Oh yes,” replied the old man. “The Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians; they’re people of few words and never bother a stranger with questions. Once in a while, they might throw a quick curse at him or spit in his face as he walks by, but that’s it; a person can live in their country for ages without hearing more than a dozen words from them. But of all the people I’ve ever seen, God save me from the French! With their endless chatter and polite gestures, pretending to honor their nation with strangers (as they like to call it), but really just showing off their own vanity; they’re so annoying that I’d much rather spend my life with the Hottentots than ever step foot in Paris again. They are a dirty people, but their messiness is mostly external, while in France, and in some other countries I won’t name, it’s all internal, making them smell a lot worse to my mind than the Hottentots do to my nose.
“Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one day.[*] The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none; and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night, I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably murdered.”
“So, sir, I’ve finished telling you about my life; as for all those years I've spent living in seclusion here, there's not much to entertain you with, and it really feels like it could all be one long day.[*] My isolation has been so complete that I probably wouldn’t have experienced a deeper solitude in the deserts of Thebais than I do right here in this busy kingdom. Since I don’t own any land, I’m free from worries about tenants or managers: my annuity comes through pretty consistently, as it should, because it’s a lot less than what I might have expected in return for what I gave up. I don’t accept any visitors, and the old woman who looks after my house knows that her job entirely depends on her making sure I don’t have to deal with buying what I need, keeping away all distractions or business from me, and staying quiet whenever I’m around. I take my walks at night, so I’m pretty safe from running into anyone in this remote, quiet spot. I’ve encountered a few people by chance, and I scared them away so badly that they thought I was a ghost or some kind of supernatural being because of my strange outfit and appearance. But what happened tonight shows that even here, I can’t escape the wickedness of people; without your help, I wouldn't just have been robbed, but probably killed as well.”
[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition
[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition
Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure a life of such solitude; “in which,” says he, “you may well complain of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have filled up, or rather killed, so much of your time.”
Jones thanked the stranger for sharing his story and expressed his curiosity about how he could stand a life of such solitude. “In which,” he said, “it’s no surprise you might feel the lack of variety. Honestly, I’m amazed at how you’ve managed to fill, or rather waste, so much of your time.”
“I am not at all surprized,” answered the other, “that to one whose affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should appear to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one single act, for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what time can suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious, immortal, and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation not only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be suns lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as a few atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who by divine meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or ages, too long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall the trifling amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of the world, roll away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace of time seem sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so important, and so glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is improper, for this great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes which may not inspire us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and of his goodness? It is not necessary that the rising sun should dart his fiery glories over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous winds should rush from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor that the opening clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is not necessary, I say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty: there is not an insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the creation as not to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of its great Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude, and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious and insipid.”
“I’m not surprised,” replied the other, “that to someone whose feelings and thoughts are focused on the world, my time here might seem unproductive. But there’s one act for which a person’s entire life isn’t nearly enough: what time can truly be sufficient for reflecting on and worshipping that glorious, immortal, and eternal Being? Among the incredible creations of which not just this planet, but even the countless stars we see lighting up the sky—many of which may be suns shining on different worlds—might seem like just a few specks compared to the vastness of the earth we live on. Can anyone, who through divine contemplation is brought into a dialogue with this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think that days, years, or even ages are too long to enjoy such a magnificent honor? Should the trivial amusements, fleeting pleasures, and silly distractions of the world take away our time too quickly, while the passage of time feels slow to a mind engaged in such high, important, and glorious pursuits? Since no time is enough, no place is unsuitable for this profound engagement. What can we look at that doesn’t inspire thoughts of his power, wisdom, and goodness? It’s not necessary for the rising sun to cast its fiery light over the eastern horizon; nor for strong winds to rush out from their hideouts and shake the towering trees; nor for the clouds to open up and drench the fields. It’s not required, I say, that any of these should announce his majesty: there isn’t an insect or plant, no matter how small, that isn’t marked by the attributes of its great Creator; marks not only of his power but also of his wisdom and goodness. Only man, the ruler of this planet, the final and greatest creation of the Supreme Being below the sun, has shamefully dishonored his own nature; and through dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude, and treachery, has questioned his Maker’s goodness by making us wonder how a benevolent being could create such a foolish and vile creature. Yet this is the being from whose company you think, I assume, that I have been unfortunately kept away, and without whose blessed association, you believe, life must be dull and uninteresting.”
“In the former part of what you said,” replied Jones, “I most heartily and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas, indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best and most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe, is generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the choice of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from bad and worthless men; two or three instances of which are very unjustly charged on all human nature.”
“In the first part of what you said,” replied Jones, “I completely agree; but I believe, as well as hope, that the hatred you express for humanity in the conclusion is way too broad. In fact, you’re making a mistake, which I’ve noticed is quite common, by judging humanity based on the worst and most despicable among them. As a great writer points out, we should only consider the traits of a species that are found in the best and most outstanding individuals of that species. This mistake is often made by those who, due to a lack of carefulness in choosing their friends and acquaintances, have been hurt by untrustworthy and worthless people; a couple of bad experiences shouldn’t be unfairly blamed on all of humanity.”
“I think I had experience enough of it,” answered the other: “my first mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner, and in matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences—even to bring me to a shameful death.”
“I think I’ve had enough experience with it,” the other replied. “My first mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the most despicable way, especially concerning things that could have had the worst consequences—even leading me to a humiliating death.”
“But you will pardon me,” cries Jones, “if I desire you to reflect who that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good sir, could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in friendship first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the highest friendship, and women of the highest love.”
“But you’ll forgive me,” Jones calls out, “if I ask you to consider who that mistress and that friend really were. What more, my good sir, could we expect from love that comes from the brothels, or from friendships that began and grew at the gambling table? To judge the character of women based on the former, or men based on the latter, would be as unreasonable as claiming that air is a disgusting and unhealthy substance just because we find it that way in a public restroom. I may not have been in the world long, but I have already encountered men deserving of the truest friendship and women capable of the deepest love.”
“Alas! young man,” answered the stranger, “you have lived, you confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than you when I was of the same opinion.”
“Alas! young man,” replied the stranger, “you admit you’ve only lived for a very short time in this world: I was a bit older than you when I used to think the same way.”
“You might have remained so still,” replies Jones, “if you had not been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds afford them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am convinced, your case.”
"You might have stayed so still," Jones replies, "if you hadn't been unlucky, or I’d say careless, in where you put your feelings. Even if there were a lot more wickedness in the world than there actually is, it wouldn't support such broad claims about human nature, since a lot of this comes about by pure chance, and many people who do bad things aren't completely evil and corrupt at heart. Honestly, no one really has the right to claim that human nature is necessarily and universally bad, except for those whose own minds show them even one example of this natural depravity; which I am convinced isn't the case with you."
“And such,” said the stranger, “will be always the most backward to assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us of the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that there are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put you on your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason, though knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons, yet they never cast any reflection on human nature in general.” The old gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.
“And so,” said the stranger, “those who are most backward will always hesitate to claim such things. Tricksters won’t bother trying to convince us of the cruelty of humanity, just like a robber won’t tell you that there are thieves on the road. That would actually be a way to make you cautious and undermine their own goals. For this reason, although tricksters, as I recall, often target specific individuals, they never criticize human nature as a whole.” The old gentleman spoke with such passion that, as Jones felt hopeless about changing his mind and didn’t want to cause offense, he said nothing in reply.
The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, “He never wanted rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the time of his repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations. However,” said he, “it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can bear any longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects which I believe you have not yet seen.”
The day was just starting to light up when Jones apologized to the stranger for staying so long and possibly keeping him from his rest. The stranger replied, “I haven't wanted rest less than right now; day and night don't mean much to me. I usually use the daytime for my sleep and the night for my walks and thinking. However,” he continued, “it’s a beautiful morning, and if you can continue to go without your rest or food, I’d be happy to show you some amazing views that I think you haven’t seen yet.”
Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story; for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of sleep. Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader may perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here put an end to the eighth book of our history.
Jones quickly accepted this offer, and they set off together from the cottage right away. As for Partridge, he had fallen into a deep sleep just as the stranger finished his story; his curiosity was satisfied, and the following conversation wasn’t engaging enough to keep him awake. So, Jones left him to enjoy his nap. And as you, the reader, might also appreciate some rest at this point, we will now conclude the eighth book of our story.
BOOK IX. — CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i. — Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such histories as this.
Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many worthy and honest people.
Among the various useful reasons for creating these introductory chapters, I see them as a kind of mark or stamp that may help a casual reader differentiate between what is true and genuine in this form of writing and what is false and fake. In fact, it seems likely that such a mark will soon be needed, as the positive reception that a few authors have recently received for their works in this genre will probably encourage many others to try their hand at it. This could lead to a flood of silly novels and outrageous romances, either resulting in a significant loss for booksellers or wasting readers' time and corrupting their morals. Moreover, it may often contribute to the spread of gossip and slander, harming the reputations of many deserving and honest people.
I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper, from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the fable was of braying in the lion's skin.
I have no doubt that the clever author of the Spectator was mainly motivated to add Greek and Latin quotes to each paper to protect against those writers who, lacking any real writing ability aside from what they learned from their instructors, are still not afraid or ashamed to take on the same titles as the greatest talents, just like the fellow in the fable who wasn't embarrassed to bray in a lion's skin.
By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal to an essay.
With his motto, it became impossible for anyone to think they could copy the Spectators without understanding at least one sentence in the scholarly languages. Similarly, I have now protected myself from being imitated by those who are completely unable to reflect and whose knowledge isn't up to the level of an essay.
I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only, afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
I’m not trying to suggest that the real value of these historical works lies in the introductory chapters. Actually, the sections that just tell the story provide much more inspiration for a writer trying to imitate them than those that involve observation and reflection. By imitators, I mean figures like Rowe, who imitated Shakespeare, or as Horace implied about some Romans who copied Cato, with their bare feet and sour expressions.
To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject whatever.
To come up with great stories and tell them well are probably pretty rare skills, but I've noticed that not many people hesitate to pursue both. If we take a look at the countless romances and novels out there, I think it's fair to say that most authors wouldn’t have tried to showcase their talents in any other writing style; in fact, they probably couldn't have put together a dozen sentences on any other topic at all.
Scribimus indocti doctique passim,[*]
[*] —Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.—FRANCIS.
We write, both the uneducated and the educated, everywhere,[*]
[*] —Every clueless fool dares to write:
Poetry is the craft of every living person.—FRANCIS.may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such.
may be more accurately said about the historian and biographer than about any other type of writing; because all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some level of learning and knowledge. Poetry, in fact, might be considered an exception; but it does need rhythm, or something similar. On the other hand, writing novels and romances only requires paper, pens, and ink, along with the basic skill to use them. I believe their works reflect the views of the authors themselves: and this must also be the view of their readers, if there are any at all.
Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus, or indeed rather from a looseness of the brain.
So we can understand the widespread disdain that the world, which tends to judge everything based on the majority, has toward all historical writers who don’t base their work on records. And it’s the fear of this disdain that has made us carefully avoid the term romance, a label we might otherwise have been quite fine with. However, since we have solid evidence for all our characters—none other than the extensive, authentic record of nature, as mentioned elsewhere—our work has enough reason to be called history. Certainly, it deserves some distinction from those works that one of the cleverest men considered merely as stemming from a pruritus, or rather from a disorganized mind.
But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.
But aside from the dishonor that this brings to one of the most useful and entertaining types of writing, there is a valid concern that by encouraging such authors, we will spread a different kind of dishonor; I’m referring to the reputations of many good and valuable members of society. After all, even the dullest writers, just like the least interesting companions, are not harmless. They have enough language to be inappropriate and insulting. And if the opinion mentioned above is correct, we shouldn't be surprised that works so poorly conceived turn out to be unpleasant themselves or that they encourage others to be the same.
To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of historians.
To avoid, in the future, such reckless misuse of free time, writing, and the freedom of the press, especially since the world currently seems to be more threatened by them than usual, I will now take the chance to mention some qualifications, each of which is quite necessary for this group of historians.
The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment; and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world. Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of one and the same person.
The first is genius, without which no study, as Horace says, can truly benefit us. By genius, I mean that power—or rather those powers—of the mind that can deeply understand everything within our reach and recognize their essential differences. These powers are nothing other than invention and judgment, which are collectively referred to as genius, as they are natural gifts we are born with. Many seem to have made significant mistakes about each of these; for invention is generally understood as a creative ability, which would lead most romance writers to believe they possess it highly, while in reality, invention simply means discovery or finding out; or to put it more clearly, a quick and insightful understanding of the true essence of all the subjects we consider. I think this can rarely exist without the presence of judgment, because it seems difficult to understand how we can claim to have discovered the true essence of two things without recognizing their differences. This last aspect belongs solely to judgment, yet a few witty individuals have echoed the opinions of all the dullards in the world by suggesting that these two traits are rarely, if ever, found in the same person.
But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose, without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our order, were masters of all the learning of their times.
But even if they should be so, they aren’t enough for what we need without a good amount of knowledge. I could again reference Horace and many others, if needed, to show that tools are useless to a worker if they aren’t sharpened by skill, if he doesn’t have guidance for his work, or if he has nothing to work with. All these functions are fulfilled by knowledge; nature can only give us the ability, or, as I like to put it, the tools of our trade. Knowledge must prepare them for use, guide them in it, and, finally, provide at least part of the materials. A solid understanding of history and the fine arts is absolutely essential here; lacking this knowledge, attempting to be a historian is as pointless as trying to build a house without wood or mortar, or bricks or stones. Homer and Milton, who, while they added the beauty of verse to their works, were both historians in our sense, mastered all the knowledge of their times.
Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for however exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr Miller may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway, some touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself takes his lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor spirit of an original.
Once again, there’s a different kind of knowledge that goes beyond what learning can provide, and it comes from conversation. This is so essential for understanding people's true nature that those who spend their lives in colleges and surrounded by books often know the least about them. No matter how brilliantly writers may describe human nature, the real understanding can only be gained through real-world experience. The same applies to all other fields of knowledge. You can't fully grasp medicine or law just by reading. Even a farmer, a planter, or a gardener must refine what they've learned from books through practical experience. No matter how accurately Mr. Miller describes a plant, he would still tell his students to see it in the garden. Just as we notice that even after the most precise portrayals by Shakespeare or Jonson, or Wycherley or Otway, some nuances of nature will be missed by the reader, which can be expressed by skilled performers like Garrick, Cibber, or Clive, on the actual stage, characters come to life in a much stronger and clearer way than they can be described in writing. If this is true for those exquisite and powerful depictions that great authors have drawn from life, how much more valid is it when the writer takes their inspiration not from reality, but from other books? Such characters are merely faint imitations of imitations and lack the accuracy and vibrancy of an original.
[*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor, and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
[*] It’s interesting to mention this great actor and these two highly celebrated actresses here, as they’ve all focused on studying nature rather than copying their predecessors. Because of this, they've been able to surpass everyone who came before them; a level of achievement that the mindless followers of imitation will never reach.
Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is, with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called high life will not instruct him in low; nor, e converso, will his being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and opposed to, the politeness which controuls the former. Besides, to say the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement, elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.
Now, this conversation in our historian must include everyone, meaning all social classes; knowing about what’s called high society won’t teach him about lower classes, and vice versa, being familiar with the lower part of society won’t help him understand the behavior of those in higher classes. Even if some might think that knowledge of either would allow him to describe at least what he is familiar with, he will still miss the mark significantly; the foolishness of each class actually highlights the other. For example, the pretentiousness of high society looks even more ridiculous when seen alongside the simplicity of the lower class, and the rudeness and harshness of the latter become more absurd when compared to the politeness that characterizes the former. Furthermore, to be honest, the manners of our historian will improve through both types of conversations; in one, he’ll find examples of straightforwardness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other, he’ll find refinement, elegance, and generosity of spirit—something I’ve rarely seen in people from low birth and education.
Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be capable of feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace, must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him; unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will here put an end to it.
None of the qualities I've mentioned so far will help my historian unless he has what people generally call a good heart and can actually feel. The author who can make me cry, as Horace says, must first cry himself. In reality, no one can portray distress well unless they feel it while creating it; I have no doubt that the most moving and impactful scenes have been written with tears. It's the same with humor. I'm convinced that I only make my readers laugh heartily when I’ve laughed myself; unless, of course, they happen to be laughing at me instead of with me. This might be the case in some parts of this chapter, so I’ll wrap it up here.
Chapter ii. — Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr Jones met with in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Aurora now first opened her casement, Anglice the day began to break, when Jones walked forth in company with the stranger, and mounted Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit than one of the most noble prospects in the world presented itself to their view, and which we would likewise present to the reader, but for two reasons: first, we despair of making those who have seen this prospect admire our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether those who have not seen it would understand it.
Aurora finally opened her window, and as day began to break, Jones stepped out with the stranger and climbed Mazard Hill. As soon as they reached the top, one of the most beautiful views in the world unfolded before them. We would love to share this view with the reader, but for two reasons: first, we doubt that those who have seen it would appreciate our description; second, we really question whether those who haven't seen it would even grasp what we mean.
Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, What he was looking at with so much attention? “Alas! sir,” answered he with a sigh, “I was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of land must be between me and my own home!”—“Ay, ay, young gentleman,” cries the other, “and by your sighing, from what you love better than your own home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the object of your contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you have a pleasure in looking that way.” Jones answered with a smile, “I find, old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your youth. I own my thoughts were employed as you have guessed.”
Jones stood for a few minutes in one position, staring toward the south. The old gentleman asked what he was looking at so intently. “Oh, sir,” he replied with a sigh, “I was trying to figure out my journey here. Good heavens! Gloucester is so far away from us! What a huge stretch of land lies between me and my own home!”—“Yes, yes, young man,” the other replied, “and by your sighing, it seems you’re longing for something you love more than your own home, if I'm not mistaken. I can see now that the thing you’re thinking about isn’t in sight, but I imagine you still enjoy looking that way.” Jones smiled and said, “I see, old friend, you haven’t forgotten the feelings of your youth. I admit my thoughts have been occupied as you suspected.”
They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the north-west, and which hangs over a vast and extensive wood. Here they were no sooner arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent screams of a woman, proceeding from the wood below them. Jones listened a moment, and then, without saying a word to his companion (for indeed the occasion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather slid, down the hill, and, without the least apprehension or concern for his own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had issued.
They walked to the part of the hill that faces northwest and overlooks a large forest. As soon as they got there, they heard the most intense screams of a woman coming from the woods below. Jones listened for a moment and then, without saying anything to his companion (the situation felt urgent enough), he ran—more like slid—down the hill and headed straight to the thicket where the sound was coming from, completely unconcerned for his own safety.
He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most shocking sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a ruffian, who had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring to draw her up to a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell instantly upon the villain, and made such good use of his trusty oaken stick that he laid him sprawling on the ground before he could defend himself, indeed almost before he knew he was attacked; nor did he cease the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself begged him to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done his business.
He hadn’t gone far into the woods when he saw a really shocking scene: a woman half-naked, being attacked by a thug who had wrapped his belt around her neck and was trying to pull her up to a tree. Jones didn’t ask any questions at that moment; instead, he charged at the villain and used his trusty wooden stick so effectively that he knocked him to the ground before he could defend himself, almost before he even realized he was being attacked. He didn’t stop hitting him until the woman herself pleaded with him to stop, saying she thought he had done enough damage.
The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and told her he was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which had sent him thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she should find any; adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as the happy instrument of her protection. “Nay,” answered she, “I could almost conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the truth, you look more like an angel than a man in my eye.” Indeed he was a charming figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely set of features, adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and good-nature, can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that resemblance.
The poor soul then dropped to her knees before Jones, thanking him endlessly for her rescue. He quickly helped her up and said he was very pleased with the unexpected turn of events that had brought him to help her, where it seemed unlikely she would find any assistance; he added that it seemed like Heaven had chosen him to be the fortunate one to protect her. “Honestly,” she replied, “I could almost believe you’re a good angel; to be truthful, you look more like an angel than a man to me.” He truly was a striking figure; if being a very handsome person with a delightful set of features, along with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and goodness can make someone look like an angel, he definitely had that look.
The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the upper part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and extremely white, attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few moments they stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian on the ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which had been intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands behind him. And now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, greatly to his surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfaction, this very person to be no other than ensign Northerton. Nor had the ensign forgotten his former antagonist, whom he knew the moment he came to himself. His surprize was equal to that of Jones; but I conceive his pleasure was rather less on this occasion.
The freed captive didn’t seem entirely human or angelic; she appeared to be middle-aged and wasn’t particularly beautiful. However, since her clothes had been torn away from the upper part of her body, her well-formed, very white breasts caught her rescuer's attention. For a moment, they stood silently, gazing at each other, until the thug on the ground started to move. Jones took the garter, which had been meant for a different purpose, and tied his hands behind him. When he looked at the thug's face, he was shocked and maybe a bit pleased to realize that it was none other than Ensign Northerton. The ensign also recognized his previous opponent as soon as he regained consciousness. His surprise was as strong as Jones's, but I think his pleasure was somewhat less this time.
Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him stedfastly in the face, “I fancy, sir,” said he, “you did not expect to meet me any more in this world, and I confess I had as little expectation to find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us once more together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I have received, even without my own knowledge.”
Jones helped Northerton to his feet, and then looking him firmly in the face, he said, “I think, sir, you didn’t expect to see me again in this world, and I admit I didn’t expect to find you here either. However, fate, it seems, has brought us together once more and has given me satisfaction for the harm I suffered, even without me realizing it.”
“It is very much like a man of honour, indeed,” answered Northerton, “to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his back. Neither am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no sword; but if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I can furnish myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour ought.”
“It’s really like a man of honor, for sure,” Northerton replied, “to feel satisfied by taking a guy down when he’s not looking. I can’t give you satisfaction here since I don’t have a sword, but if you’re brave enough to act like a gentleman, let’s go somewhere I can get one, and I’ll handle this as a man of honor should.”
“Doth it become such a villain as you are,” cries Jones, “to contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste no time in discourse with you. Justice requires satisfaction of you now, and shall have it.” Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any house in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some decent cloaths, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace.
“Does it suit a villain like you,” Jones exclaims, “to tarnish the name of honor by pretending to have it? But I won’t waste any more time talking to you. Justice demands satisfaction from you now, and it will get it.” Then turning to the woman, he asked her if she was close to home; or if not, whether she knew of any house nearby where she could get some decent clothes to go to a justice of the peace.
She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world. Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who would direct them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in fact, the good Man of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself down on the brow, where, though he had a gun in his hand, he with great patience and unconcern had attended the issue.
She replied that she was a complete stranger in that part of the world. Jones then gathered his thoughts and said he had a friend nearby who could guide them; he actually wondered why his friend hadn't come along. But, in reality, the good Man of the Hill, when our hero left, sat down at the top, where, despite having a gun in his hand, he patiently and calmly waited for the outcome.
Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man sitting as we have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost agility, and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill.
Jones then stepped out from the wood and saw the old man sitting just as we've described him; he quickly gathered all his agility and surprisingly rushed up the hill.
The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said, was the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her with all manner of conveniencies. Jones having received his direction to the place, took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him to direct Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.
The old man advised him to take the woman to Upton, which he said was the closest town, where he'd be sure to find her all kinds of amenities. After getting the directions, Jones said goodbye to the Man of the Hill and, asking him to guide Partridge the same way, hurried back to the woods.
Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, had considered, that as the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he was incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman. Besides, he knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and could return soon enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover declared to the villain, that if he attempted the least insult, he would be himself immediately the executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones unluckily forgot, that though the hands of Northerton were tied, his legs were at liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on the prisoner that he should not make what use of these he pleased. Northerton therefore having given no parole of that kind, thought he might without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He therefore took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through the wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his escape, or give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.
Our hero, when he left to ask his friend about this, thought that since the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he couldn't carry out any evil intentions against the poor woman. Plus, he knew he wouldn’t be far from her voice and could return quickly enough to stop any harm. He also made it clear to the villain that if he tried the slightest insult, he would personally take immediate revenge on him. But unfortunately, Jones forgot that even though Northerton's hands were tied, his legs were free; he hadn't told the prisoner not to use them. So Northerton, having received no such instruction, figured he could leave without dishonor, thinking he wasn't bound by any rules to wait for formal permission. He then took advantage of his free legs and walked off through the woods, which helped him escape; the woman, who was probably focused on her rescuer, didn't even think about his escape or feel any concern to stop it.
Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have spent some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not permit him; earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the town whither they had been directed. “As to the fellow's escape,” said she, “it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity both preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at the trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me ashamed to look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of your protection, I should wish to go alone.”
Jones, upon his return, found the woman alone. He wanted to spend some time looking for Northerton, but she wouldn't allow it, insisting that he accompany her to the town they were supposed to go to. “As for the guy getting away,” she said, “it doesn't worry me at all; both philosophy and Christianity teach us to forgive. But for you, sir, I feel bad for the trouble I’m causing you; honestly, my lack of clothes makes me shy to look you in the eye, and if it weren't for your protection, I would prefer to go alone.”
Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. “With regard to the former,” says he, “I have done no more than my duty in protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend you, and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive charms of so much beauty.”
Jones offered her his coat, but for some reason, she completely refused his sincere requests to accept it. He then urged her to forget the reasons for her embarrassment. “As for the first,” he said, “I’ve only done what I should do in protecting you; and regarding the second, I'll completely take care of it by walking in front of you the whole way, because I wouldn’t want my gaze to bother you, and I can't guarantee my ability to resist the alluring charm of such beauty.”
Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe that Jones was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind him, yet as she frequently wanted his assistance to help her over stiles, and had besides many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged to turn about. However, he had better fortune than what attended poor Orpheus, for he brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into the famous town of Upton.
So our hero and the redeemed lady walked just like Orpheus and Eurydice did before; but while I can’t believe that Jones was intentionally tempted by his beautiful companion to look back, she often needed his help to get over stiles, and with her frequent trips and other mishaps, he was often forced to turn around. However, he had better luck than poor Orpheus, as he safely brought his companion, or rather follower, into the well-known town of Upton.
Chapter iii. — The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with a very full description of the battle of Upton.
Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady was, and how she fell into the hands of Mr Northerton, we must beg him to suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged, for some very good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to delay his satisfaction a little longer.
Though we’re sure the reader is really curious to know who this lady is and how she ended up in Mr. Northerton's hands, we kindly ask that you hold off on your curiosity for a little while. We have some very good reasons, which you might guess later, for needing to keep you in suspense a bit longer.
Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than they went directly to that inn which in their eyes presented the fairest appearance to the street. Here Jones, having ordered a servant to show a room above stairs, was ascending, when the dishevelled fair, hastily following, was laid hold on by the master of the house, who cried, “Heyday, where is that beggar wench going? Stay below stairs, I desire you.” But Jones at that instant thundered from above, “Let the lady come up,” in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly withdrew his hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the chamber.
Mr. Jones and his attractive companion had barely entered the town when they headed straight for the inn that looked the most appealing from the street. Inside, Jones asked a servant to show him a room upstairs and was on his way up when the disheveled lady rushed after him. She was grabbed by the innkeeper, who exclaimed, “Hey, where do you think that beggar girl is going? Stay downstairs, please.” But just then, Jones shouted from above, “Let the lady come up,” in such a commanding tone that the innkeeper immediately released his hold, and the lady quickly made her way to the room.
Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then departed, in order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some cloaths. The poor woman thanked him heartily for all his kindness, and said, she hoped she should see him again soon, to thank him a thousand times more. During this short conversation, she covered her white bosom as well as she could possibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid stealing a sly peep or two, though he took all imaginable care to avoid giving any offence.
Here, Jones congratulated her on her safe arrival and then left, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some clothes. The poor woman thanked him sincerely for all his kindness and expressed her hope of seeing him again soon to thank him a thousand more times. During this brief conversation, she did her best to cover her bare chest with her arms; Jones couldn’t help but sneak a glance or two, even though he was careful not to cause any offense.
Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a house of exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict virtue, and many northern lasses of the same predicament, were accustomed to resort in their way to Bath. The landlady therefore would by no means have admitted any conversation of a disreputable kind to pass under her roof. Indeed, so foul and contagious are all such proceedings, that they contaminate the very innocent scenes where they are committed, and give the name of a bad house, or of a house of ill repute, to all those where they are suffered to be carried on.
Our travelers had chosen to stay at a house known for its excellent reputation, where Irish women of strong morals and many northern girls in similar situations often came on their way to Bath. The landlady definitely would not allow any inappropriate conversations to happen under her roof. In fact, such behavior is so vile and infectious that it taints even the innocent moments where it occurs, leading to the label of a bad house or a house of ill repute for any place that tolerates such activities.
Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved in the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My good landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the ladies I have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note, have expected or insisted on any such thing. But to exclude all vulgar concubinage, and to drive all whores in rags from within the walls, is within the power of every one. This my landlady very strictly adhered to, and this her virtuous guests, who did not travel in rags, would very reasonably have expected of her.
Not that I would suggest that the same level of strict chastity found in the temple of Vesta could ever be maintained at a public inn. My good landlady didn’t expect such a blessing, nor would any of the respectable women I’ve mentioned, or indeed any others known for their strictness, have anticipated or demanded such a thing. However, it is possible to exclude all vulgar relationships and to keep all the ragged prostitutes out of the place, which is something anyone can do. My landlady enforced this very strictly, and her respectable guests, who didn’t travel in rags, would rightly expect this from her.
Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to imagine that Mr Jones and his ragged companion had certain purposes in their intention, which, though tolerated in some Christian countries, connived at in others, and practised in all, are however as expressly forbidden as murder, or any other horrid vice, by that religion which is universally believed in those countries. The landlady, therefore, had no sooner received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said persons than she began to meditate the most expeditious means for their expulsion. In order to this, she had provided herself with a long and deadly instrument, with which, in times of peace, the chambermaid was wont to demolish the labours of the industrious spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with a demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half-naked woman upstairs.
Now, it didn’t take much to suspect that Mr. Jones and his scruffy companion had certain intentions, which, although tolerated in some Christian countries, overlooked in others, and practiced everywhere, are nonetheless as clearly forbidden as murder or any other terrible vice by the religion that is widely believed in those places. The landlady, therefore, as soon as she got word of the arrival of these individuals, started thinking about the quickest way to get rid of them. To do this, she had armed herself with a long and deadly tool that, during peaceful times, the maid used to destroy the work of industrious spiders. In common terms, she had grabbed a broomstick and was just about to rush out of the kitchen when Jones approached her asking for a gown and other clothing to cover the half-naked woman upstairs.
Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are highly incensed. For this reason Shakespear hath artfully introduced his Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the means of inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the highest pitch of madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able to command his passion on this occasion, than even when he beheld his valued present to his wife in the hands of his supposed rival. In fact, we regard these efforts as insults on our understanding, and to such the pride of man is very difficultly brought to submit.
Nothing can be more irritating to a person's temperament, or more dangerous to that key virtue, patience, than requests for special acts of kindness on behalf of those we are incredibly angry with. This is why Shakespeare cleverly portrays Desdemona asking her husband for favors for Cassio, which serves to heighten not just his jealousy but also his rage to the brink of madness. We see that the unfortunate Moor struggles to control his anger in this situation even more than when he saw his cherished gift to his wife in the hands of his perceived rival. In reality, we view these attempts as insults to our intellect, and pride makes it very hard for people to accept such treatment.
My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some of this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his request, when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its appearance with either death or wound, hath been however held in great dread and abhorrence by many wise men—nay, by many brave ones; insomuch, that some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded cannon, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was brandished; and rather than run the hazard of its execution, have contented themselves with making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in the eyes of all their acquaintance.
My landlady, although a very good-natured woman, had some of that pride in her personality, I suppose, because barely had Jones finished his request when she jumped on him with a certain weapon. This weapon, though it’s neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor does it appear to threaten death or injury, has been feared and hated by many wise people—and even by many brave ones; so much so that some who have dared to look down the barrel of a loaded cannon have not had the courage to face the mouth where this weapon was wielded; and rather than risk its impact, they chose to make a pitiful and sneaky impression in the eyes of their peers.
To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; for though he was attacked and violently belaboured with the aforesaid weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resistance; but in a most cowardly manner applied, with many entreaties, to his antagonist to desist from pursuing her blows; in plain English, he only begged her with the utmost earnestness to hear him; but before he could obtain his request, my landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced that side of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of assistance.
To tell the truth, I'm afraid Mr. Jones was one of those people; even though he was attacked and hit hard with the mentioned weapon, he didn’t fight back at all. Instead, in a very cowardly way, he pleaded with his opponent to stop hitting her; to put it simply, he just begged her with all his heart to listen to him. But before he could get her to agree, my landlord jumped into the fight and took the side that hardly needed any help.
There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their chusing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive to her, he was no sooner attacked by her husband, than he demonstrated an immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a very severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being converted into fuel for his own fire.
There are types of heroes who are expected to be resolute in choosing or avoiding a conflict based on the character and actions of the person they’re dealing with. These heroes are said to understand their opponents, and Jones, I believe, understood his woman; for even though he had been quite submissive to her, as soon as her husband confronted him, he quickly showed a strong sense of resentment and ordered him to be quiet under a very harsh penalty—no less than being turned into fuel for his own fire.
The husband, with great indignation, but with a mixture of pity, answered, “You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a better man than yourself; ay, every way, that I am;” and presently proceeded to discharge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs, the last of which had scarce issued from his lips, when a swinging blow from the cudgel that Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over the shoulders.
The husband, filled with anger but also a bit of pity, replied, “You need to pray first to get the strength to change. I truly believe I’m a better man than you are; in every way, I am.” He then went on to dismiss half a dozen prostitutes from the woman upstairs, and just as he finished speaking, Jones swung his weapon and struck him on the shoulders.
It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom and aiming at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to the fray, and to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom been prevented—not by the miraculous intervention of any heathen deity, but by a very natural though fortunate accident, viz., by the arrival of Partridge; who entered the house at that instant (for fear had caused him to run every step from the hill), and who, seeing the danger which threatened his master or companion (which you chuse to call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by catching hold of the landlady's arm, as it was brandished aloft in the air.
It's uncertain whether the landlord or landlady was quicker to react. My landlord, with his hands empty, threw a punch, while the good wife, raising her broom and aiming for Jones's head, likely would have ended the fight—and Jones, too—if the broom hadn't been stopped. This wasn't due to some miraculous intervention from a pagan god, but rather a fortunate accident: the arrival of Partridge, who rushed into the house at that moment (having run down from the hill in fear). Seeing the danger facing his master—or companion, as you might call him—he prevented a tragic outcome by grabbing the landlady's arm just as she was about to bring the broom down.
The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow; and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she let fall the broom; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her husband, she fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had already given some intimation of himself, by crying, “Zounds! do you intend to kill my friend?”
The landlady quickly realized what was stopping her from swinging the broom; and since she couldn't free her arm from Partridge's grip, she dropped the broom. Then, leaving Jones to deal with her husband, she attacked that poor guy with all her rage, and he had already shown that he wasn’t happy by shouting, “Wow! Are you trying to kill my friend?”
Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand still when his friend was attacked; nor was he much displeased with that part of the combat which fell to his share; he therefore returned my landlady's blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was obstinately maintained on all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which side Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at the top of the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement, descended suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair inequality of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather redoubled his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived to his assistance.
Partridge, although not really into fighting, wouldn't just stand by when his friend was attacked. He also didn't mind the part of the fight that he was involved in; so he returned the landlady's blows as soon as he received them. The fight was fiercely ongoing on all sides, and it was unclear which way luck would turn, when the naked lady, who had been listening from the top of the stairs to the conversation that led to the fight, suddenly came down and jumped in against the poor woman sparring with Partridge. The great champion didn't back down either; in fact, he increased his aggression when he saw that fresh reinforcements had arrived to help him.
Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her subject Amazons; for her form was robust and man-like, and every way made for such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being already flat to her face; her lips were so large, that no swelling could be perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek-bones stood out, as if nature had intended them for two bastions to defend her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated, and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.
Victory would have surely gone to the travelers (since the bravest troops often succumb to larger numbers) if Susan the chambermaid hadn’t fortuitously come to support her mistress. This Susan was as capable a woman (as the saying goes) as any in the country, and I believe she could have taken on the legendary Thalestris herself, or any of her Amazon warriors; her build was strong and masculine, perfectly suited for such confrontations. Her hands and arms were designed to deliver heavy blows to an opponent, while her face seemed shaped to absorb punches without serious harm, her nose already flattened against her face. Her lips were so large that any swelling would go unnoticed, and they were so tough that a fist would barely leave a mark. Lastly, her cheekbones jutted out, almost as if nature had equipped them as two defenses for her eyes in the fights she appeared so well-prepared for and to which she had a remarkable affinity.
This fair creature entering the field of battle, immediately filed to that wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of either sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat. He accepted the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between them.
This beautiful woman entered the battlefield and quickly moved to the side where her mistress was struggling against an opponent of either gender. She immediately challenged Partridge to a one-on-one fight. He accepted the challenge, and a fierce battle began between them.
Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips; now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune, taking her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom Jones, his female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his wife, and maid; all which hung in exact balance before her; when a good-natured accident put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with which half of the combatants had already sufficiently feasted. This accident was the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord and landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their entreaty obtained the same favour of their antagonists: but Susan was not so kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian fair having overthrown and bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her hands, without any regard to his request of a cessation of arms, or to those loud exclamations of murder which he roared forth.
Now that the dogs of war were unleashed, they began to lick their bloody lips; Victory, with her golden wings, hovered in the air; Fortune, pulling her scales from the shelf, started to weigh the fates of Tom Jones, his female companion, and Partridge against the landlord, his wife, and maid—all of which hung in perfect balance before her. Then, a fortunate accident suddenly ended the bloody conflict, which half of the fighters had already indulged in. This accident was the arrival of a coach and four horses; upon seeing it, my landlord and landlady immediately stopped fighting and persuaded their opponents to do the same. But Susan was not as merciful to Partridge; that fierce woman, having knocked him down and stood over him, was now vigorously slapping him with both hands, completely ignoring his pleas for a truce and the loud cries of murder that he shouted.
No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not immediately sensible of his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the floor, guarding his face with his hands; nor did he cease roaring till Jones had forced him to look up, and to perceive that the battle was at an end.
No sooner had Jones left the landlord than he rushed to save his defeated friend, from whom he had to struggle to pull away the angry chambermaid. But Partridge didn’t immediately realize he was saved; he was still lying flat on the floor, protecting his face with his hands. He didn’t stop yelling until Jones made him look up and see that the fight was over.
The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, hiding her well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both hastily to the door to attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now alighted. These the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr Jones had at first deposited his fair prize, as it was the best apartment in the house. Hither they were obliged to pass through the field of battle, which they did with the utmost haste, covering their faces with their handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any one. Indeed their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; which being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately departed to the pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan had plentifully set a-flowing from his nostrils.
The landlord, looking perfectly fine, and the landlady, covering her scratched face with her handkerchief, hurried to the door to greet the coach as a young lady and her maid got out. The landlady quickly led them into the room where Mr. Jones had first brought his lovely prize since it was the best room in the house. They had to rush through the chaotic scene, hastily covering their faces with their handkerchiefs to avoid drawing any attention. In fact, their caution was unnecessary; the unfortunate Helen, who caused all the chaos, was too busy trying to hide her own face, while Jones was equally preoccupied with saving Partridge from Susan's wrath. Once that was resolved, Partridge quickly headed to the pump to wash his face and stop the bloody flow that Susan had caused from his nose.
Chapter iv. — In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to hostilities, and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace between all parties.
A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their custody, arrived about this time. The serjeant presently enquired for the principal magistrate of the town, and was informed by my landlord, that he himself was vested in that office. He then demanded his billets, together with a mug of beer, and complaining it was cold, spread himself before the kitchen fire.
A sergeant and a group of musketeers, along with a deserter they had caught, showed up around this time. The sergeant quickly asked for the town’s chief magistrate and was told by my landlord that he was the one in charge. He then requested his tickets and a mug of beer, and after saying it was cold, settled himself in front of the kitchen fire.
Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed lady, who sat down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her head upon her arm, was bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest my fair readers should be in pain concerning a particular circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint them, that before she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so well covered herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her regard to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so many men as were now in the room.
Mr. Jones was at that moment comforting the poor, distressed lady, who sat down at a table in the kitchen, leaning her head on her arm and lamenting her misfortunes. However, to ease any worries my lovely readers might have about a specific detail, I should mention that before she left the room upstairs, she had managed to cover herself with a pillowcase she found there, ensuring that her modesty wasn’t at all compromised by the presence of the many men now in the room.
One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whispered something in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed his eyes on the lady, and having looked at her for near a minute, he came up to her, saying, “I ask pardon, madam; but I am certain I am not deceived; you can be no other person than Captain Waters's lady?”
One of the soldiers approached the sergeant and whispered something in his ear. The sergeant then stared intently at the lady for nearly a minute before walking up to her and saying, “Excuse me, ma'am; I’m sure I’m not mistaken; you must be Captain Waters's wife?”
The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little regarded the face of any person present, no sooner looked at the serjeant than she presently recollected him, and calling him by his name, answered, “That she was indeed the unhappy person he imagined her to be;” but added, “I wonder any one should know me in this disguise.” To which the serjeant replied, “He was very much surprized to see her ladyship in such a dress, and was afraid some accident had happened to her.”—“An accident hath happened to me, indeed,” says she, “and I am highly obliged to this gentleman” (pointing to Jones) “that it was not a fatal one, or that I am now living to mention it.”—“Whatever the gentleman hath done,” cries the serjeant, “I am sure the captain will make him amends for it; and if I can be of any service, your ladyship may command me, and I shall think myself very happy to have it in my power to serve your ladyship; and so indeed may any one, for I know the captain will well reward them for it.”
The poor woman, who was so distressed that she barely noticed anyone around her, looked at the sergeant and immediately recognized him. Calling him by name, she said, “Yes, I am indeed the unfortunate person you think I am,” but then added, “I’m surprised anyone would recognize me like this.” The sergeant replied, “I was really surprised to see you in such an outfit and feared something bad had happened to you.” She responded, “Something bad has happened to me, indeed, and I’m very grateful to this gentleman” (pointing to Jones) “for it not being fatal, or for the fact that I’m still here to talk about it.” “Whatever this gentleman has done,” the sergeant exclaimed, “I’m sure the captain will make it up to him. If I can help in any way, your ladyship can count on me, and I would be very happy to assist you; anyone can, because I know the captain will reward them well for it.”
The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between the serjeant and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running directly up to her, began to ask pardon for the offences she had committed, begging that all might be imputed to ignorance of her quality: for, “Lud! madam,” says she, “how should I have imagined that a lady of your fashion would appear in such a dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once suspected that your ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have burnt my tongue out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your ladyship will accept of a gown, till you can get your own cloaths.”
The landlady, who had overheard everything that happened between the sergeant and Mrs. Waters from the stairs, quickly came down and rushed over to her. She started to apologize for the offenses she had committed, pleading that they were all due to her ignorance of Mrs. Waters' status. “Goodness, madam,” she said, “how could I have guessed that someone like you would show up in such an outfit? I swear, if I had even suspected that you were who you are, I would have sooner burned my tongue than said what I said; and I hope you’ll accept a gown from me until you can get your own clothes.”
“Prithee, woman,” says Mrs Waters, “cease your impertinence: how can you imagine I should concern myself about anything which comes from the lips of such low creatures as yourself? But I am surprized at your assurance in thinking, after what is past, that I will condescend to put on any of your dirty things. I would have you know, creature, I have a spirit above that.”
“Please, woman,” Mrs. Waters says, “stop your rudeness: how can you think I would care about anything that comes from someone as low as you? But I’m surprised at your nerve in believing that, after everything that’s happened, I would lower myself to wear any of your filthy things. Just so you know, I have a spirit that’s above that.”
Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive the landlady, and to accept her gown: “for I must confess,” cries he, “our appearance was a little suspicious when first we came in; and I am well assured all this good woman did was, as she professed, out of regard to the reputation of her house.”
Here Jones stepped in and asked Mrs. Waters to forgive the landlady and to accept her gown: “I must admit,” he exclaimed, “we looked a bit suspicious when we first arrived; and I’m sure everything this good woman did was, as she said, out of concern for her house’s reputation.”
“Yes, upon my truly was it,” says she: “the gentleman speaks very much like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so; and to be certain the house is well known to be a house of as good reputation as any on the road, and though I say it, is frequented by gentry of the best quality, both Irish and English. I defy anybody to say black is my eye, for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known your ladyship to be your ladyship, I would as soon have burnt my fingers as have affronted your ladyship; but truly where gentry come and spend their money, I am not willing that they should be scandalized by a set of poor shabby vermin, that, wherever they go, leave more lice than money behind them; such folks never raise my compassion, for to be certain it is foolish to have any for them; and if our justices did as they ought, they would be all whipt out of the kingdom, for to be certain it is what is most fitting for them. But as for your ladyship, I am heartily sorry your ladyship hath had a misfortune, and if your ladyship will do me the honour to wear my cloaths till you can get some of your ladyship's own, to be certain the best I have is at your ladyship's service.”
“Yes, it truly was,” she says. “The gentleman speaks very much like a gentleman, and I can clearly see that he is. The house is well known to have a great reputation, one of the best on the road, and I must say it attracts high-quality guests, both Irish and English. I challenge anyone to say anything bad about me for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known you were a lady of such stature, I would have been cautious not to offend you; but honestly, when gentry come and spend their money, I don't want them to be bothered by a bunch of poor, shabby creatures who leave behind more problems than cash. I have no sympathy for those kinds of people, because it’s foolish to feel for them; and if our officials did their jobs right, they would be chased out of the country, as that would be the most appropriate outcome for them. But as for you, I’m truly sorry to hear about your misfortune, and if you would honor me by wearing my clothes until you can get some of your own, I assure you the best I have is at your service.”
Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones prevailed most on Mrs Waters, I will not determine, but she suffered herself to be pacified by this speech of my landlady, and retired with that good woman, in order to apparel herself in a decent manner.
Whether it was cold, shame, or Mr. Jones's arguments that influenced Mrs. Waters the most, I can't say, but she allowed herself to be calmed by my landlady's words and went with that kind woman to get dressed appropriately.
My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, but was presently interrupted by that generous youth, who shook him heartily by the hand, and assured him of entire forgiveness, saying, “If you are satisfied, my worthy friend, I promise you I am;” and indeed, in one sense, the landlord had the better reason to be satisfied; for he had received a bellyfull of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a single blow.
My landlord was also starting his speech to Jones, but he was soon interrupted by that generous young man, who shook his hand vigorously and assured him he was completely forgiven, saying, “If you’re satisfied, my good friend, I promise I am too;” and in a way, the landlord had more reason to be satisfied because he had taken quite a beating, while Jones had hardly felt a single punch.
Partridge, who had been all this time washing his bloody nose at the pump, returned into the kitchen at the instant when his master and the landlord were shaking hands with each other. As he was of a peaceable disposition, he was pleased with those symptoms of reconciliation; and though his face bore some marks of Susan's fist, and many more of her nails, he rather chose to be contented with his fortune in the last battle than to endeavour at bettering it in another.
Partridge, who had spent all this time washing his bloody nose at the pump, walked back into the kitchen just as his master and the landlord were shaking hands. Since he had a calm personality, he was pleased to see signs of reconciliation; and even though his face showed some signs of Susan's fist and many more of her nails, he preferred to be satisfied with his luck from the last fight rather than risk it by getting into another one.
The heroic Susan was likewise well contented with her victory, though it had cost her a black eye, which Partridge had given her at the first onset. Between these two, therefore, a league was struck, and those hands which had been the instruments of war became now the mediators of peace.
The brave Susan was also happy with her win, even though it had given her a black eye, which Partridge had caused at the start. So, a truce was established between them, and those hands that had once fought became the ones that brought about peace.
Matters were thus restored to a perfect calm; at which the serjeant, though it may seem so contrary to the principles of his profession, testified his approbation. “Why now, that's friendly,” said he; “d—n me, I hate to see two people bear ill-will to one another after they have had a tussel. The only way when friends quarrel is to see it out fairly in a friendly manner, as a man may call it, either with a fist, or sword, or pistol, according as they like, and then let it be all over; for my own part, d—n me if ever I love my friend better than when I am fighting with him! To bear malice is more like a Frenchman than an Englishman.”
Things were back to a perfect calm, which, although it might seem against his professional principles, the sergeant approved of. “Well, that's nice,” he said; “damn it, I can't stand to see two people hold a grudge against each other after a fight. The only way for friends to resolve a quarrel is to sort it out openly and in a friendly way, whether it’s with fists, a sword, or a gun, depending on their preference, and then just move on. For my part, damn it, I never appreciate my friend more than when I'm fighting with him! Holding a grudge is more like something a Frenchman would do than an Englishman.”
He then proposed a libation as a necessary part of the ceremony at all treaties of this kind. Perhaps the reader may here conclude that he was well versed in antient history; but this, though highly probable, as he cited no authority to support the custom, I will not affirm with any confidence. Most likely indeed it is, that he founded his opinion on very good authority, since he confirmed it with many violent oaths.
He then suggested a drink offering as an essential part of the ceremony for all treaties like this. The reader might assume that he was knowledgeable about ancient history; however, since he didn't cite any sources to back up the custom, I can't say that with certainty. It's quite possible that he based his view on solid evidence, especially since he backed it up with many strong oaths.
Jones no sooner heard the proposal than, immediately agreeing with the learned serjeant, he ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled with the liquor used on these occasions, to be brought in, and then began the ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in that of the landlord, and, seizing the bowl with his left, uttered the usual words, and then made his libation. After which, the same was observed by all present. Indeed, there is very little need of being particular in describing the whole form, as it differed so little from those libations of which so much is recorded in antient authors and their modern transcribers. The principal difference lay in two instances; for, first, the present company poured the liquor only down their throats; and, secondly, the serjeant, who officiated as priest, drank the last; but he preserved, I believe, the antient form, in swallowing much the largest draught of the whole company, and in being the only person present who contributed nothing towards the libation besides his good offices in assisting at the performance.
As soon as Jones heard the proposal, he immediately agreed with the learned sergeant and ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled with the drink typically used on these occasions to be brought in. He then began the ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in the landlord's hand and, grabbing the bowl with his left, said the usual words before pouring out the drink. After that, everyone present followed suit. There’s really no need to get into the details of the whole procedure since it was so similar to those libations described in ancient texts and their modern counterparts. The main differences were that, first, the people here just swallowed the liquor, and second, the sergeant, who acted as the priest, took the last drink. However, he kept with the ancient tradition by drinking the largest amount of anyone and being the only one present who didn’t contribute anything to the libation aside from his assistance in leading the ceremony.
The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen fire, where good humour seemed to maintain an absolute dominion; and Partridge not only forgot his shameful defeat, but converted hunger into thirst, and soon became extremely facetious. We must however quit this agreeable assembly for a while, and attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters's apartment, where the dinner which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it took no long time in preparing, having been all drest three days before, and required nothing more from the cook than to warm it over again.
The good folks gathered around the kitchen fire, where good vibes seemed to rule; and Partridge not only forgot his embarrassing loss but turned his hunger into thirst and quickly became quite the jokester. However, we must leave this enjoyable group for a moment and follow Mr. Jones to Mrs. Waters's room, where the dinner he had ordered was now on the table. In fact, it didn't take long to prepare since it had all been cooked three days earlier and just needed to be warmed up again.
Chapter v. — An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a description of a battle of the amorous kind.
Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means of flatterers, they may entertain of themselves, or the world may conceive of them, have certainly more of mortal than divine about them. However elevated their minds may be, their bodies at least (which is much the major part of most) are liable to the worst infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of human nature. Among these latter, the act of eating, which hath by several wise men been considered as extremely mean and derogatory from the philosophic dignity, must be in some measure performed by the greatest prince, heroe, or philosopher upon earth; nay, sometimes Nature hath been so frolicsome as to exact of these dignified characters a much more exorbitant share of this office than she hath obliged those of the lowest order to perform.
Heroes, despite the lofty ideas they may hold about themselves or that others may have about them, are definitely more human than divine. No matter how high their thoughts may be, their bodies— which are a much larger part of who they are— are vulnerable to the worst weaknesses and subject to the most basic aspects of human nature. Among these basic needs, eating, which many wise individuals have deemed unrefined and diminishing to one’s philosophical dignity, must still be done by even the greatest kings, heroes, or philosophers on Earth; in fact, sometimes Nature playfully demands that these esteemed figures engage in this task even more than she obliges those from lower standings.
To say the truth, as no known inhabitant of this globe is really more than man, so none need be ashamed of submitting to what the necessities of man demand; but when those great personages I have just mentioned condescend to aim at confining such low offices to themselves—as when, by hoarding or destroying, they seem desirous to prevent any others from eating—then they surely become very low and despicable.
To be honest, since no one on this planet is truly more than human, no one should feel ashamed about meeting human needs. However, when those important figures I just mentioned try to limit such basic roles to themselves—like when they hoard or destroy resources to keep others from eating—they become pretty low and contemptible.
Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement to our heroe to mention the immoderate ardour with which he laid about him at this season. Indeed, it may be doubted whether Ulysses, who by the way seems to have had the best stomach of all the heroes in that eating poem of the Odyssey, ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of that flesh which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox was now honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones.
Now, after this brief introduction, we don’t think it’s a slight to our hero to point out the intense enthusiasm with which he went about things at this time. In fact, one might wonder if Ulysses, who by the way seems to have had the biggest appetite of all the heroes in that consuming tale of the Odyssey, ever enjoyed a better feast. At least three pounds of that meat, which used to belong to an ox, was now served as a fitting part of the individual Mr. Jones.
This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may account for our heroe's temporary neglect of his fair companion, who eat but very little, and was indeed employed in considerations of a very different nature, which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had entirely satisfied that appetite which a fast of twenty-four hours had procured him; but his dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to other matters revived; with these matters therefore we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader.
We felt it necessary to mention this, as it might explain our hero’s brief disregard for his lovely companion, who barely ate and was actually preoccupied with very different thoughts that went unnoticed by Jones until he had completely satisfied the appetite that a day-long fast had given him. But as soon as his dinner was finished, his focus on other issues returned; so we will now inform the reader about these matters.
Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest young fellows in the world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the most apparent marks of sweetness and good-nature. These qualities were indeed so characteristical in his countenance, that, while the spirit and sensibility in his eyes, though they must have been perceived by an accurate observer, might have escaped the notice of the less discerning, so strongly was this good-nature painted in his look, that it was remarked by almost every one who saw him.
Mr. Jones, about whom we've said very little regarding his personal achievements, was actually one of the most handsome young guys around. His face not only radiated health, but also displayed clear signs of kindness and a good disposition. These traits were so characteristic of his appearance that, while a keen observer might have noticed the depth and sensitivity in his eyes, those who were less observant likely overlooked that, as his good-natured expression was so striking that nearly everyone who saw him commented on it.
It was, perhaps, as much owing to this as to a very fine complexion that his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which might have given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been joined to a most masculine person and mien: which latter had as much in them of the Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. He was besides active, genteel, gay, and good-humoured; and had a flow of animal spirits which enlivened every conversation where he was present.
It was, perhaps, as much due to this as to his really great complexion that his face had a delicacy that was almost impossible to describe, and which might have made him seem a bit too feminine if it weren’t combined with a very masculine body and demeanor: the latter had just as much of Hercules in it as the former had of Adonis. He was also lively, stylish, cheerful, and good-natured; and he had a burst of energy that brightened up every conversation he was part of.
When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms which all centered in our heroe, and considers at the same time the fresh obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be a mark more of prudery than candour to entertain a bad opinion of her because she conceived a very good opinion of him.
When the reader has reflected on all the many charms that centered around our hero, and considers at the same time the new obligations that Mrs. Waters had to him, it would be more of a sign of prudery than honesty to hold a negative opinion of her for having a very high opinion of him.
But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my business to relate matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters had, in truth, not only a good opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him. To speak out boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions, appetites, and senses, and is understood to be that preference which we give to one kind of food rather than to another.
But no matter what criticism she might face, my job is to accurately present the facts. Mrs. Waters truly not only thought highly of our hero but also had a deep affection for him. To be completely honest, she was in love, in the way we commonly understand that term today, which is used broadly to describe the things we desire in all our emotions, desires, and senses, and is recognized as the preference we give to one type of attraction over another.
But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and the same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be different; for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent surloin of beef, or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor endeavour by any other arts or tricks to gain the affection of the said beef, &c. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is generally in the absence, not in the presence, of the beloved object. For otherwise we might possibly complain of their ingratitude and deafness, with the same reason as Pasiphae doth of her bull, whom she endeavoured to engage by all the coquetry practised with good success in the drawing-room on the much more sensible as well as tender hearts of the fine gentlemen there.
But even though the love for these different things might be the same in every case, the way we express that love is definitely different; because, no matter how much we might love a great cut of beef or a bottle of Burgundy, or a damask rose or a Cremona violin, we never smile, flirt, dress up, flatter, or try any other tricks to win the affection of that beef, and so on. We might sigh sometimes, but usually it's when we're not around the thing we love, not when we are. Otherwise, we could easily complain about their lack of gratitude and responsiveness, just like Pasiphae did about her bull, whom she tried to attract using all the charm that worked so well in the drawing room with the much more sensitive and tender hearts of the fine gentlemen there.
The contrary happens in that love which operates between persons of the same species, but of different sexes. Here we are no sooner in love than it becomes our principal care to engage the affection of the object beloved. For what other purpose indeed are our youth instructed in all the arts of rendering themselves agreeable? If it was not with a view to this love, I question whether any of those trades which deal in setting off and adorning the human person would procure a livelihood. Nay, those great polishers of our manners, who are by some thought to teach what principally distinguishes us from the brute creation, even dancing-masters themselves, might possibly find no place in society. In short, all the graces which young ladies and young gentlemen too learn from others, and the many improvements which, by the help of a looking-glass, they add of their own, are in reality those very spicula et faces amoris so often mentioned by Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own language, the whole artillery of love.
The opposite occurs in love between people of the same species but different sexes. As soon as we fall in love, our main concern is to win the affection of the person we desire. Why else are young people taught all the ways to make themselves appealing? If not for the sake of love, I wonder if any of those professions focused on enhancing and beautifying the human form would be sustainable. In fact, those skilled at refining our manners, who some believe teach what mainly sets us apart from animals—like dancing instructors—might not even have a place in society. In short, all the charms that young women and young men learn from others, along with the many tweaks they make using a mirror, are really the very spicula et faces amoris that Ovid often referred to; or, as we sometimes call them, the entire arsenal of love.
Now Mrs Waters and our heroe had no sooner sat down together than the former began to play this artillery upon the latter. But here, as we are about to attempt a description hitherto unassayed either in prose or verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aërial beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this occasion.
Now Mrs. Waters and our hero had barely sat down together when she began to attack him with her words. But as we're about to try a description never attempted before in either prose or poetry, we think it’s appropriate to call on the help of some celestial beings who, we believe, will generously support us in this effort.
“Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly mansions of Seraphina's countenance; for you are truly divine, are always in her presence, and well know all the arts of charming; say, what were the weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr Jones.”
“Tell me, you Graces! You who live in the heavenly beauty of Seraphina; for you are truly divine, always in her presence, and know all the ways to enchant; tell me, what were the tools used to win the heart of Mr. Jones?”
“First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily for our heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying into his plate, and harmless spent their force. The fair warrior perceived their miscarriage, and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a deadly sigh. A sigh which none could have heard unmoved, and which was sufficient at once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet, so tender, that the insinuating air must have found its subtle way to the heart of our heroe, had it not luckily been driven from his ears by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale, which at that time he was pouring forth. Many other weapons did she assay; but the god of eating (if there be any such deity, for I do not confidently assert it) preserved his votary; or perhaps it may not be dignus vindice nodus, and the present security of Jones may be accounted for by natural means; for as love frequently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so may hunger possibly, in some cases, defend us against love.
“First, from two beautiful blue eyes, whose bright orbs shot out sparks like lightning, came two pointed glances; but, fortunately for our hero, they only struck a large piece of beef he was putting on his plate and lost their power harmlessly. The lovely warrior noticed their failure and immediately drew a deadly sigh from her fair bosom. A sigh that no one could hear unmoved, and which could have easily swept away a dozen suitors; so soft, so sweet, so tender, that the soothing sound must have found its way to our hero's heart, if it hadn't been fortunately drowned out by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale he was pouring at that moment. She tried many other tactics; but the god of eating (if there is such a deity, for I'm not sure) protected his follower; or perhaps it may not be dignus vindice nodus, and Jones’s current safety can be explained by natural means; for just as love often protects us from hunger, so too may hunger, in some instances, shield us from love.”
“The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, determined on a short cessation of arms. Which interval she employed in making ready every engine of amorous warfare for the renewing of the attack when dinner should be over.
"The beautiful woman, frustrated by her constant letdowns, decided to take a short break from the battle. During this time, she prepared all her strategies for romance to launch a new assault as soon as dinner was finished."
“No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began her operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise against Mr Jones, she shot from its corner a most penetrating glance; which, though great part of its force was spent before it reached our heroe, did not vent itself absolutely without effect. This the fair one perceiving, hastily withdrew her eyes, and levelled them downwards, as if she was concerned for what she had done; though by this means she designed only to draw him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes, through which she intended to surprize his heart. And now, gently lifting up those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small charms at once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not a smile of mirth, nor of joy; but a smile of affection, which most ladies have always ready at their command, and which serves them to show at once their good-humour, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth.
"No sooner was the cloth removed than she started her game again. First, she leaned her right eye sideways toward Mr. Jones and shot him a penetrating glance from the corner of it. Although much of its power faded before it reached our hero, it still had some effect. Noticing this, the beautiful woman quickly averted her gaze and lowered it, pretending to be concerned about what she had done; however, she was really just trying to lower his defenses and, in fact, intended to capture his heart through his eyes. Then, gently lifting her bright eyes that had already begun to affect poor Jones, she let loose a wave of small charms all at once with a smile. It wasn't a smile of laughter or joy, but a smile of affection that most women have ready to use, showing off their good nature, cute dimples, and white teeth."
“This smile our heroe received full in his eyes, and was immediately staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the enemy, and indeed to feel their success. A parley now was set on foot between the parties; during which the artful fair so slily and imperceptibly carried on her attack, that she had almost subdued the heart of our heroe before she again repaired to acts of hostility. To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch defence, and treacherously delivered up the garrison, without duly weighing his allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had the amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked the royal battery, by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her neck, than the heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the fair conqueror enjoyed the usual fruits of her victory.”
“This smile hit our hero right in the eyes, and he was instantly overwhelmed by its power. He then started to understand the enemy's plans and could really feel their success. A truce was soon initiated between the parties; during this time, the clever lady subtly and almost undetectably pursued her attack, nearly winning over our hero's heart before returning to more aggressive tactics. To be honest, I’m afraid Mr. Jones played a kind of defensive strategy and sneakily surrendered without fully considering his loyalty to the lovely Sophia. In short, as soon as the romantic negotiation ended and the lady revealed her intentions by casually letting her handkerchief fall from her neck, Mr. Jones's heart was completely claimed, and the beautiful conqueror enjoyed the usual rewards of her triumph.”
Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we think proper to end the chapter.
Here, the Graces decide to wrap up their description, and we think it’s a good point to conclude the chapter.
Chapter vi. — A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very common, though not very friendly, conclusion.
While our lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is partly described in the foregoing chapter, they were likewise furnishing out an entertainment for their good friends in the kitchen. And this in a double sense, by affording them matter for their conversation, and, at the same time, drink to enliven their spirits.
While our lovers were having fun in the way that’s partly described in the previous chapter, they were also preparing an event for their good friends in the kitchen. This was in two ways: by giving them something to talk about and, at the same time, drinks to lift their spirits.
There were now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord and landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr Partridge, the serjeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and her maid.
There were now gathered around the kitchen fire, in addition to my landlord and landlady, who occasionally went back and forth, Mr. Partridge, the sergeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and her maid.
Partridge having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from the Man of the Hill concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had been found by Jones, the serjeant proceeded to that part of her history which was known to him. He said she was the wife of Mr Waters, who was a captain in their regiment, and had often been with him at quarters. “Some folks,” says he, “used indeed to doubt whether they were lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that's no business of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I believe she is little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain may go to heaven when the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does, that is neither here nor there; for he won't want company. And the lady, to give the devil his due, is a very good sort of lady, and loves the cloth, and is always desirous to do strict justice to it; for she hath begged off many a poor soldier, and, by her good-will, would never have any of them punished. But yet, to be sure, Ensign Northerton and she were very well acquainted together at our last quarters; that is the very right and truth of the matter. But the captain he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for him too, what does it signify? He loves her not a bit the worse, and I am certain would run any man through the body that was to abuse her; therefore I won't abuse her, for my part. I only repeat what other folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says, there must be some truth in.”—“Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I warrant you,” cries Partridge; “Veritas odium parit”—“All a parcel of scandalous stuff,” answered the mistress of the house. “I am sure, now she is drest, she looks like a very good sort of lady, and she behaves herself like one; for she gave me a guinea for the use of my cloaths.”—“A very good lady indeed!” cries the landlord; “and if you had not been a little too hasty, you would not have quarrelled with her as you did at first.”—“You need mention that with my truly!” answered she: “if it had not been for your nonsense, nothing had happened. You must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and throw in your fool's discourse.”—“Well, well,” answered he; “what's past cannot be mended, so there's an end of the matter.”—“Yes,” cries she, “for this once; but will it be mended ever the more hereafter? This is not the first time I have suffered for your numscull's pate. I wish you would always hold your tongue in the house, and meddle only in matters without doors, which concern you. Don't you remember what happened about seven years ago?”—“Nay, my dear,” returned he, “don't rip up old stories. Come, come, all's well, and I am sorry for what I have done.” The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was a great lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those harmless quarrels which tend rather to the production of comical than tragical incidents.
Partridge had informed everyone about what he learned from the Man of the Hill regarding the situation in which Mrs. Waters was found by Jones. The sergeant then shared what he knew about her background. He said she was the wife of Mr. Waters, a captain in their regiment, and he had often been around him at the barracks. “Some people,” he said, “used to question whether they were truly married in a church or not. But honestly, that’s not my concern. I have to admit, if I had to swear on my corporal’s oath, I believe she’s just about one of us; and I suspect the captain may go to heaven on a rainy day when the sun shines. But if he does, that doesn't really matter; he won’t be short of company. And to give credit where it's due, the lady is quite a decent person, has a fondness for the uniform, and always wants to do right by it; she’s gotten many a poor soldier off the hook and, if she had her way, no one would ever be punished. But sure enough, Ensign Northerton and she were very friendly during our last stay; that’s the honest truth. But the captain knows nothing of it, and as long as there’s enough for him too, what does it matter? He doesn’t care any less for her, and I’m sure he’d gladly confront anyone who dared to disrespect her; so, for my part, I won’t disrespect her. I’m just repeating what others say; and to be honest, if everyone says it, there must be some truth to it.” “Oh yes, a lot of truth, I’m sure,” said Partridge; “Veritas odium parit”—“It’s all a bunch of scandalous nonsense,” replied the mistress of the house. “I’m sure now that she’s dressed, she looks like a perfectly respectable lady and acts like one too; she even gave me a guinea for borrowing my clothes.” “A very good lady indeed!” exclaimed the landlord; “and if you hadn’t been so quick to judge, you wouldn’t have had the spat with her in the first place.” “Don’t bring that up with me!” she retorted. “If it hadn’t been for your nonsense, none of this would have happened. You had to meddle in things that weren’t your business and throw in your foolish comments.” “Well, well,” he replied, “what’s done is done, so let’s forget about it.” “Yes,” she said, “just this once; but will it be fixed in the future? This isn’t the first time I’ve suffered because of your thick-headedness. I wish you’d keep quiet in the house and only get involved in things outside that concern you. Don’t you remember what happened about seven years ago?”—“Now, my dear,” he answered, “let’s not dig up old stories. Come on, everything’s fine, and I’m sorry for what I did.” The landlady was about to respond, but the peacekeeping sergeant interrupted, much to Partridge’s displeasure, as he was a big fan of what’s called fun and a strong supporter of those harmless arguments that lead to comical rather than tragic outcomes.
The serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling? “None of your magisters,” answered Partridge; “I am no man's servant, I assure you; for, though I have had misfortunes in the world, I write gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple as I may appear now, I have taught grammar-school in my time; sed hei mihi! non sum quod fui.”—“No offence, I hope, sir,” said the serjeant; “where, then, if I may venture to be so bold, may you and your friend be travelling?”—“You have now denominated us right,” says Partridge. “Amici sumus. And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest gentlemen in the kingdom” (at which words both landlord and landlady pricked up their ears). “He is the heir of Squire Allworthy.”—“What, the squire who doth so much good all over the country?” cries my landlady. “Even he,” answered Partridge.—“Then I warrant,” says she, “he'll have a swinging great estate hereafter.”—“Most certainly,” answered Partridge.—“Well,” replied the landlady, “I thought the first moment I saw him he looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my husband here, to be sure, is wiser than anybody.”—“I own, my dear,” cries he, “it was a mistake.”—“A mistake, indeed!” answered she; “but when did you ever know me to make such mistakes?”—“But how comes it, sir,” cries the landlord, “that such a great gentleman walks about the country afoot?”—“I don't know,” returned Partridge; “great gentlemen have humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen horses and servants at Gloucester; and nothing would serve him, but last night, it being very hot weather, he must cool himself with a walk to yon high hill, whither I likewise walked with him to bear him company; but if ever you catch me there again: for I was never so frightened in all my life. We met with the strangest man there.”—“I'll be hanged,” cries the landlord, “if it was not the Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a man; but I know several people who believe it is the devil that lives there.”—“Nay, nay, like enough,” says Partridge; “and now you put me in the head of it, I verily and sincerely believe it was the devil, though I could not perceive his cloven foot: but perhaps he might have the power given him to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in what shapes they please.”—“And pray, sir,” says the serjeant, “no offence, I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and that it is only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for, if it was publickly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of no more use than we are in time of peace.”—“Those officers,” says Partridge, “are very great scholars, I suppose.”—“Not much of schollards neither,” answered the serjeant; “they have not half your learning, sir, I believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must be a devil, notwithstanding what they said, though one of them was a captain; for methought, thinks I to myself, if there be no devil, how can wicked people be sent to him? and I have read all that upon a book.”—“Some of your officers,” quoth the landlord, “will find there is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I don't question but he'll pay off some old scores upon my account. Here was one quartered upon me half a year, who had the conscience to take up one of my best beds, though he hardly spent a shilling a day in the house, and suffered his men to roast cabbages at the kitchen fire, because I would not give them a dinner on a Sunday. Every good Christian must desire there should be a devil for the punishment of such wretches.”—“Harkee, landlord,” said the serjeant, “don't abuse the cloth, for I won't take it.”—“D—n the cloth!” answered the landlord, “I have suffered enough by them.”—“Bear witness, gentlemen,” says the serjeant, “he curses the king, and that's high treason.”—“I curse the king! you villain,” said the landlord. “Yes, you did,” cries the serjeant; “you cursed the cloth, and that's cursing the king. It's all one and the same; for every man who curses the cloth would curse the king if he durst; so for matter o' that, it's all one and the same thing.”—“Excuse me there, Mr Serjeant,” quoth Partridge, “that's a non sequitur.”—“None of your outlandish linguo,” answered the serjeant, leaping from his seat; “I will not sit still and hear the cloth abused.”—“You mistake me, friend,” cries Partridge. “I did not mean to abuse the cloth; I only said your conclusion was a non sequitur.[*]”—“You are another,” cries the serjeant,” an you come to that. No more a sequitur than yourself. You are a pack of rascals, and I'll prove it; for I will fight the best man of you all for twenty pound.” This challenge effectually silenced Partridge, whose stomach for drubbing did not so soon return after the hearty meal which he had lately been treated with; but the coachman, whose bones were less sore, and whose appetite for fighting was somewhat sharper, did not so easily brook the affront, of which he conceived some part at least fell to his share. He started therefore from his seat, and, advancing to the serjeant, swore he looked on himself to be as good a man as any in the army, and offered to box for a guinea. The military man accepted the combat, but refused the wager; upon which both immediately stript and engaged, till the driver of horses was so well mauled by the leader of men, that he was obliged to exhaust his small remainder of breath in begging for quarter.
The sergeant asked Partridge where he and his master were traveling. “None of your masters,” Partridge replied. “I’m nobody’s servant, I promise you; even though I’ve had my share of misfortunes, I write ‘gentleman’ after my name; and, as poor and simple as I might look now, I’ve taught grammar school in my time; but alas, I am not what I once was.”—“No offense intended, sir,” said the sergeant; “then where, if I may be so bold, are you and your friend heading?”—“You’ve got us right,” Partridge said. “We are friends. And I assure you, my friend is one of the greatest gentlemen in the kingdom” (at this, both the landlord and landlady perked up their ears). “He’s the heir of Squire Allworthy.”—“What, the squire who does so much good all over the country?” cried my landlady. “That’s the one,” answered Partridge.—“Then I bet,” she said, “he’ll have a massive estate down the line.” —“Absolutely,” Partridge replied.—“Well,” the landlady said, “I thought the moment I saw him that he looked like a decent gentleman; but my husband here, of course, is wiser than anyone.”—“I admit, my dear,” cried he, “it was a mistake.”—“A mistake indeed!” she shot back. “But when have you ever known me to make such mistakes?”—“But how is it, sir,” the landlord asked, “that such a great gentleman is walking around the country on foot?”—“I don’t know,” Partridge replied; “great gentlemen sometimes have their quirks. He has a dozen horses and servants in Gloucester; and nothing would do for him but to cool off with a walk to that high hill over there last night, and I went with him to keep him company; but don’t you ever catch me there again: I’ve never been so scared in my life. We met the strangest man there.” —“I’ll be hanged,” the landlord exclaimed, “if it wasn’t the Man of the Hill, as they call him; if he even is a man; but I know several people who believe it’s the devil living there.” —“Well, that sounds about right,” Partridge said; “and now that you mention it, I genuinely believe it was the devil, although I didn’t see his cloven foot: but maybe he had the power to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in whatever shapes they want.” —“And pray, sir,” the sergeant said, “no offense intended, but what sort of gentleman is the devil? Because I’ve heard some of our officers say there’s no such thing; that it’s just a trick of the parsons to keep their jobs, because if it was publicly known that there was no devil, the parsons wouldn’t be worth any more than we are in peacetime.” —“Those officers,” Partridge replied, “must be very great scholars, I suppose.” —“Not much of scholars either,” the sergeant answered; “they don’t have half your learning, sir, I believe; and I certainly thought there must be a devil, despite what they said, although one of them was a captain; because I think to myself, if there’s no devil, how can bad people be sent to him? and I’ve read all that in a book.” —“Some of your officers,” the landlord said, “will come to realize there is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I have no doubt he’ll settle some old scores on my behalf. There was one quartered on me for half a year who had the gall to take one of my best beds, even though he hardly spent a shilling a day in the house, and let his men roast cabbages at my kitchen fire because I wouldn’t give them dinner on a Sunday. Every good Christian must wish for a devil to punish such wretches.” —“Listen, landlord,” the sergeant said, “don’t disrespect the cloth, because I won’t take it.” —“Damn the cloth!” the landlord replied, “I’ve suffered enough because of them.” —“Bear witness, gentlemen,” the sergeant said, “he curses the king, and that’s high treason.” —“I curse the king? You scoundrel,” said the landlord. “Yes, you did,” the sergeant cried; “you cursed the cloth, and that’s the same as cursing the king. It’s all one and the same; for every man who curses the cloth would curse the king if he dared; so as far as that goes, it’s all the same thing.” —“Excuse me there, Mr. Sergeant,” Partridge interjected, “that’s a non sequitur.” —“None of your fancy talk,” the sergeant shot back, jumping from his seat; “I won’t sit still and hear the cloth insulted.” —“You’ve got me wrong, friend,” Partridge said. “I didn’t mean to insult the cloth; I just said your conclusion was a non sequitur.” —“You’re just like the others,” the sergeant fired back, “and if we’re going there, you’re no more a sequitur than yourself. You’re all a pack of rascals, and I’ll prove it; I’ll fight the best man among you for twenty pounds.” This challenge completely silenced Partridge, whose desire for a fight didn’t return so quickly after the hearty meal he’d just had; but the coachman, whose bones were less sore and whose appetite for fighting was a bit sharper, didn’t take the insult lightly, as he felt at least some part of the affront was directed at him. So he jumped from his seat and, stepping up to the sergeant, declared he considered himself just as good a man as any in the army, and offered to box for a guinea. The military man accepted the challenge but refused the wager; upon which both immediately stripped down and engaged, until the coach driver was so badly beaten by the soldier that he had to use his last bit of breath to beg for mercy.
[*] This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an affront, is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not follow from the premises.
[*] This word, which the serjeant unfortunately misunderstood as an insult, is a term in logic, meaning that the conclusion does not logically follow from the premises.
The young lady was now desirous to depart, and had given orders for her coach to be prepared; but all in vain, for the coachman was disabled from performing his office for that evening. An antient heathen would perhaps have imputed this disability to the god of drink, no less than to the god of war; for, in reality, both the combatants had sacrificed as well to the former deity as to the latter. To speak plainly, they were both dead drunk, nor was Partridge in a much better situation. As for my landlord, drinking was his trade; and the liquor had no more effect on him than it had on any other vessel in his house.
The young lady was eager to leave and had instructed that her coach be readied; however, it was all for nothing, as the coachman was unable to do his job that evening. An ancient pagan might have blamed this inability on the god of alcohol just as much as the god of battle; because, in reality, both fighters had offered sacrifices to both deities. To put it plainly, they were both completely drunk, and Partridge wasn't in much better shape. As for my landlord, drinking was part of his profession, and the alcohol affected him no more than it did any other container in his establishment.
The mistress of the inn, being summoned to attend Mr Jones and his companion at their tea, gave a full relation of the latter part of the foregoing scene; and at the same time expressed great concern for the young lady, “who,” she said, “was under the utmost uneasiness at being prevented from pursuing her journey. She is a sweet pretty creature,” added she, “and I am certain I have seen her face before. I fancy she is in love, and running away from her friends. Who knows but some young gentleman or other may be expecting her, with a heart as heavy as her own?”
The innkeeper, called to serve tea to Mr. Jones and his companion, recounted the latter part of the previous scene in detail. She expressed great concern for the young lady, saying, “She is extremely worried about not being able to continue her journey. She’s a lovely girl,” she added, “and I’m sure I’ve seen her face before. I suspect she’s in love and running away from her family. Who knows, maybe there’s some young man out there waiting for her, feeling just as heavy-hearted?”
Jones fetched a heavy sigh at those words; of which, though Mrs Waters observed it, she took no notice while the landlady continued in the room; but, after the departure of that good woman, she could not forbear giving our heroe certain hints on her suspecting some very dangerous rival in his affections. The aukward behaviour of Mr Jones on this occasion convinced her of the truth, without his giving her a direct answer to any of her questions; but she was not nice enough in her amours to be greatly concerned at the discovery. The beauty of Jones highly charmed her eye; but as she could not see his heart, she gave herself no concern about it. She could feast heartily at the table of love, without reflecting that some other already had been, or hereafter might be, feasted with the same repast. A sentiment which, if it deals but little in refinement, deals, however, much in substance; and is less capricious, and perhaps less ill-natured and selfish, than the desires of those females who can be contented enough to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided they are sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.
Jones let out a heavy sigh at those words; although Mrs. Waters noticed it, she ignored it while the landlady was in the room. But after that good woman left, she couldn’t help but drop some hints to our hero about suspecting a very dangerous rival for his affections. Mr. Jones's awkward behavior on this occasion convinced her of the truth, even without him giving her a direct answer to any of her questions. However, she wasn't so picky in her romantic interests that she was greatly upset by the discovery. Jones's good looks captivated her, but since she couldn’t see his heart, she didn't worry about it. She could indulge fully at the table of love without thinking about the fact that someone else had already been, or might in the future be, indulged with the same meal. This sentiment, while not very refined, is quite substantial and is less capricious, and perhaps less mean-spirited and selfish, than the desires of those women who can be quite satisfied not to possess their lovers, as long as they are sure that no one else does.
Chapter vii. — Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by what means she came into that distressful situation from which she was rescued by Jones.
Though Nature hath by no means mixed up an equal share either of curiosity or vanity in every human composition, there is perhaps no individual to whom she hath not allotted such a proportion of both as requires much arts, and pains too, to subdue and keep under;—a conquest, however, absolutely necessary to every one who would in any degree deserve the characters of wisdom or good breeding.
Although Nature hasn't given everyone an equal dose of curiosity or vanity, it's likely that every person has been assigned some amount of both that takes a lot of skill and effort to manage and control. However, mastering this balance is essential for anyone who wants to earn a reputation for being wise or well-mannered.
As Jones, therefore, might very justly be called a well-bred man, he had stifled all that curiosity which the extraordinary manner in which he had found Mrs Waters must be supposed to have occasioned. He had, indeed, at first thrown out some few hints to the lady; but, when he perceived her industriously avoiding any explanation, he was contented to remain in ignorance, the rather as he was not without suspicion that there were some circumstances which must have raised her blushes, had she related the whole truth.
As Jones could rightly be considered a well-mannered man, he had suppressed all the curiosity that the unusual way he met Mrs. Waters must have stirred up. Initially, he had dropped a few hints to her, but when he noticed she was deliberately avoiding giving any explanation, he was fine with staying in the dark, especially since he couldn't shake the feeling that there were some details that would have made her blush if she had told the whole truth.
Now since it is possible that some of our readers may not so easily acquiesce under the same ignorance, and as we are very desirous to satisfy them all, we have taken uncommon pains to inform ourselves of the real fact, with the relation of which we shall conclude this book.
Now, since some of our readers might not easily accept the same ignorance, and because we really want to satisfy everyone, we have made significant efforts to learn the real facts, which we will share to conclude this book.
This lady, then, had lived some years with one Captain Waters, who was a captain in the same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She past for that gentleman's wife, and went by his name; and yet, as the serjeant said, there were some doubts concerning the reality of their marriage, which we shall not at present take upon us to resolve.
This woman had lived for several years with Captain Waters, who was in the same regiment as Mr. Northerton. She was known as his wife and used his last name; however, as the sergeant mentioned, there were some questions about whether their marriage was legitimate, which we won’t attempt to resolve right now.
Mrs Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an intimacy with the above-mentioned ensign, which did no great credit to her reputation. That she had a remarkable fondness for that young fellow is most certain; but whether she indulged this to any very criminal lengths is not so extremely clear, unless we will suppose that women never grant every favour to a man but one, without granting him that one also.
Mrs. Waters, I’m sorry to say, had been involved with the ensign mentioned above, which didn’t reflect well on her reputation. It’s definitely true that she had a strong affection for that young man; however, it’s not entirely clear if she took it to any seriously inappropriate levels, unless we assume that women never grant a man every favor except for one, without ultimately giving him that one as well.
The division of the regiment to which Captain Waters belonged had two days preceded the march of that company to which Mr Northerton was the ensign; so that the former had reached Worcester the very day after the unfortunate re-encounter between Jones and Northerton which we have before recorded.
The division of the regiment that Captain Waters was part of had marched two days before the company led by Mr. Northerton, who was the ensign; therefore, the former arrived in Worcester the day after the unfortunate clash between Jones and Northerton that we mentioned earlier.
Now, it had been agreed between Mrs Waters and the captain that she would accompany him in his march as far as Worcester, where they were to take their leave of each other, and she was thence to return to Bath, where she was to stay till the end of the winter's campaign against the rebels.
Now, it was agreed between Mrs. Waters and the captain that she would join him on his march as far as Worcester, where they would say their goodbyes, and then she would return to Bath, where she would stay until the end of the winter campaign against the rebels.
With this agreement Mr Northerton was made acquainted. To say the truth, the lady had made him an assignation at this very place, and promised to stay at Worcester till his division came thither; with what view, and for what purpose, must be left to the reader's divination; for, though we are obliged to relate facts, we are not obliged to do a violence to our nature by any comments to the disadvantage of the loveliest part of the creation.
With this agreement, Mr. Northerton was informed. To be honest, the lady had arranged a meeting for this very place and promised to wait in Worcester until his group arrived; for what reason and for what purpose, that’s left to the reader’s imagination. While we have to share the facts, we don't have to force ourselves to make negative comments about the most beautiful part of creation.
Northerton no sooner obtained a release from his captivity, as we have seen, than he hasted away to overtake Mrs Waters; which, as he was a very active nimble fellow, he did at the last-mentioned city, some few hours after Captain Waters had left her. At his first arrival he made no scruple of acquainting her with the unfortunate accident; which he made appear very unfortunate indeed, for he totally extracted every particle of what could be called fault, at least in a court of honour, though he left some circumstances which might be questionable in a court of law.
Northerton barely got his freedom from captivity, as we’ve seen, before he rushed off to catch up with Mrs. Waters. Being quite nimble and quick, he arrived in the last-mentioned city just a few hours after Captain Waters had left her. Upon his arrival, he had no hesitation in telling her about the unfortunate incident, which he framed as very unfortunate indeed. He completely cleared himself of any blame, at least in a court of honor, although he did leave out some details that might raise questions in a court of law.
Women, to their glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that violent and apparently disinterested passion of love, which seeks only the good of its object, than men. Mrs Waters, therefore, was no sooner apprized of the danger to which her lover was exposed, than she lost every consideration besides that of his safety; and this being a matter equally agreeable to the gentleman, it became the immediate subject of debate between them.
Women, it must be said, are generally more capable of that intense and seemingly selfless passion of love, which focuses solely on the well-being of its beloved, than men. So, as soon as Mrs. Waters learned about the danger her lover faced, she set aside everything else to focus on his safety. Since this was also important to the gentleman, it quickly became the main topic of discussion between them.
After much consultation on this matter, it was at length agreed that the ensign should go across the country to Hereford, whence he might find some conveyance to one of the sea-ports in Wales, and thence might make his escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs Waters declared she would bear him company; and for which she was able to furnish him with money, a very material article to Mr Northerton, she having then in her pocket three bank-notes to the amount of £90, besides some cash, and a diamond ring of pretty considerable value on her finger. All which she, with the utmost confidence, revealed to this wicked man, little suspecting she should by these means inspire him with a design of robbing her. Now, as they must, by taking horses from Worcester, have furnished any pursuers with the means of hereafter discovering their route, the ensign proposed, and the lady presently agreed, to make their first stage on foot; for which purpose the hardness of the frost was very seasonable.
After a lot of discussion about this issue, it was finally decided that the ensign should travel across the country to Hereford, where he could find a way to one of the sea ports in Wales, and from there make his escape abroad. Mrs. Waters insisted on going with him, and she was able to provide him with money, which was very important to Mr. Northerton, as she had three bank notes totaling £90 in her pocket, along with some cash and a fairly valuable diamond ring on her finger. She confidently shared all this with this unscrupulous man, not realizing she was actually giving him the idea to rob her. Since they would need to take horses from Worcester, which would give any pursuers a way to figure out their route later, the ensign suggested, and the lady quickly agreed, that they should start their journey on foot. The hard frost made this plan quite practical.
The main part of the lady's baggage was already at Bath, and she had nothing with her at present besides a very small quantity of linen, which the gallant undertook to carry in his own pockets. All things, therefore, being settled in the evening, they arose early the next morning, and at five o'clock departed from Worcester, it being then above two hours before day, but the moon, which was then at the full, gave them all the light she was capable of affording.
The lady's main luggage was already in Bath, and she had nothing with her at the moment except for a small amount of linen, which the brave man decided to carry in his own pockets. With everything arranged in the evening, they got up early the next morning and left Worcester at five o'clock, more than two hours before dawn, but the full moon provided them with all the light it could.
Mrs Waters was not of that delicate race of women who are obliged to the invention of vehicles for the capacity of removing themselves from one place to another, and with whom consequently a coach is reckoned among the necessaries of life. Her limbs were indeed full of strength and agility, and, as her mind was no less animated with spirit, she was perfectly able to keep pace with her nimble lover.
Mrs. Waters was not the kind of fragile woman who needs vehicles to get from one place to another, and for whom a coach is considered essential. Her body was strong and agile, and just as her mind was lively and spirited, she was more than capable of keeping up with her quick-witted lover.
Having travelled on for some miles in a high road, which Northerton said he was informed led to Hereford, they came at the break of day to the side of a large wood, where he suddenly stopped, and, affecting to meditate a moment with himself, expressed some apprehensions from travelling any longer in so public a way. Upon which he easily persuaded his fair companion to strike with him into a path which seemed to lead directly through the wood, and which at length brought them both to the bottom of Mazard Hill.
After traveling a few miles on a main road, which Northerton claimed he heard led to Hereford, they arrived at the edge of a large woods just as dawn broke. He suddenly stopped, acted like he was thinking for a moment, and voiced some concerns about continuing to travel on such a well-traveled path. With that, he easily convinced his lovely companion to take a path that seemed to go directly through the woods, which eventually brought them both to the base of Mazard Hill.
Whether the execrable scheme which he now attempted to execute was the effect of previous deliberation, or whether it now first came into his head, I cannot determine. But being arrived in this lonely place, where it was very improbable he should meet with any interruption, he suddenly slipped his garter from his leg, and, laying violent hands on the poor woman, endeavoured to perpetrate that dreadful and detestable fact which we have before commemorated, and which the providential appearance of Jones did so fortunately prevent.
Whether the awful plan he was trying to carry out was premeditated or just came to him at that moment, I can't say. But once he arrived in this isolated spot, where it was unlikely he would encounter any interruption, he suddenly removed his garter from his leg and, grabbing the poor woman, tried to commit that horrible and despicable act that we previously mentioned, which the timely arrival of Jones fortunately stopped.
Happy was it for Mrs Waters that she was not of the weakest order of females; for no sooner did she perceive, by his tying a knot in his garter, and by his declarations, what his hellish intentions were, than she stood stoutly to her defence, and so strongly struggled with her enemy, screaming all the while for assistance, that she delayed the execution of the villain's purpose several minutes, by which means Mr Jones came to her relief at that very instant when her strength failed and she was totally overpowered, and delivered her from the ruffian's hands, with no other loss than that of her cloaths, which were torn from her back, and of the diamond ring, which during the contention either dropped from her finger, or was wrenched from it by Northerton.
It was a good thing for Mrs. Waters that she wasn't one of the weaker women; as soon as she noticed, through his knotting his garter and his words, what his wicked intentions were, she bravely defended herself, struggling fiercely with her attacker and screaming for help the whole time. This delayed the villain's plans for several minutes, allowing Mr. Jones to arrive just when her strength was fading and she was completely overwhelmed. He rescued her from the ruffian's grasp, with only the loss of her clothes, which were ripped from her body, and the diamond ring, which either slipped off her finger or was forcibly taken by Northerton during the struggle.
Thus, reader, we have given thee the fruits of a very painful enquiry which for thy satisfaction we have made into this matter. And here we have opened to thee a scene of folly as well as villany, which we could scarce have believed a human creature capable of being guilty of, had we not remembered that this fellow was at that time firmly persuaded that he had already committed a murder, and had forfeited his life to the law. As he concluded therefore that his only safety lay in flight, he thought the possessing himself of this poor woman's money and ring would make him amends for the additional burthen he was to lay on his conscience.
So, reader, we have shared the results of a very painful inquiry that we undertook for your understanding of this matter. Here, we have revealed a scene of foolishness and wickedness, which we could hardly believe a human being could be guilty of, if we didn’t remember that this man was firmly convinced at the time that he had already committed a murder and had lost his life to the law. Since he believed his only chance for safety was to run away, he thought taking this poor woman’s money and ring would compensate for the extra weight he was adding to his conscience.
And here, reader, we must strictly caution thee that thou dost not take any occasion, from the misbehaviour of such a wretch as this, to reflect on so worthy and honourable a body of men as are the officers of our army in general. Thou wilt be pleased to consider that this fellow, as we have already informed thee, had neither the birth nor education of a gentleman, nor was a proper person to be enrolled among the number of such. If, therefore, his baseness can justly reflect on any besides himself, it must be only on those who gave him his commission.
And here, reader, we must strongly warn you not to use the misbehavior of someone like this as an excuse to judge the honorable and respected officers of our army as a whole. Please keep in mind that this person, as we've already mentioned, did not have the background or education of a gentleman, nor was he suited to be included among them. If his disgrace can be rightly attributed to anyone other than himself, it must be only those who granted him his commission.
BOOK X. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i. — Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by modern critics.
Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be; for, perhaps, thou may'st be as learned in human nature as Shakespear himself was, and, perhaps, thou may'st be no wiser than some of his editors. Now, lest this latter should be the case, we think proper, before we go any farther together, to give thee a few wholesome admonitions; that thou may'st not as grossly misunderstand and misrepresent us, as some of the said editors have misunderstood and misrepresented their author.
Reader, it's impossible for us to know what kind of person you will be; you might be as knowledgeable about human nature as Shakespeare himself, or you might be no wiser than some of his editors. To prevent the latter from happening, we think it's a good idea, before we go any further, to give you a few helpful reminders, so you don’t misunderstand or misrepresent us as some of those editors have misunderstood and misrepresented their author.
First, then, we warn thee not too hastily to condemn any of the incidents in this our history as impertinent and foreign to our main design, because thou dost not immediately conceive in what manner such incident may conduce to that design. This work may, indeed, be considered as a great creation of our own; and for a little reptile of a critic to presume to find fault with any of its parts, without knowing the manner in which the whole is connected, and before he comes to the final catastrophe, is a most presumptuous absurdity. The allusion and metaphor we have here made use of, we must acknowledge to be infinitely too great for our occasion; but there is, indeed, no other, which is at all adequate to express the difference between an author of the first rate and a critic of the lowest.
First, we urge you not to quickly judge any of the events in this history as irrelevant or unrelated to our main purpose, just because you might not immediately understand how these events connect to that purpose. This work can certainly be seen as a significant creation of our own, and for a minor critic to assume the right to criticize any of its parts without knowing how everything fits together, and before reaching the final conclusion, is a highly presumptuous absurdity. The comparison and metaphor we've used here are admittedly too grand for our situation; however, there truly isn’t any other that adequately conveys the difference between a top-tier author and a bottom-tier critic.
Another caution we would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou dost not find out too near a resemblance between certain characters here introduced; as, for instance, between the landlady who appears in the seventh book and her in the ninth. Thou art to know, friend, that there are certain characteristics in which most individuals of every profession and occupation agree. To be able to preserve these characteristics, and at the same time to diversify their operations, is one talent of a good writer. Again, to mark the nice distinction between two persons actuated by the same vice or folly is another; and, as this last talent is found in very few writers, so is the true discernment of it found in as few readers; though, I believe, the observation of this forms a very principal pleasure in those who are capable of the discovery; every person, for instance, can distinguish between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling Flutter; but to note the difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir Courtly Nice requires a more exquisite judgment: for want of which, vulgar spectators of plays very often do great injustice in the theatre; where I have sometimes known a poet in danger of being convicted as a thief, upon much worse evidence than the resemblance of hands hath been held to be in the law. In reality, I apprehend every amorous widow on the stage would run the hazard of being condemned as a servile imitation of Dido, but that happily very few of our play-house critics understand enough of Latin to read Virgil.
Another caution we would give you, my good reptile, is not to find too close a resemblance between certain characters introduced here; for example, between the landlady who appears in the seventh book and the one in the ninth. You should know, friend, that there are certain traits where most individuals in any profession or occupation tend to agree. To maintain these traits while also varying their actions is a skill of a good writer. Additionally, distinguishing the subtle differences between two people driven by the same vice or folly is another skill; and while this talent is rare among writers, the true ability to discern it is just as rare among readers. However, I believe recognizing this brings significant pleasure to those capable of making the distinction; everyone, for instance, can tell the difference between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling Flutter, but noticing the difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir Courtly Nice requires a more refined judgment. Due to the lack of this ability, average theatergoers often do great injustice in the theater; I have known of poets nearly accused of theft based on much weaker evidence than what resemblance of hands is considered in law. In reality, I think every amorous widow on stage would risk being judged as a mere imitation of Dido, if it weren't for the fact that very few of our theater critics understand enough Latin to read Virgil.
In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for, perhaps, thy heart may be better than thy head), not to condemn a character as a bad one, because it is not perfectly a good one. If thou dost delight in these models of perfection, there are books enow written to gratify thy taste; but, as we have not, in the course of our conversation, ever happened to meet with any such person, we have not chosen to introduce any such here. To say the truth, I a little question whether mere man ever arrived at this consummate degree of excellence, as well as whether there hath ever existed a monster bad enough to verify that
Next, we need to remind you, my dear friend (because your heart might be better than your judgment), not to judge a character as bad just because it isn't completely good. If you enjoy looking for perfect examples, there are plenty of books out there to satisfy your taste; however, since we haven't encountered any such person in our discussions, we haven't included any here. To be honest, I seriously wonder if any human has ever reached such a high level of excellence, as well as whether there has ever been a monster so bad that it would prove that.
——nulla virtute redemptum
A vitiis——[*]
[*] Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue
——none redeemed by a single virtue
from their vices——[*]
[*] Whose vices are not calmed by just one virtuein Juvenal; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served by inserting characters of such angelic perfection, or such diabolical depravity, in any work of invention; since, from contemplating either, the mind of man is more likely to be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame than to draw any good uses from such patterns; for in the former instance he may be both concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of excellence in his nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever arriving at; and in contemplating the latter he may be no less affected with those uneasy sensations, at seeing the nature of which he is a partaker degraded into so odious and detestable a creature.
in Juvenal; nor do I really understand the good that comes from including characters of such angelic perfection or such diabolical depravity in any creative work; because by reflecting on either, a person's mind is more likely to be filled with sorrow and shame than to gain any positive insights from those examples. In the first case, one might feel both concern and shame when seeing a standard of excellence in their nature that they could reasonably feel they could never achieve; and in contemplating the latter, they might feel just as disturbed by recognizing the aspect of themselves that is degraded into such a hateful and repulsive being.
In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the admiration and affection of a well-disposed mind, though there should appear some of those little blemishes quas humana parum cavit natura, they will raise our compassion rather than our abhorrence. Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use than the imperfections which are seen in examples of this kind; since such form a kind of surprize, more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds than the faults of very vicious and wicked persons. The foibles and vices of men, in whom there is great mixture of good, become more glaring objects from the virtues which contrast them and shew their deformity; and when we find such vices attended with their evil consequence to our favourite characters, we are not only taught to shun them for our own sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they have already brought on those we love.
If there’s enough goodness in someone's character to earn the admiration and affection of a decent person, even if there are some minor flaws quas humana parum cavit natura, those flaws will evoke our compassion rather than our disgust. In fact, nothing is more morally valuable than seeing imperfections in such examples; they create a surprise that’s more likely to impact and linger in our minds than the faults of truly wicked people. The shortcomings and vices of individuals who also have a lot of good in them stand out more due to the virtues that highlight their flaws, and when we see those vices leading to negative outcomes for our favorite characters, we learn not only to avoid them for our own sake but also to despise them for the harm they’ve already caused to those we care about.
And now, my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will, if you please, once more set forward with our history.
And now, my friend, after giving you these few pieces of advice, we will, if you’re ready, continue with our story.
Chapter ii. — Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.
Now the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous enemies, and chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal, man, had confined all the day to her lurking-place, sports wantonly o'er the lawns; now on some hollow tree the owl, shrill chorister of the night, hoots forth notes which might charm the ears of some modern connoisseurs in music; now, in the imagination of the half-drunk clown, as he staggers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard, to his home, fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and ruffians are awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it was now midnight; and the company at the inn, as well those who have been already mentioned in this history, as some others who arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only Susan Chambermaid was now stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen before she retired to the arms of the fond expecting hostler.
Now the little trembling hare, who had been scared all day by her many enemies, especially that sly, cruel, meat-eating creature, man, now plays freely across the lawns; the owl, the shrill singer of the night, hoots from some hollow tree with notes that could enchant the ears of some modern music lovers; now, in the mind of the half-drunk clown as he stumbles through the churchyard, or rather the graveyard, on his way home, fear conjures up a bloody monster; now thieves and brigands are awake while honest watchmen are fast asleep; in plain terms, it was midnight; and the guests at the inn, both those already mentioned in this story and others who arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only Susan the chambermaid was still up, needing to clean the kitchen before she went to the waiting arms of the eager hostler.
In this posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman arrived there post. He immediately alighted from his horse, and, coming up to Susan, enquired of her, in a very abrupt and confused manner, being almost out of breath with eagerness, Whether there was any lady in the house? The hour of night, and the behaviour of the man, who stared very wildly all the time, a little surprized Susan, so that she hesitated before she made any answer; upon which the gentleman, with redoubled eagerness, begged her to give him a true information, saying, He had lost his wife, and was come in pursuit of her. “Upon my shoul,” cries he, “I have been near catching her already in two or three places, if I had not found her gone just as I came up with her. If she be in the house, do carry me up in the dark and show her to me; and if she be gone away before me, do tell me which way I shall go after her to meet her, and, upon my shoul, I will make you the richest poor woman in the nation.” He then pulled out a handful of guineas, a sight which would have bribed persons of much greater consequence than this poor wench to much worse purposes.
Things were going on at the inn when a gentleman arrived by post. He quickly got off his horse and, approaching Susan, asked her in a very abrupt and flustered way, almost out of breath with excitement, if there was any lady in the house. The late hour and the man’s wild stare surprised Susan a bit, so she hesitated before replying. The gentleman, becoming even more eager, urged her to give him accurate information, saying he had lost his wife and had come looking for her. "I swear," he exclaimed, "I’ve almost caught up with her in two or three places, but she was gone just as I arrived. If she's in the house, take me upstairs in the dark and show her to me; and if she left before I got here, tell me which way to go to find her, and I swear I will make you the richest poor woman in the country." He then pulled out a handful of guineas, a sight that would have tempted people of much higher status than this poor girl for much worse reasons.
Susan, from the account she had received of Mrs Waters, made not the least doubt but that she was the very identical stray whom the right owner pursued. As she concluded, therefore, with great appearance of reason, that she never could get money in an honester way than by restoring a wife to her husband, she made no scruple of assuring the gentleman that the lady he wanted was then in the house; and was presently afterwards prevailed upon (by very liberal promises, and some earnest paid into her hands) to conduct him to the bedchamber of Mrs Waters.
Susan, from what she had heard about Mrs. Waters, had no doubt that she was the exact missing person the rightful owner was looking for. Concluding, with a strong sense of logic, that there was no more honest way to earn money than by reuniting a wife with her husband, she had no hesitation in telling the gentleman that the lady he sought was indeed in the house. Shortly after, she was persuaded (by generous promises and some cash in her hands) to lead him to Mrs. Waters' bedroom.
It hath been a custom long established in the polite world, and that upon very solid and substantial reasons, that a husband shall never enter his wife's apartment without first knocking at the door. The many excellent uses of this custom need scarce be hinted to a reader who hath any knowledge of the world; for by this means the lady hath time to adjust herself, or to remove any disagreeable object out of the way; for there are some situations in which nice and delicate women would not be discovered by their husbands.
It has long been a custom in polite society, based on very good reasons, that a husband should never enter his wife's room without first knocking on the door. The many benefits of this practice are obvious to anyone who knows how the world works; it gives the woman time to fix her appearance or clear away anything unpleasant, as there are certain situations where refined women prefer not to be seen by their husbands.
To say the truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among the polished part of mankind, which, though they may, to coarser judgments, appear as matters of mere form, are found to have much of substance in them, by the more discerning; and lucky would it have been had the custom above mentioned been observed by our gentleman in the present instance. Knock, indeed, he did at the door, but not with one of those gentle raps which is usual on such occasions. On the contrary, when he found the door locked, he flew at it with such violence, that the lock immediately gave way, the door burst open, and he fell headlong into the room.
Honestly, there are several rituals practiced by the refined part of society that might seem superficial to some, but those with better insight recognize they hold significant meaning. It would have been beneficial if our gentleman had followed the aforementioned custom this time. He did knock at the door, but not with the polite taps typical for such situations. Instead, when he discovered the door was locked, he attacked it with such force that the lock broke, the door swung open, and he tumbled into the room.
He had no sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, upon his legs likewise, appeared—with shame and sorrow are we obliged to proceed—our heroe himself, who, with a menacing voice, demanded of the gentleman who he was, and what he meant by daring to burst open his chamber in that outrageous manner.
He had barely gotten back on his feet when out of the bed, also on his feet, stepped—regrettably, with shame and sadness—our hero himself, who, in a threatening tone, asked the gentleman who he was and what gave him the right to force his way into his room in such a shocking way.
The gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, and was going to ask pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, as the moon shone very bright, he cast his eyes on stays, gowns, petticoats, caps, ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, &c., all which lay in a disordered manner on the floor. All these, operating on the natural jealousy of his temper, so enraged him, that he lost all power of speech; and, without returning any answer to Jones, he endeavoured to approach the bed.
The gentleman initially thought he had made a mistake and was about to apologize and leave when, suddenly, as the moon shone brightly, he noticed stays, gowns, petticoats, caps, ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, etc., all scattered messily on the floor. All of this stirred his natural jealousy so much that he lost his ability to speak; without replying to Jones, he tried to move closer to the bed.
Jones immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, which soon proceeded to blows on both sides. And now Mrs Waters (for we must confess she was in the same bed), being, I suppose, awakened from her sleep, and seeing two men fighting in her bedchamber, began to scream in the most violent manner, crying out murder! robbery! and more frequently rape! which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she should mention, who do not consider that these words of exclamation are used by ladies in a fright, as fa, la, la, ra, da, &c., are in music, only as the vehicles of sound, and without any fixed ideas.
Jones jumped in, leading to a heated argument that quickly turned into a fight between both sides. At that moment, Mrs. Waters (we have to admit she was in the same bed), apparently waking up from her sleep, saw two men brawling in her bedroom and started screaming wildly, shouting murder! robbery! and, even more frequently, rape! Some might wonder why she mentioned the last one, not realizing that women often use such exclamations out of fear, much like how fa, la, la, ra, da, etc., are used in music—just sound without any specific meaning.
Next to the lady's chamber was deposited the body of an Irish gentleman who arrived too late at the inn to have been mentioned before. This gentleman was one of those whom the Irish call a calabalaro, or cavalier. He was a younger brother of a good family, and, having no fortune at home, was obliged to look abroad in order to get one; for which purpose he was proceeding to the Bath, to try his luck with cards and the women.
Next to the lady's room was the body of an Irish gentleman who arrived too late at the inn to be mentioned earlier. This gentleman was one of those whom the Irish call a calabalaro, or cavalier. He was a younger brother from a good family and, having no wealth at home, had to seek his fortune elsewhere. To do this, he was on his way to Bath, hoping to try his luck with cards and women.
This young fellow lay in bed reading one of Mrs Behn's novels; for he had been instructed by a friend that he would find no more effectual method of recommending himself to the ladies than the improving his understanding, and filling his mind with good literature. He no sooner, therefore, heard the violent uproar in the next room, than he leapt from his bolster, and, taking his sword in one hand, and the candle which burnt by him in the other, he went directly to Mrs Waters's chamber.
This young man was in bed reading one of Mrs. Behn's novels because a friend had told him that the best way to impress women was to improve his mind by engaging with good literature. As soon as he heard the loud commotion in the next room, he jumped out of bed, grabbed his sword in one hand and the candle next to him in the other, and headed straight to Mrs. Waters's room.
If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock to the decency of the lady, it made her presently amends by considerably abating her fears; for no sooner had the calabalaro entered the room than he cried out, “Mr Fitzpatrick, what the devil is the maning of this?” Upon which the other immediately answered, “O, Mr Maclachlan! I am rejoiced you are here.—This villain hath debauched my wife, and is got into bed with her.”—“What wife?” cries Maclachlan; “do not I know Mrs Fitzpatrick very well, and don't I see that the lady, whom the gentleman who stands here in his shirt is lying in bed with, is none of her?”
If seeing another man in his shirt initially shocked the lady, it quickly eased her worries; as soon as the calabalaro walked into the room, he shouted, “Mr. Fitzpatrick, what the hell is going on?” To which Fitzpatrick immediately replied, “Oh, Mr. Maclachlan! I’m glad you’re here. This scoundrel has seduced my wife and is in bed with her.” “What wife?” shouted Maclachlan. “I know Mrs. Fitzpatrick very well, and I can see that the lady this man in his shirt is lying in bed with isn’t her!”
Fitzpatrick, now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had of the lady, as by her voice, which might have been distinguished at a greater distance than he now stood from her, that he had made a very unfortunate mistake, began to ask many pardons of the lady; and then, turning to Jones, he said, “I would have you take notice I do not ask your pardon, for you have bate me; for which I am resolved to have your blood in the morning.”
Fitzpatrick, now realizing—both from the brief glimpse he had of the lady and from her voice, which could have been heard from further away than where he stood—that he had made a serious mistake, started to apologize profusely to her. Then, turning to Jones, he said, “I want you to know that I’m not apologizing to you, since you’ve beaten me; for that, I’m determined to take your blood in the morning.”
Jones treated this menace with much contempt; and Mr Maclachlan answered, “Indeed, Mr Fitzpatrick, you may be ashamed of your own self, to disturb people at this time of night; if all the people in the inn were not asleep, you would have awakened them as you have me. The gentleman has served you very rightly. Upon my conscience, though I have no wife, if you had treated her so, I would have cut your throat.”
Jones looked at this threat with a lot of disdain, and Mr. Maclachlan replied, “Honestly, Mr. Fitzpatrick, you should be embarrassed for yourself, disturbing people at this hour. If everyone else at the inn wasn’t asleep, you would have woken them up just like you did to me. The gentleman has done you a great service. I swear, even though I don’t have a wife, if you had treated her that way, I would have killed you.”
Jones was so confounded with his fears for his lady's reputation, that he knew neither what to say or do; but the invention of women is, as hath been observed, much readier than that of men. She recollected that there was a communication between her chamber and that of Mr Jones; relying, therefore, on his honour and her own assurance, she answered, “I know not what you mean, villains! I am wife to none of you. Help! Rape! Murder! Rape!”—And now, the landlady coming into the room, Mrs Waters fell upon her with the utmost virulence, saying, “She thought herself in a sober inn, and not in a bawdy-house; but that a set of villains had broke into her room, with an intent upon her honour, if not upon her life; and both, she said, were equally dear to her.”
Jones was so overwhelmed with concern for his lady’s reputation that he didn’t know what to say or do. However, women are often quicker to think on their feet than men. She remembered there was a way to communicate between her room and Mr. Jones’s; relying on his honor and her own confidence, she shouted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you scoundrels! I’m not married to any of you. Help! Rape! Murder! Rape!” Just then, the landlady walked into the room, and Mrs. Waters attacked her fiercely, saying she thought she was in a respectable inn, not a brothel. She claimed that a group of scoundrels had invaded her room with intentions against her honor, if not her life, and that both were equally precious to her.
The landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman in bed had done before. She cried, “She was undone, and that the reputation of her house, which was never blown upon before, was utterly destroyed.” Then, turning to the men, she cried, “What, in the devil's name, is the reason of all this disturbance in the lady's room?” Fitzpatrick, hanging down his head, repeated, “That he had committed a mistake, for which he heartily asked pardon,” and then retired with his countryman. Jones, who was too ingenious to have missed the hint given him by his fair one, boldly asserted, “That he had run to her assistance upon hearing the door broke open, with what design he could not conceive, unless of robbing the lady; which, if they intended, he said, he had the good fortune to prevent.” “I never had a robbery committed in my house since I have kept it,” cries the landlady; “I would have you to know, sir, I harbour no highwaymen here; I scorn the word, thof I say it. None but honest, good gentlefolks, are welcome to my house; and, I thank good luck, I have always had enow of such customers; indeed as many as I could entertain. Here hath been my lord—,” and then she repeated over a catalogue of names and titles, many of which we might, perhaps, be guilty of a breach of privilege by inserting.
The landlady started to shout just as loudly as the poor woman in bed had before. She yelled, "She was ruined, and the reputation of my establishment, which had never been tarnished before, is completely destroyed." Then, turning to the men, she shouted, "What on earth is causing this commotion in the lady's room?" Fitzpatrick, looking down, repeated, "I made a mistake, for which I sincerely apologize," and then left with his fellow countryman. Jones, who was too clever to miss the hint from his lady, confidently claimed, "I rushed to her aid when I heard the door break open, though I couldn't imagine what they were trying to do, except robbing the lady; which, if that was their intention, I was lucky enough to stop." "I've never had a robbery in my house since I started running it," the landlady exclaimed. "I want you to know, sir, I don't harbor any highwaymen here; I hate the word, even as I say it. Only honest, good people are welcome here; and thank goodness, I've always had plenty of such guests—indeed, as many as I could accommodate. My lord has been here—" and then she proceeded to list a number of names and titles, many of which we might not be able to mention due to privacy concerns.
Jones, after much patience, at length interrupted her, by making an apology to Mrs Waters, for having appeared before her in his shirt, assuring her “That nothing but a concern for her safety could have prevailed on him to do it.” The reader may inform himself of her answer, and, indeed, of her whole behaviour to the end of the scene, by considering the situation which she affected, it being that of a modest lady, who was awakened out of her sleep by three strange men in her chamber. This was the part which she undertook to perform; and, indeed, she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses could exceed her, in any of their performances, either on or off the stage.
Jones, after a lot of patience, finally interrupted her by apologizing to Mrs. Waters for showing up in his shirt, assuring her, “The only reason I did this was my concern for your safety.” The reader can understand her response and her overall behavior for the rest of the scene by considering the role she was playing, that of a modest lady who had been woken up by three strange men in her room. This was the part she chose to play, and she did it so convincingly that no one in our contemporary theater could outperform her in any of their acts, whether on stage or off.
And hence, I think, we may very fairly draw an argument, to prove how extremely natural virtue is to the fair sex; for, though there is not, perhaps, one in ten thousand who is capable of making a good actress, and even among these we rarely see two who are equally able to personate the same character, yet this of virtue they can all admirably well put on; and as well those individuals who have it not, as those who possess it, can all act it to the utmost degree of perfection.
And so, I think we can fairly argue how completely natural virtue is for women. Although there might not be one in ten thousand who can be a good actress, and even among those few, we hardly ever see two who can equally play the same role, every woman can convincingly portray virtue. Those who don’t have it, as well as those who do, can all perform it to perfection.
When the men were all departed, Mrs Waters, recovering from her fear, recovered likewise from her anger, and spoke in much gentler accents to the landlady, who did not so readily quit her concern for the reputation of the house, in favour of which she began again to number the many great persons who had slept under her roof; but the lady stopt her short, and having absolutely acquitted her of having had any share in the past disturbance, begged to be left to her repose, which, she said, she hoped to enjoy unmolested during the remainder of the night. Upon which the landlady, after much civility and many courtsies, took her leave.
When the men had all left, Mrs. Waters, getting over her fear, also calmed her anger and spoke more gently to the landlady. The landlady, however, was still worried about the reputation of the house and started to list the many important people who had stayed there. But Mrs. Waters cut her off and, after firmly stating that the landlady wasn’t responsible for the earlier disturbance, asked to be left alone to rest, which she hoped to do peacefully for the rest of the night. After much politeness and several curtsies, the landlady took her leave.
Chapter iii. — A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chamber-maid, proper to be read by all inn-keepers and their servants; with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which may teach
persons of condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world.
people of status on how they can gain the love of everyone.
The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of bed when the door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to enquire into the first occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the strange gentleman was, and when and how he arrived.
The landlady, recalling that Susan was the only one out of bed when the door was flung open, went to her to ask about the initial cause of the commotion, as well as who the strange man was, and when and how he had gotten there.
Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already, varying the truth only in some circumstances, as she saw convenient, and totally concealing the money which she had received. But whereas her mistress had, in the preface to her enquiry, spoken much in compassion for the fright which the lady had been in concerning any intended depredations on her virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring to quiet the concern which her mistress seemed to be under on that account, by swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed.
Susan told the entire story that the reader already knows, only altering the truth in a few situations as it suited her, and completely hiding the money she had received. However, while her mistress had, in the introduction to her inquiry, expressed a lot of sympathy for the fear the lady had felt about any threats to her virtue, Susan couldn’t help but try to ease her mistress's worry on that front by sincerely claiming she saw Jones jump out of her bed.
The landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. “A likely story, truly,” cried she, “that a woman should cry out, and endeavour to expose herself, if that was the case! I desire to know what better proof any lady can give of her virtue than her crying out, which, I believe, twenty people can witness for her she did? I beg, madam, you would spread no such scandal of any of my guests; for it will not only reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no vagabonds, nor wicked beggarly people, come here.”
The landlady flew into a furious rage at these words. “What a ridiculous story!” she shouted. “What woman would scream and try to expose herself if that were true? I want to know what better proof a lady can offer of her virtue than her cries, which, I believe, twenty people can testify she made! I ask you, ma’am, not to spread such slander about any of my guests; it not only tarnishes their reputation but also the reputation of this house. I assure you, no drifters or lowly beggars come here.”
“Well,” says Susan, “then I must not believe my own eyes.” “No, indeed, must you not always,” answered her mistress; “I would not have believed my own eyes against such good gentlefolks. I have not had a better supper ordered this half-year than they ordered last night; and so easy and good-humoured were they, that they found no fault with my Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for champagne; and to be sure it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best champagne in the kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it 'em; and they drank me two bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such sober good sort of people.”
“Well,” says Susan, “I must not trust my own eyes.” “No, you definitely shouldn’t,” her mistress replied; “I wouldn’t have trusted my own eyes against such respectable folks. I haven't had a better dinner ordered in the last six months than what they ordered last night; and they were so easygoing and friendly that they didn't even complain about my Worcestershire perry, which I sold them as champagne; and I swear it tastes just as good and is as healthy as the best champagne in the country, or else I wouldn’t have served it to them; and they drank two bottles of it. No, no, I will never believe anything bad about such decent, respectable people.”
Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other matters. “And so you tell me,” continued she, “that the strange gentleman came post, and there is a footman without with the horses; why, then, he is certainly some of your great gentlefolks too. Why did not you ask him whether he'd have any supper? I think he is in the other gentleman's room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps he'll order something when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it. Now don't commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the fire's out, and the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton, don't blab out that we have none. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to bed, and he never refuses to cut it up warm when I desire it. Go, remember there's all sorts of mutton and fowls; go, open the door with, Gentlemen, d'ye call? and if they say nothing, ask what his honour will be pleased to have for supper? Don't forget his honour. Go; if you don't mind all these matters better, you'll never come to anything.”
Susan, feeling silenced, her mistress moved on to other topics. “So, you’re telling me,” she continued, “that the strange gentleman arrived by post, and there’s a footman outside with the horses; well, he must be one of your wealthy people too. Why didn’t you ask him if he wanted any supper? I think he’s in the other gentleman’s room; go up and see if he called. He might order something when he sees someone moving around in the house to prepare it. Now, don’t make any of your usual mistakes by telling him the fire’s out and the chickens are alive. And if he orders mutton, don’t blurt out that we don’t have any. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to bed, and he always cuts it up fresh when I ask. Go on, remember there’s all kinds of mutton and fowls; open the door and say, ‘Gentlemen, do you call?’ and if they say nothing, ask what his honor would like for supper? Don’t forget to call him ‘his honor.’ Go on; if you don’t keep track of all this better, you’ll never get anywhere.”
Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the two gentlemen were got both into the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” says the landlady, “in the same bed! that's impossible; they are two arrant scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe young Squire Allworthy guessed right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had broke open the lady's door with any of the wicked designs of a gentleman, he would never have sneaked away to another room to save the expense of a supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly thieves, and their searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence.”
Susan left and soon came back with the news that both gentlemen were in the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” said the landlady, “in the same bed! That’s impossible; they’re both complete losers, I bet. I believe young Squire Allworthy was right to suspect that the guy intended to rob her ladyship; because if he had broken into the lady's room with any of those sneaky intentions, he wouldn't have tried to sneak away to another room just to save on a meal and a bed for himself. They’re definitely thieves, and their search for a wife is just a cover.”
In these censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great injustice; for he was really born a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and though, perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his heart as well as in his head, yet being a sneaking or a niggardly fellow was not one of them. In reality, he was so generous a man, that, whereas he had received a very handsome fortune with his wife, he had now spent every penny of it, except some little pittance which was settled upon her; and, in order to possess himself of this, he had used her with such cruelty, that, together with his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it had forced the poor woman to run away from him.
In these criticisms, my landlady was really unfair to Mr. Fitzpatrick; he was genuinely born a gentleman, even if he wasn't worth a penny. Although he might have had a few flaws in his character and intellect, being sneaky or stingy was not among them. In fact, he was such a generous man that, after receiving a substantial fortune from his wife, he had spent every last bit of it, except for a small amount that was set aside for her. To get his hands on that, he treated her so cruelly, coupled with his intense jealousy, that it ultimately drove the poor woman to leave him.
This gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from Chester in one day, with which, and some good dry blows he had received in the scuffle, his bones were so sore, that, added to the soreness of his mind, it had quite deprived him of any appetite for eating. And being now so violently disappointed in the woman whom, at the maid's instance, he had mistaken for his wife, it never once entered into his head that she might nevertheless be in the house, though he had erred in the first person he had attacked. He therefore yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from searching any farther after her that night, and accepted the kind offer of part of his bed.
This guy was really worn out from his long journey from Chester in just one day, and on top of that, he had taken some hard hits in the fight. His body was so sore that, along with the upset in his mind, he completely lost his appetite. And now, feeling really let down by the woman he had mistakenly thought was his wife because of the maid's suggestion, it never occurred to him that she might still be in the house, even though he had messed up with the first person he had confronted. So, he gave in to his friend's advice to stop searching for her that night and accepted the generous offer to share part of his bed.
The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They were more ready to order than the landlady was to provide; however, after being pretty well satisfied by them of the real truth of the case, and that Mr Fitzpatrick was no thief, she was at length prevailed on to set some cold meat before them, which they were devouring with great greediness, when Partridge came into the kitchen. He had been first awaked by the hurry which we have before seen; and while he was endeavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a screech-owl had given him such a serenade at his window, that he leapt in a most horrible affright from his bed, and, huddling on his cloaths with great expedition, ran down to the protection of the company, whom he heard talking below in the kitchen.
The footman and post-boy had a different attitude. They were more eager to give orders than the landlady was to help them out; however, after they convinced her that Mr. Fitzpatrick was not a thief, she finally agreed to bring them some cold meat. They were eagerly devouring it when Partridge entered the kitchen. He had been woken up first by the commotion we mentioned earlier, and while trying to settle back down on his pillow, a screech owl had serenaded him at his window, causing him to jump out of bed in a panic. He quickly threw on his clothes and hurried down for the safety of the company he heard talking below in the kitchen.
His arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she was just about to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but the friend of young Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected, especially as he called for a pint of wine to be mulled. She immediately obeyed, by putting the same quantity of perry to the fire; for this readily answered to the name of every kind of wine.
His arrival kept my landlady from going back to bed; she was just about to leave the other two guests with Susan when the friend of young Squire Allworthy arrived, and he couldn’t be ignored, especially since he asked for a pint of mulled wine. She quickly got to it, putting the same amount of perry on the fire, as it easily passed for any kind of wine.
The Irish footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going to follow; but Partridge invited him to stay and partake of his wine, which the lad very thankfully accepted. The schoolmaster was indeed afraid to return to bed by himself; and as he did not know how soon he might lose the company of my landlady, he was resolved to secure that of the boy, in whose presence he apprehended no danger from the devil or any of his adherents.
The Irish footman had gone to bed, and the post-boy was about to follow; however, Partridge invited him to stay and share his wine, which the boy gratefully accepted. The schoolmaster was genuinely worried about going back to bed alone; since he wasn't sure when he might lose the company of my landlady, he was determined to keep the boy around, feeling safe from the devil or any of his followers while the boy was there.
And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan, being ordered out, returned, introducing two young women in riding habits, one of which was so very richly laced, that Partridge and the post-boy instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell to her courtsies, and her ladyships, with great eagerness.
And now another post-boy arrived at the gate; at which point Susan, being told to come out, returned with two young women in riding outfits. One of them was so heavily embellished with lace that Partridge and the post-boy jumped up from their chairs, and my landlady began to curtsy and greet the ladies with great enthusiasm.
The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great condescension, “If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm myself a few minutes at your kitchen fire, for it is really very cold; but I must insist on disturbing no one from his seat.” This was spoken on account of Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of the room, struck with the utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of the lady's dress. Indeed, she had a much better title to respect than this; for she was one of the most beautiful creatures in the world.
The lady in the fancy outfit said with a well-practiced smile, “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to warm myself for a few minutes by your kitchen fire because it’s really quite cold; but I insist on not disturbing anyone from their seat.” She said this because of Partridge, who had moved to the other end of the room, completely awestruck and amazed by the lady's elegant dress. In fact, she deserved more than just respect for she was one of the most beautiful women in the world.
The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but could not prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to the fire two hands, which had every property of snow in them, except that of melting. Her companion, who was indeed her maid, likewise pulled off her gloves, and discovered what bore an exact resemblance, in cold and colour, to a piece of frozen beef.
The lady sincerely wanted Partridge to go back to his seat, but couldn’t convince him. She then took off her gloves and showed her two hands, which had every quality of snow except for the melting part. Her companion, who was actually her maid, also took off her gloves and revealed hands that looked exactly like a piece of frozen beef in terms of coldness and color.
“I wish, madam,” quoth the latter, “your ladyship would not think of going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid your ladyship will not be able to bear the fatigue.”
“I wish, ma'am,” said the latter, “you wouldn't think about going any farther tonight. I'm really worried you won't be able to handle the exhaustion.”
“Why sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship's honour can never intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech your ladyship not to think on't——But, to be sure, your ladyship can't. What will your honour be pleased to have for supper? I have mutton of all kinds, and some nice chicken.”
“Of course,” the landlady exclaims, “her ladyship would never mean to do that. Oh my! Going further tonight, really! Please, your ladyship, don’t think about it——But, of course, you can’t. What would you like for supper? I have all kinds of mutton and some nice chicken.”
“I think, madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather breakfast than supper; but I can't eat anything; and, if I stay, shall only lie down for an hour or two. However, if you please, madam, you may get me a little sack whey, made very small and thin.”
“I think, ma'am,” said the lady, “it would be more like breakfast than supper; but I can't eat anything, and if I stay, I'll just lie down for an hour or two. However, if you don't mind, ma'am, could you please get me a little bit of thin, light sack whey?”
“Yes, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have some excellent white wine.”—“You have no sack, then?” says the lady. “Yes, an't please your honour, I have; I may challenge the country for that—but let me beg your ladyship to eat something.”
“Yes, ma’am,” calls the lady of the house, “I have some excellent white wine.” “You don’t have any sack, then?” asks the lady. “Yes, if it pleases your honor, I do; I could stake my reputation on that—but please let me ask you to eat something.”
“Upon my word, I can't eat a morsel,” answered the lady; “and I shall be much obliged to you if you will please to get my apartment ready as soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on horseback again in three hours.”
“Honestly, I can't eat a thing,” the lady replied; “and I would really appreciate it if you could get my room ready as soon as you can; because I’m determined to be back on my horse in three hours.”
“Why, Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit yet in the Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full. Several people of the first quality are now in bed. Here's a great young squire, and many other great gentlefolks of quality.” Susan answered, “That the Irish gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose.”
“Why, Susan,” the landlady exclaimed, “is there a fire already going in the Wild-goose? I'm sorry, madam, but all my best rooms are booked. Several high-profile guests are currently asleep. There's a young squire and many other distinguished folks here.” Susan replied, “The Irish gentlemen have checked into the Wild-goose.”
“Was ever anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the devil would you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, when you know scarce a day passes without some calling here?——If they be gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is for her ladyship, they will get up again.”
“Has anything like this ever happened?” says the mistress; “Why on earth wouldn’t you save some of the best rooms for the important guests, when you know barely a day goes by without some of them visiting? If they are gentlemen, I’m sure that when they realize it’s for her ladyship, they’ll leave.”
“Not upon my account,” says the lady; “I will have no person disturbed for me. If you have a room that is commonly decent, it will serve me very well, though it be never so plain. I beg, madam, you will not give yourself so much trouble on my account.” “O, madam!” cries the other, “I have several very good rooms for that matter, but none good enough for your honour's ladyship. However, as you are so condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a fire in the Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now, or stay till the fire is lighted?” “I think I have sufficiently warmed myself,” answered the lady; “so, if you please, I will go now; I am afraid I have kept people, and particularly that gentleman (meaning Partridge), too long in the cold already. Indeed, I cannot bear to think of keeping any person from the fire this dreadful weather.”—She then departed with her maid, the landlady marching with two lighted candles before her.
“Not because of me,” the lady says. “I don’t want anyone disturbed on my behalf. If you have a room that’s decent enough, it’ll work for me, no matter how simple it is. Please, ma’am, don’t go to so much trouble for me.” “Oh, ma’am!” exclaims the other, “I have several very nice rooms, but none worthy of your ladyship. However, since you’re so gracious to settle for the best I have, Susan, please get a fire started in the Rose right away. Would your ladyship like to go up now, or wait until the fire is lit?” “I think I’ve warmed up enough,” the lady replied. “So, if it’s alright, I’ll go now; I’m afraid I’ve kept people, especially that gentleman (meaning Partridge), out in the cold long enough. Truly, I can’t bear the thought of keeping anyone from the fire in this dreadful weather.” She then left with her maid, while the landlady walked ahead with two lit candles.
When that good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was all upon the charms of the young lady. There is indeed in perfect beauty a power which none almost can withstand; for my landlady, though she was not pleased at the negative given to the supper, declared she had never seen so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out into the most extravagant encomiums on her face, though he could not refrain from paying some compliments to the gold lace on her habit; the post-boy sung forth the praises of her goodness, which were likewise echoed by the other post-boy, who was now come in. “She's a true good lady, I warrant her,” says he; “for she hath mercy upon dumb creatures; for she asked me every now and tan upon the journey, if I did not think she should hurt the horses by riding too fast? and when she came in she charged me to give them as much corn as ever they would eat.”
When that kind woman came back, the conversation in the kitchen was all about the charms of the young lady. There really is a power in perfect beauty that almost no one can resist; because my landlady, even though she wasn’t thrilled about the negative response to supper, admitted she had never seen such a lovely person. Partridge went on and on about how beautiful her face was, even though he couldn’t help but compliment the gold lace on her outfit. The post-boy sang her praises too, which were echoed by the other post-boy who had just arrived. “She’s a genuinely good lady, I guarantee that,” he said; “because she shows kindness to animals; she kept asking me during the ride if I thought she might hurt the horses by going too fast, and when she arrived, she made sure I gave them as much feed as they wanted.”
Such charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract the praises of all kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the celebrated Mrs Hussey.[*] It is equally sure to set off every female perfection to the highest advantage, and to palliate and conceal every defect. A short reflection, which we could not forbear making in this place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of an affable deportment; and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing the reverse.
Such charm comes with being friendly, and it definitely draws praise from all sorts of people. It can really be compared to the famous Mrs. Hussey.[*] It's guaranteed to highlight every female perfection to its fullest and to soften and hide any flaws. A brief thought we can't help but share here, since my reader has already seen the beauty of a friendly demeanor; and the truth now requires us to contrast this by showing the opposite.
[*] A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off the shapes of women.
[*] A well-known dressmaker in the Strand, famous for enhancing the shapes of women.
Chapter iv. — Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal disesteem and hatred.
The lady had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the waiting-woman returned to the kitchen to regale with some of those dainties which her mistress had refused.
The lady had barely settled onto her pillow when the maid went back to the kitchen to enjoy some of the treats that her mistress had turned down.
The company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect which they had before paid to her mistress, by rising; but she forgot to imitate her, by desiring them to sit down again. Indeed, it was scarce possible they should have done so, for she placed her chair in such a posture as to occupy almost the whole fire. She then ordered a chicken to be broiled that instant, declaring, if it was not ready in a quarter of an hour, she would not stay for it. Now, though the said chicken was then at roost in the stable, and required the several ceremonies of catching, killing, and picking, before it was brought to the gridiron, my landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all within the time; but the guest, being unfortunately admitted behind the scenes, must have been witness to the fourberie; the poor woman was therefore obliged to confess that she had none in the house; “but, madam,” said she, “I can get any kind of mutton in an instant from the butcher's.”
The company, upon her arrival, showed her the same respect they had previously shown her mistress by standing up; however, she forgot to follow her example and ask them to sit down again. In fact, it was hardly possible for them to do so, as she positioned her chair in such a way that it took up almost the entire fireplace. She then instructed that a chicken be grilled immediately, stating that if it wasn't ready in fifteen minutes, she wouldn't wait for it. Although the chicken was currently roosting in the stable and needed to go through the processes of being caught, killed, and plucked before it could be cooked, my landlady would have still promised to complete it all within that time; but since the guest was unfortunately let in behind the scenes, she had to witness the fourberie; thus, the poor woman was forced to admit that there was none in the house. “But, madam,” she said, “I can get any kind of mutton from the butcher's right away.”
“Do you think, then,” answered the waiting-gentlewoman, “that I have the stomach of a horse, to eat mutton at this time of night? Sure you people that keep inns imagine your betters are like yourselves. Indeed, I expected to get nothing at this wretched place. I wonder my lady would stop at it. I suppose none but tradesmen and grasiers ever call here.” The landlady fired at this indignity offered to her house; however, she suppressed her temper, and contented herself with saying, “Very good quality frequented it, she thanked heaven!” “Don't tell me,” cries the other, “of quality! I believe I know more of people of quality than such as you.—But, prithee, without troubling me with any of your impertinence, do tell me what I can have for supper; for, though I cannot eat horse-flesh, I am really hungry.” “Why, truly, madam,” answered the landlady, “you could not take me again at such a disadvantage; for I must confess I have nothing in the house, unless a cold piece of beef, which indeed a gentleman's footman and the post-boy have almost cleared to the bone.” “Woman,” said Mrs Abigail (so for shortness we will call her), “I entreat you not to make me sick. If I had fasted a month, I could not eat what had been touched by the fingers of such fellows. Is there nothing neat or decent to be had in this horrid place?” “What think you of some eggs and bacon, madam?” said the landlady. “Are your eggs new laid? are you certain they were laid to-day? and let me have the bacon cut very nice and thin; for I can't endure anything that's gross.—Prithee try if you can do a little tolerably for once, and don't think you have a farmer's wife, or some of those creatures, in the house.”—The landlady began then to handle her knife; but the other stopt her, saying, “Good woman, I must insist upon your first washing your hands; for I am extremely nice, and have been always used from my cradle to have everything in the most elegant manner.”
“Do you really think,” replied the lady waiting, “that I have the appetite of a horse to eat mutton at this hour? You innkeepers seem to think your better customers are just like you. Honestly, I didn’t expect to get anything at this dreadful place. I’m surprised my lady would choose to stay here. I assume only tradespeople and butchers ever come here.” The landlady bristled at this insult to her establishment; however, she held her temper and simply said, “Very good quality people have frequented it, thank heavens!” “Don’t tell me about quality!” the other exclaimed. “I believe I know more about people of quality than you do. But please, without bothering me with your nonsense, just let me know what I can have for supper; because, even though I can't eat horsemeat, I am really hungry.” “Well, madam,” replied the landlady, “you couldn’t have caught me at a worse time; I must admit I have nothing in the house, except a cold piece of beef, which a gentleman’s footman and the postboy have nearly devoured.” “Listen,” said Mrs. Abigail (that’s what we’ll call her for short), “please don’t make me feel sick. Even if I hadn’t eaten for a month, I couldn’t eat something that’s been touched by those kinds of people. Is there nothing decent to eat in this awful place?” “What do you think of some eggs and bacon, madam?” the landlady asked. “Are the eggs fresh? Are you sure they were laid today? And please cut the bacon very nice and thin; I can’t stand anything that’s heavy. Try to do a decent job for once, and don’t treat me like I’m a farmer’s wife or one of those kinds of people.” The landlady then started to grab her knife, but the other stopped her, saying, “Good woman, I must insist that you wash your hands first; I’m very particular and have always been taught to have everything done in the most elegant way.”
The landlady, who governed herself with much difficulty, began now the necessary preparations; for as to Susan, she was utterly rejected, and with such disdain, that the poor wench was as hard put to it to restrain her hands from violence as her mistress had been to hold her tongue. This indeed Susan did not entirely; for, though she literally kept it within her teeth, yet there it muttered many “marry-come-ups, as good flesh and blood as yourself;” with other such indignant phrases.
The landlady, who struggled to keep her composure, started making the necessary preparations; as for Susan, she was completely dismissed, with such contempt that the poor girl found it just as hard to keep her hands from lashing out as her mistress had to keep her mouth shut. In fact, Susan didn’t fully succeed in the latter; though she literally held her tongue, it still muttered many “who do you think you are, just as good as you?” and other equally indignant remarks.
While the supper was preparing, Mrs Abigail began to lament she had not ordered a fire in the parlour; but, she said, that was now too late. “However,” said she, “I have novelty to recommend a kitchen; for I do not believe I ever eat in one before.” Then, turning to the post-boys, she asked them, “Why they were not in the stable with their horses? If I must eat my hard fare here, madam,” cries she to the landlady, “I beg the kitchen may be kept clear, that I may not be surrounded with all the blackguards in town: as for you, sir,” says she to Partridge, “you look somewhat like a gentleman, and may sit still if you please; I don't desire to disturb anybody but mob.”
While dinner was being prepared, Mrs. Abigail started to complain that she hadn't arranged for a fire in the living room; she said it was too late for that now. “But,” she said, “I have something new to suggest about the kitchen; I don’t think I’ve ever eaten in one before.” Then, turning to the post-boys, she asked them, “Why aren’t you in the stable with your horses? If I have to eat this meager meal here, madam,” she exclaimed to the landlady, “I ask that the kitchen be kept clear so I’m not surrounded by all the ruffians in town: as for you, sir,” she said to Partridge, “you seem somewhat like a gentleman, so you can stay if you want; I only wish to avoid disturbing anyone but the mob.”
“Yes, yes, madam,” cries Partridge, “I am a gentleman, I do assure you, and I am not so easily to be disturbed. Non semper vox casualis est verbo nominativus.” This Latin she took to be some affront, and answered, “You may be a gentleman, sir; but you don't show yourself as one to talk Latin to a woman.” Partridge made a gentle reply, and concluded with more Latin; upon which she tossed up her nose, and contented herself by abusing him with the name of a great scholar.
“Yes, yes, ma'am,” Partridge exclaims, “I assure you, I am a gentleman, and I'm not easily rattled. Non semper vox casualis est verbo nominativus.” She took this Latin to be some sort of insult and replied, “You might be a gentleman, sir, but you don't act like one by talking Latin to a woman.” Partridge responded politely and ended with more Latin, which made her scoff and settle for calling him a great scholar in a derogatory way.
The supper being now on the table, Mrs Abigail eat very heartily for so delicate a person; and, while a second course of the same was by her order preparing, she said, “And so, madam, you tell me your house is frequented by people of great quality?”
The dinner was now set on the table, and Mrs. Abigail ate quite enthusiastically for such a delicate person; and while a second course of the same was being prepared at her request, she said, “So, ma'am, you’re telling me your house hosts a lot of high-profile guests?”
The landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, “There were a great many very good quality and gentlefolks in it now. There's young Squire Allworthy, as that gentleman there knows.”
The landlady agreed, saying, “There are a lot of very good quality people and gentlemen here now. There's young Squire Allworthy, as that gentleman there knows.”
“And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young Squire Allworthy?” said Abigail.
“And who is this young gentleman of high status, this young Squire Allworthy?” said Abigail.
“Who should he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and heir of the great Squire Allworthy, of Somersetshire!”
“Who else could he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and heir of the great Squire Allworthy from Somersetshire!”
“Upon my word,” said she, “you tell me strange news; for I know Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire very well, and I know he hath no son alive.”
“Honestly,” she said, “you’re telling me some strange news; I know Mr. Allworthy from Somersetshire very well, and I know he has no living son.”
The landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked a little confounded. However, after a short hesitation, he answered, “Indeed, madam, it is true, everybody doth not know him to be Squire Allworthy's son; for he was never married to his mother; but his son he certainly is, and will be his heir too, as certainly as his name is Jones.” At that word, Abigail let drop the bacon which she was conveying to her mouth, and cried out, “You surprize me, sir! Is it possible Mr Jones should be now in the house?” “Quare non?” answered Partridge, “it is possible, and it is certain.”
The landlady perked up at this, and Partridge looked a bit confused. However, after a brief pause, he replied, “Yes, ma'am, it's true, not everyone knows he’s Squire Allworthy's son; he was never married to his mother. But he is definitely his son, and he will be his heir just as surely as his name is Jones.” At that, Abigail dropped the bacon she was bringing to her mouth and exclaimed, “You surprise me, sir! Could it be that Mr. Jones is in the house?” “Quare non?” Partridge replied, “It’s possible, and it’s certain.”
Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal, and then repaired back to her mistress, when the conversation passed which may be read in the next chapter.
Abigail quickly finished the rest of her meal and then went back to her mistress, where the conversation took place that you can read about in the next chapter.
Chapter v. — Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid, were.
As in the month of June, the damask rose, which chance hath planted among the lilies, with their candid hue mixes his vermilion; or as some playsome heifer in the pleasant month of May diffuses her odoriferous breath over the flowery meadows; or as, in the blooming month of April, the gentle, constant dove, perched on some fair bough, sits meditating on her mate; so, looking a hundred charms and breathing as many sweets, her thoughts being fixed on her Tommy, with a heart as good and innocent as her face was beautiful, Sophia (for it was she herself) lay reclining her lovely head on her hand, when her maid entered the room, and, running directly to the bed, cried, “Madam—madam—who doth your ladyship think is in the house?” Sophia, starting up, cried, “I hope my father hath not overtaken us.” “No, madam, it is one worth a hundred fathers; Mr Jones himself is here at this very instant.” “Mr Jones!” says Sophia, “it is impossible! I cannot be so fortunate.” Her maid averred the fact, and was presently detached by her mistress to order him to be called; for she said she was resolved to see him immediately.
Just like in June, when the damask rose is unexpectedly found among the lilies, blending its bright red with their pure white; or like a playful heifer in the lovely month of May spreading her sweet scent across the blooming meadows; or as in the vibrant month of April, the gentle, faithful dove sits on a nice branch, thinking about her mate; so, with a hundred charms and as many sweet breaths, her thoughts fixed on her Tommy, with a heart as kind and innocent as her face was beautiful, Sophia—who was indeed herself—was lying with her lovely head resting on her hand. Just then, her maid entered the room and ran straight to the bed, exclaiming, “Madam—madam—guess who’s in the house?” Startled, Sophia replied, “I hope my father hasn’t found us.” “No, madam, it’s someone worth a hundred fathers; Mr. Jones is here right this moment.” “Mr. Jones!” said Sophia, “that’s impossible! I can’t be that lucky.” Her maid confirmed it, and her mistress quickly sent her to fetch him, insisting she wanted to see him immediately.
Mrs Honour had no sooner left the kitchen in the manner we have before seen than the landlady fell severely upon her. The poor woman had indeed been loading her heart with foul language for some time, and now it scoured out of her mouth, as filth doth from a mud-cart, when the board which confines it is removed. Partridge likewise shovelled in his share of calumny, and (what may surprize the reader) not only bespattered the maid, but attempted to sully the lily-white character of Sophia herself. “Never a barrel the better herring,” cries he, “Noscitur a socio, is a true saying. It must be confessed, indeed, that the lady in the fine garments is the civiller of the two; but I warrant neither of them are a bit better than they should be. A couple of Bath trulls, I'll answer for them; your quality don't ride about at this time o' night without servants.” “Sbodlikins, and that's true,” cries the landlady, “you have certainly hit upon the very matter; for quality don't come into a house without bespeaking a supper, whether they eat or no.”
Mrs. Honour had hardly left the kitchen in the way we've seen before when the landlady started berating her. The poor woman had been holding in her harsh words for a while, and now they came pouring out of her mouth like dirt from a mud cart when the lid is taken off. Partridge also joined in, tossing around his share of insults, and surprisingly, he not only attacked the maid but also tried to tarnish Sophia’s pristine reputation. “It’s true what they say, ‘You can tell someone by the company they keep,’” he exclaimed. “I have to admit that the lady in the fancy clothes is a little more refined than the other one, but I can assure you neither of them is as good as they seem. They're just a couple of Bath women, that’s for sure; your high-class folks don’t go out this time of night without servants.” “Well, that’s true,” the landlady responded, “you’ve definitely pointed out the issue; because high-status people don’t come into a house without ordering dinner, whether they actually eat it or not.”
While they were thus discoursing, Mrs Honour returned and discharged her commission, by bidding the landlady immediately wake Mr Jones, and tell him a lady wanted to speak with him. The landlady referred her to Partridge, saying, “he was the squire's friend: but, for her part, she never called men-folks, especially gentlemen,” and then walked sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour applied herself to Partridge; but he refused, “for my friend,” cries he, “went to bed very late, and he would be very angry to be disturbed so soon.” Mrs Honour insisted still to have him called, saying, “she was sure, instead of being angry, that he would be to the highest degree delighted when he knew the occasion.” “Another time, perhaps, he might,” cries Partridge; “but non omnia possumus omnes. One woman is enough at once for a reasonable man.” “What do you mean by one woman, fellow?” cries Honour. “None of your fellow,” answered Partridge. He then proceeded to inform her plainly that Jones was in bed with a wench, and made use of an expression too indelicate to be here inserted; which so enraged Mrs Honour, that she called him jackanapes, and returned in a violent hurry to her mistress, whom she acquainted with the success of her errand, and with the account she had received; which, if possible, she exaggerated, being as angry with Jones as if he had pronounced all the words that came from the mouth of Partridge. She discharged a torrent of abuse on the master, and advised her mistress to quit all thoughts of a man who had never shown himself deserving of her. She then ripped up the story of Molly Seagrim, and gave the most malicious turn to his formerly quitting Sophia herself; which, I must confess, the present incident not a little countenanced.
While they were talking, Mrs. Honour came back and completed her task by telling the landlady to wake Mr. Jones because a lady wanted to speak with him. The landlady pointed her to Partridge, saying, “He’s the squire's friend: but as for me, I never call on men, especially gentlemen,” and then sulkily left the kitchen. Honour turned to Partridge, but he refused, saying, “My friend went to bed very late, and he would be really angry to be disturbed this early.” Mrs. Honour insisted that he be called, saying, “I’m sure he will be thrilled when he knows why.” “Maybe another time,” Partridge replied, “but non omnia possumus omnes. One woman is enough at a time for a reasonable man.” “What do you mean by one woman, you fool?” Honour retorted. “I’m not your fool,” Partridge shot back. He then bluntly informed her that Jones was in bed with a girl, using language that was too crude to repeat here; this enraged Mrs. Honour so much that she called him a jackanapes and rushed back to her mistress to tell her what had happened and the details she had received, exaggerating as much as possible, being just as angry with Jones as if he had said all the nasty things that Partridge had. She unleashed a stream of insults directed at him and advised her mistress to forget about a man who had never deserved her. She then brought up the story of Molly Seagrim and gave the worst possible interpretation of how he had previously abandoned Sophia herself, which, I must admit, the current incident only supported.
The spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by concern to enable her to stop the torrent of her maid. At last, however, she interrupted her, saying, “I never can believe this; some villain hath belied him. You say you had it from his friend; but surely it is not the office of a friend to betray such secrets.” “I suppose,” cries Honour, “the fellow is his pimp; for I never saw so ill-looked a villain. Besides, such profligate rakes as Mr Jones are never ashamed of these matters.”
The spirits of Sophia were too overwhelmed with worry to stop her maid's onslaught of words. Finally, though, she interrupted her, saying, “I can’t believe this; some scoundrel has slandered him. You claim you heard it from his friend, but it’s not a friend’s place to betray such secrets.” “I guess,” Honora exclaimed, “the guy is his pimp; I've never seen such an ugly villain. Plus, guys like Mr. Jones, who are such reckless rakes, never feel shame about these things.”
To say the truth, this behaviour of Partridge was a little inexcusable; but he had not slept off the effect of the dose which he swallowed the evening before; which had, in the morning, received the addition of above a pint of wine, or indeed rather of malt spirits; for the perry was by no means pure. Now, that part of his head which Nature designed for the reservoir of drink being very shallow, a small quantity of liquor overflowed it, and opened the sluices of his heart; so that all the secrets there deposited run out. These sluices were indeed, naturally, very ill-secured. To give the best-natured turn we can to his disposition, he was a very honest man; for, as he was the most inquisitive of mortals, and eternally prying into the secrets of others, so he very faithfully paid them by communicating, in return, everything within his knowledge.
Honestly, Partridge's behavior was somewhat inexcusable; he hadn’t completely shaken off the effects of the drink he had the night before, which in the morning was topped off with more than a pint of wine, or rather malt spirits, since the perry was certainly not pure. Now, the part of his brain meant for holding liquor was quite shallow, so even a small amount overflowed and opened the floodgates of his heart, causing all the secrets he held to spill out. Those floodgates were naturally not very well secured. To put the best spin on it, he was a genuinely honest man; since he was the most curious person around, always digging into others' secrets, he also made sure to repay the favor by sharing everything he knew.
While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor what resolution to take, Susan arrived with the sack-whey. Mrs Honour immediately advised her mistress, in a whisper, to pump this wench, who probably could inform her of the truth. Sophia approved it, and began as follows: “Come hither, child; now answer me truly what I am going to ask you, and I promise you I will very well reward you. Is there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young gentleman, that——.” Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. “A young gentleman,” cries Honour, “that came hither in company with that saucy rascal who is now in the kitchen?” Susan answered, “There was.”—“Do you know anything of any lady?” continues Sophia, “any lady? I don't ask you whether she is handsome or no; perhaps she is not; that's nothing to the purpose; but do you know of any lady?” “La, madam,” cries Honour, “you will make a very bad examiner. Hark'ee, child,” says she, “is not that very young gentleman now in bed with some nasty trull or other?” Here Susan smiled, and was silent. “Answer the question, child,” says Sophia, “and here's a guinea for you.”—“A guinea! madam,” cries Susan; “la, what's a guinea? If my mistress should know it I shall certainly lose my place that very instant.” “Here's another for you,” says Sophia, “and I promise you faithfully your mistress shall never know it.” Susan, after a very short hesitation, took the money, and told the whole story, concluding with saying, “If you have any great curiosity, madam, I can steal softly into his room, and see whether he be in his own bed or no.” She accordingly did this by Sophia's desire, and returned with an answer in the negative.
While Sophia, overwhelmed with anxiety, didn’t know what to believe or what decision to make, Susan showed up with the sack-whey. Mrs. Honour immediately suggested to her mistress, in a whisper, to question this girl, who might know the truth. Sophia agreed and began, “Come here, child; now answer me honestly what I’m about to ask you, and I promise I’ll reward you well. Is there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young gentleman, that—.” Here, Sophia blushed and became flustered. “A young gentleman?” exclaimed Honour, “who came here with that cheeky rascal who’s now in the kitchen?” Susan replied, “There was.” “Do you know anything about any lady?” Sophia continued, “any lady? I’m not asking if she’s pretty or not; that’s not the point; but do you know of any lady?” “Oh dear, madam,” Honour replied, “you’re going to be a very bad interrogator. Listen, child,” she said, “isn’t that very young gentleman right now in bed with some awful woman?” At this, Susan smiled and fell silent. “Answer the question, child,” said Sophia, “and here’s a guinea for you.” “A guinea! madam,” exclaimed Susan; “oh, what’s a guinea? If my mistress finds out, I’ll definitely lose my job immediately.” “Here’s another for you,” said Sophia, “and I promise you, your mistress will never know.” After a brief hesitation, Susan took the money and told the whole story, ending with, “If you’re really curious, madam, I can sneak into his room and see if he’s in his own bed or not.” Following Sophia’s request, she went and returned with a negative answer.
Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs Honour begged her to be comforted, and not to think any more of so worthless a fellow. “Why there,” says Susan, “I hope, madam, your ladyship won't be offended; but pray, madam, is not your ladyship's name Madam Sophia Western?” “How is it possible you should know me?” answered Sophia. “Why that man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who is in the kitchen, told about you last night. But I hope your ladyship is not angry with me.” “Indeed, child,” said she, “I am not; pray tell me all, and I promise you I'll reward you.” “Why, madam,” continued Susan, “that man told us all in the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western—indeed I don't know how to bring it out.”—Here she stopt, till, having received encouragement from Sophia, and being vehemently pressed by Mrs Honour, she proceeded thus:—“He told us, madam, though to be sure it is all a lie, that your ladyship was dying for love of the young squire, and that he was going to the wars to get rid of you. I thought to myself then he was a false-hearted wretch; but, now, to see such a fine, rich, beautiful lady as you be, forsaken for such an ordinary woman; for to be sure so she is, and another man's wife into the bargain. It is such a strange unnatural thing, in a manner.”
Sophia now shook and turned pale. Mrs. Honour urged her to stay calm and not dwell on such a worthless guy. “Well,” Susan said, “I hope, ma’am, you won’t be upset, but is your name Madam Sophia Western?” “How do you know me?” Sophia replied. “That man, the one the woman mentioned, talked about you last night in the kitchen. But I hope you’re not mad at me.” “Honestly, dear,” she said, “I’m not; please tell me everything, and I promise I’ll reward you.” “Well, ma’am,” Susan continued, “that man said in the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western—well, I don’t know how to say it.” She hesitated until, encouraged by Sophia and pushed on by Mrs. Honour, she went on: “He told us, ma’am, though I’m sure it’s all a lie, that you were dying for love of the young squire, and that he was going off to war to get away from you. I thought at the time he was a deceitful scoundrel; but now, to see such a fine, wealthy, beautiful lady like you being turned away for such an ordinary woman—that’s what she is, and also another man’s wife—is really quite strange and unnatural.”
Sophia gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would certainly be her friend if she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor informed any one who she was, dismissed the girl, with orders to the post-boy to get the horses ready immediately.
Sophia gave her a third guinea and told her that she would definitely be her friend if she didn’t mention anything about what had happened or tell anyone who she was. Then she sent the girl away and instructed the post-boy to get the horses ready right away.
Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty waiting-woman, “That she never was more easy than at present. I am now convinced,” said she, “he is not only a villain, but a low despicable wretch. I can forgive all rather than his exposing my name in so barbarous a manner. That renders him the object of my contempt. Yes, Honour, I am now easy; I am indeed; I am very easy;” and then she burst into a violent flood of tears.
Being alone now with her maid, she told her trusted waiting-woman, “I’ve never felt more at ease than I do right now. I’m convinced,” she said, “that he’s not just a villain, but a pathetic lowlife. I can forgive everything except for him tarnishing my name in such a cruel way. That makes him someone I look down on. Yes, Honor, I feel at peace now; I really do; I’m very at ease,” and then she broke down in tears.
After a short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and assuring her maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an account that the horses were ready, when a very extraordinary thought suggested itself to our young heroine, by which Mr Jones would be acquainted with her having been at the inn, in a way which, if any sparks of affection for her remained in him, would be at least some punishment for his faults.
After a brief period where Sophia mainly cried and kept telling her maid that she was completely fine, Susan showed up with news that the horses were ready. At that moment, an unusual idea came to our young heroine: if Mr. Jones found out she had been at the inn, it would serve as a way to make him aware of her presence, and if he still had any feelings for her, it would at least be some form of punishment for his mistakes.
The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had the honour of being more than once remembered already in this history. This muff, ever since the departure of Mr Jones, had been the constant companion of Sophia by day, and her bedfellow by night; and this muff she had at this very instant upon her arm; whence she took it off with great indignation, and, having writ her name with her pencil upon a piece of paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the maid to convey it into the empty bed of Mr Jones, in which, if he did not find it, she charged her to take some method of conveying it before his eyes in the morning.
The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which has been mentioned more than once in this story. This muff, ever since Mr. Jones left, had been Sophia's constant companion during the day and her bedfellow at night; she currently had it on her arm. In a fit of indignation, she took it off, wrote her name with her pencil on a piece of paper, pinned it to the muff, and bribed the maid to sneak it into Mr. Jones’s empty bed. If he didn’t find it, she instructed her to figure out a way to show it to him in the morning.
Then, having paid for what Mrs Honour had eaten, in which bill was included an account for what she herself might have eaten, she mounted her horse, and, once more assuring her companion that she was perfectly easy, continued her journey.
Then, after paying for what Mrs. Honour had eaten, which included a charge for what she herself might have eaten, she got on her horse and, again reassuring her companion that she was completely at ease, continued her journey.
Chapter vi. — Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
It was now past five in the morning, and other company began to rise and come to the kitchen, among whom were the serjeant and the coachman, who, being thoroughly reconciled, made a libation, or, in the English phrase, drank a hearty cup together.
It was now past five in the morning, and others started to wake up and come to the kitchen, including the sergeant and the coachman, who, having completely made up, shared a drink, or, in more familiar terms, had a good cup together.
In this drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour of Partridge, who, when the serjeant drank a health to King George, repeated only the word King; nor could he be brought to utter more; for though he was going to fight against his own cause, yet he could not be prevailed upon to drink against it.
In this drinking, nothing particularly noteworthy happened except for Partridge's behavior. When the sergeant toasted to King George, he only repeated the word "King." No one could get him to say more; even though he was about to fight against his own side, he couldn't be convinced to drink to it.
Mr Jones, being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he returned we must beg to be excused from relating), summoned Partridge from this agreeable company, who, after a ceremonious preface, having obtained leave to offer his advice, delivered himself as follows:—
Mr. Jones, now back in his own bed (but we won’t go into where he came from), called Partridge away from his pleasant company, who, after a formal introduction and getting permission to share his thoughts, said the following:—
“It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may sometimes learn counsel from a fool; I wish, therefore, I might be so bold as to offer you my advice, which is to return home again, and leave these horrida bella, these bloody wars, to fellows who are contented to swallow gunpowder, because they have nothing else to eat. Now, everybody knows your honour wants for nothing at home; when that's the case, why should any man travel abroad?”
“It’s an old saying, and a true one, that a wise person can sometimes learn advice from a fool. I hope it’s okay for me to offer you my advice, which is to go back home and leave these horrida bella, these bloody wars, to those who are okay with swallowing gunpowder because they have nothing else to eat. Everyone knows you have everything you need at home; if that’s the case, why should anyone travel abroad?”
“Partridge,” cries Jones, “thou art certainly a coward; I wish, therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and trouble me no more.”
“Partridge,” Jones shouts, “you’re definitely a coward; I wish you would just go home and stop bothering me.”
“I ask your honour's pardon,” cries Partridge; “I spoke on your account more than my own; for as to me, Heaven knows my circumstances are bad enough, and I am so far from being afraid, that I value a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such thing, no more than a pop-gun. Every man must die once, and what signifies the manner how? besides, perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a leg. I assure you, sir, I was never less afraid in my life; and so, if your honour is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in that case, I wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way of travelling, for a great gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here are two or three good horses in the stable, which the landlord will certainly make no scruple of trusting you with; but, if he should, I can easily contrive to take them; and, let the worst come to the worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you are going to fight in his cause.”
“I ask for your pardon,” Partridge cries. “I spoke more for you than myself; as for me, heaven knows my situation is bad enough, and I’m not afraid at all. I think of a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or anything like that as nothing more than a toy. Every man has to die once, so what does it matter how? Besides, maybe I’ll only lose an arm or a leg. I assure you, sir, I’ve never been less afraid in my life; and if you’re determined to go on, then I’m determined to follow you. But in that case, I’d like to give my opinion. It’s really a disgrace for a distinguished gentleman like you to walk. There are a couple of good horses in the stable that the landlord wouldn’t hesitate to lend you; but if he does have doubts, I can easily figure out a way to take them. And if it comes to the worst, the king would surely pardon you since you're fighting for his cause.”
Now, as the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and both dealt only in small matters, he would never have attempted a roguery of this kind, had he not imagined it altogether safe; for he was one of those who have more consideration of the gallows than of the fitness of things; but, in reality, he thought he might have committed this felony without any danger; for, besides that he doubted not but the name of Mr Allworthy would sufficiently quiet the landlord, he conceived they should be altogether safe, whatever turn affairs might take; as Jones, he imagined, would have friends enough on one side, and as his friends would as well secure him on the other.
Now, since Partridge's honesty matched his understanding, and both were focused only on minor issues, he would never have thought of pulling a stunt like this if he didn’t believe it was completely safe; he was one of those people who worried more about getting caught than about what was right. However, he truly believed he could pull off this crime without any risk because he was confident that Mr. Allworthy's name would calm the landlord down. He thought they would be completely safe, no matter how things turned out, as he believed Jones would have plenty of friends on one side, and his friends would cover him on the other.
When Mr Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal, he very severely rebuked him, and that in such bitter terms, that the other attempted to laugh it off, and presently turned the discourse to other matters; saying, he believed they were then in a bawdy house, and that he had with much ado prevented two wenches from disturbing his honour in the middle of the night. “Heyday!” says he, “I believe they got into your chamber whether I would or no; for here lies the muff of one of them on the ground.” Indeed, as Jones returned to his bed in the dark, he had never perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in leaping into his bed, he had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge now took up, and was going to put into his pocket, when Jones desired to see it. The muff was so very remarkable, that our heroe might possibly have recollected it without the information annexed. But his memory was not put to that hard office; for at the same instant he saw and read the words Sophia Western upon the paper which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a moment, and he eagerly cried out, “Oh Heavens! how came this muff here?” “I know no more than your honour,” cried Partridge; “but I saw it upon the arm of one of the women who would have disturbed you, if I would have suffered them.” “Where are they?” cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and laying hold of his cloaths. “Many miles off, I believe, by this time,” said Partridge. And now Jones, upon further enquiry, was sufficiently assured that the bearer of this muff was no other than the lovely Sophia herself.
When Mr. Jones realized that Partridge was serious about this proposal, he sharply rebuked him, using such harsh words that Partridge tried to laugh it off and quickly changed the topic, saying that they were in a brothel and that he had just barely prevented two women from interrupting his night. "Wow!" he exclaimed, "I think they got into your room whether I wanted them to or not; here's one of their muffs on the floor." In fact, as Jones returned to his bed in the dark, he hadn’t noticed the muff on the quilt and ended up knocking it to the floor when he jumped into bed. Partridge picked it up and was about to put it in his pocket when Jones asked to see it. The muff was so distinctive that Jones might have remembered it without being reminded. But he didn’t have to strain his memory because he saw and read the words "Sophia Western" on the paper pinned to it. His expression changed to one of panic in an instant as he exclaimed, “Oh heavens! How did this muff end up here?” “I don’t know any more than you do,” Partridge replied, “but I saw it on the arm of one of the women who would have bothered you if I hadn’t stopped them.” “Where are they?” Jones shouted, jumping out of bed and grabbing his clothes. “I believe they’re many miles away by now,” Partridge said. After further questioning, Jones was convinced that the owner of the muff was none other than the lovely Sophia herself.
The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks, his words, his actions, were such as beggar all description. After many bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he ordered the poor fellow, who was frightened out of his wits, to run down and hire him horses at any rate; and a very few minutes afterwards, having shuffled on his clothes, he hastened down-stairs to execute the orders himself, which he had just before given.
The way Jones acted this time—his thoughts, his expressions, his words, and his actions—was beyond words. After a lot of harsh insults directed at Partridge, and just as many at himself, he told the poor guy, who was scared out of his mind, to go down and rent him some horses no matter what. Just a few minutes later, after getting dressed in a hurry, he rushed downstairs to carry out the orders he had just given.
But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the kitchen, it will be necessary to recur to what had there happened since Partridge had first left it on his master's summons.
But before we move on to what happened when he arrived in the kitchen, we need to go back to what occurred there after Partridge first left when his master called him.
The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish gentlemen arose, and came downstairs; both complaining that they had been so often waked by the noises in the inn, that they had never once been able to close their eyes all night.
The sergeant had just marched off with his group when the two Irish gentlemen got up and came downstairs, both complaining that they had been woken up so many times by the noises in the inn that they hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night.
The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, and which, perhaps, the reader may have hitherto concluded was her own, was, indeed, a returned coach belonging to Mr King, of Bath, one of the worthiest and honestest men that ever dealt in horse-flesh, and whose coaches we heartily recommend to all our readers who travel that road. By which means they may, perhaps, have the pleasure of riding in the very coach, and being driven by the very coachman, that is recorded in this history.
The coach that had brought the young lady and her maid, which you might have thought was hers, actually belonged to Mr. King from Bath. He’s one of the most respectable and honest men in the horse-trading business, and we highly recommend his coaches to anyone traveling that way. This way, you might just have the chance to ride in the very coach and be driven by the same coachman mentioned in this story.
The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr Maclachlan was going to Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very moderate price. He was induced to this by the report of the hostler, who said that the horse which Mr Maclachlan had hired from Worcester would be much more pleased with returning to his friends there than to prosecute a long journey; for that the said horse was rather a two-legged than a four-legged animal.
The coachman, with only two passengers, offered to take Mr. Maclachlan to Bath for a reasonable price when he heard he was going there. He was encouraged by the hostler, who mentioned that the horse Mr. Maclachlan had rented from Worcester would be much happier going back to its friends there rather than making a long trip; because that horse was more like a two-legged animal than a four-legged one.
Mr Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman, and, at the same time, persuaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of the fourth place in the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his bones made more agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured of meeting with his wife at Bath, he thought a little delay would be of no consequence.
Mr. Maclachlan immediately agreed to the coachman’s offer and, at the same time, convinced his friend Fitzpatrick to take the fourth seat in the coach. This ride was more comfortable for him than riding a horse due to his sore bones, and since he was confident he would see his wife in Bath, he figured a little delay wouldn’t matter.
Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard that this lady came from Chester, with the other circumstances which he learned from the hostler, than it came into his head that she might possibly be his friend's wife; and presently acquainted him with this suspicion, which had never once occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. To say the truth, he was one of those compositions which nature makes up in too great a hurry, and forgets to put any brains into their head.
Maclachlan, who was clearly the sharper of the two, immediately thought that this lady from Chester, along with the other details he learned from the stablehand, might actually be his friend's wife. He quickly shared this suspicion with Fitzpatrick, a thought that had never crossed Fitzpatrick's mind. Honestly, he was one of those people that nature puts together too quickly, forgetting to give them any smarts.
Now it happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never hit off a fault themselves; but no sooner doth a dog of sagacity open his mouth than they immediately do the same, and, without the guidance of any scent, run directly forwards as fast as they are able. In the same manner, the very moment Mr Maclachlan had mentioned his apprehension, Mr Fitzpatrick instantly concurred, and flew directly up-stairs, to surprize his wife, before he knew where she was; and unluckily (as Fortune loves to play tricks with those gentlemen who put themselves entirely under her conduct) ran his head against several doors and posts to no purpose. Much kinder was she to me, when she suggested that simile of the hounds, just before inserted; since the poor wife may, on these occasions, be so justly compared to a hunted hare. Like that little wretched animal, she pricks up her ears to listen after the voice of her pursuer; like her, flies away trembling when she hears it; and, like her, is generally overtaken and destroyed in the end.
Now it happens to these kinds of men, just like with bad hounds, who never notice a mistake themselves; but as soon as a smart dog barks, they quickly do the same and, without any guidance, run straight ahead as fast as they can. In the same way, the moment Mr. Maclachlan mentioned his concern, Mr. Fitzpatrick immediately agreed and rushed upstairs to surprise his wife, without knowing where she was; and unfortunately (as luck often plays tricks on those who completely rely on her) he bumped into several doors and posts for no good reason. Much kinder was she to me when she suggested that analogy of the hounds, just mentioned; since the poor wife can justly be compared to a hunted hare. Like that unfortunate creature, she perks up her ears to listen for the voice of her pursuer; like her, she runs away trembling when she hears it; and, like her, she is usually caught and ultimately destroyed in the end.
This was not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless search, Mr Fitzpatrick returned to the kitchen, where, as if this had been a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when the hounds are at a fault. He was just alighted from his horse, and had many attendants at his heels.
This wasn't the case right now; after a long, unproductive search, Mr. Fitzpatrick came back to the kitchen, where, as if this had been an actual hunt, a gentleman burst in calling out like hunters do when the hounds are lost. He had just gotten off his horse and had a number of attendants following him.
Here, reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some matters, which, if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to be. And this information thou shalt receive in the next chapter.
Here, reader, it might be necessary to share some things with you, which, if you already know, you are wiser than I think you are. You'll receive this information in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — In which are concluded the adventures that happened at the inn at Upton.
In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other person than Squire Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit of his daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours earlier, he had not only found her, but his niece into the bargain; for such was the wife of Mr Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five years before, out of the custody of that sage lady, Madam Western.
First of all, the gentleman who just arrived was none other than Squire Western himself, who had come here looking for his daughter. If he had been just two hours earlier, he would not only have found her but also his niece, who was the wife of Mr. Fitzpatrick. She had run away with him five years ago, escaping from the care of that wise lady, Madam Western.
Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with Sophia; for, having been waked by the voice of her husband, she had sent up for the landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter, had bribed the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her with horses for her escape. Such prevalence had money in this family; and though the mistress would have turned away her maid for a corrupt hussy, if she had known as much as the reader, yet she was no more proof against corruption herself than poor Susan had been.
Now, this woman had left the inn around the same time as Sophia. After being woken up by her husband’s voice, she had called for the landlady, and upon learning the situation, she had bribed the kind woman, for a hefty sum, to provide her with horses for her escape. Money held a lot of power in this family; and even though the mistress would have dismissed her maid for being untrustworthy, if she had known as much as the reader does, she was just as vulnerable to corruption as poor Susan had been.
Mr Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed would the former have taken any notice of the latter if he had known him; for, this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one in the opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her committing it, abandoned the poor young creature, who was then no more than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her to be named in his presence.
Mr. Western and his nephew didn't know each other; in fact, even if he had known him, Mr. Western wouldn't have bothered to acknowledge him. Since this was a secret romance, and therefore something unnatural in the eyes of the good squire, he had completely disowned the poor young woman, who was only eighteen at the time, considering her a monster for her actions. He had never allowed her name to be mentioned in his presence since then.
The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western enquiring after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his wife, when Jones entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia's muff in his hand.
The kitchen was now a complete chaos, with Western asking about his daughter and Fitzpatrick just as anxiously asking about his wife, when Jones walked into the room, unfortunately holding Sophia's muff in his hand.
As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by sportsmen when their game is in view. He then immediately run up and laid hold of Jones, crying, “We have got the dog fox, I warrant the bitch is not far off.” The jargon which followed for some minutes, where many spoke different things at the same time, as it would be very difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to read.
As soon as Western saw Jones, he shouted the same call that sportsmen use when they spot their game. He quickly ran up and grabbed Jones, exclaiming, “We’ve got the dog fox; I bet the female isn’t far away.” The chaos that followed for a few minutes, with many people talking over each other, would be hard to describe and just as unpleasant to read.
Jones having, at length, shaken Mr Western off, and some of the company having interfered between them, our heroe protested his innocence as to knowing anything of the lady; when Parson Supple stepped up, and said, “It is folly to deny it; for why, the marks of guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by an oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam Sophia; for I have frequently observed her, of later days, to bear it about her.” “My daughter's muff!” cries the squire in a rage. “Hath he got my daughter's muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him. I'll have him before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my daughter, villain?” “Sir,” said Jones, “I beg you would be pacified. The muff, I acknowledge, is the young lady's; but, upon my honour, I have never seen her.” At these words Western lost all patience, and grew inarticulate with rage.
Jones finally managed to shake off Mr. Western, and some people intervened between them. Our hero insisted he had no idea about the lady when Parson Supple stepped forward and said, “It’s pointless to deny it; the evidence of your guilt is in your hands. I will swear an oath that the muff you’re holding belongs to Madam Sophia, as I have often seen her carrying it around recently.” “My daughter's muff!” shouted the squire in a rage. “Does he have my daughter’s muff? Someone come and witness that the evidence is right here on him. I’ll have him in front of a justice of the peace right now. Where is my daughter, you scoundrel?” “Sir,” said Jones, “please calm down. I admit the muff is the young lady's, but I swear I’ve never seen her.” At these words, Western completely lost his cool and became speechless with fury.
Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr Western was. The good Irishman, therefore, thinking he had now an opportunity to do an act of service to his uncle, and by that means might possibly obtain his favour, stept up to Jones, and cried out, “Upon my conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying your having seen the gentleman's daughter before my face, when you know I found you there upon the bed together.” Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct him immediately to the room where his daughter was; which offer being accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others, ascended directly to Mrs Waters's chamber, which they entered with no less violence than Mr Fitzpatrick had done before.
Some of the staff had informed Fitzpatrick about who Mr. Western was. The kind Irishman, thinking he finally had a chance to do a favor for his uncle and maybe win his approval, approached Jones and exclaimed, “Honestly, sir, you should be ashamed for denying you’ve seen the gentleman's daughter right in front of me, considering I found you two together on the bed.” Then, turning to Western, he offered to lead him straight to the room where his daughter was. With the offer accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and a few others proceeded directly to Mrs. Waters's room, entering with just as much force as Mr. Fitzpatrick had done earlier.
The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror, and beheld at her bedside a figure which might very well be supposed to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the looks of Mr Western; who no sooner saw the lady than he started back, shewing sufficiently by his manner, before he spoke, that this was not the person sought after.
The poor lady woke up with a mix of shock and fear, and saw a figure by her bedside that could easily be mistaken for someone who had just escaped from a mental asylum. Mr. Western's expression was so wild and chaotic that as soon as he saw the lady, he instinctively stepped back, clearly indicating through his behavior, even before he spoke, that she was not the person he was looking for.
So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than their persons, that, though the latter seemed now in more danger than before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not with such violence as she had done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone than she abandoned all thoughts of further repose; and, as she had sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with her present lodging, she dressed herself with all possible expedition.
Women care so much more about their reputation than their actual well-being that, even though she felt more at risk than before, she didn’t scream as loudly since her reputation was safe. But as soon as she was alone, she gave up on trying to relax; and, feeling unhappy with her current situation, she got dressed as quickly as she could.
Mr Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs Waters. He then returned disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the custody of his servants.
Mr. Western started searching the entire house, but it was just as pointless as the trouble he caused for poor Mrs. Waters. He then returned to the kitchen, feeling down, where he found Jones being held by his servants.
This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it was yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who had the honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county of Worcester. Of which Mr Western was no sooner informed than he offered to lay his complaint before him. The justice declined executing his office, as he said he had no clerk present, nor no book about justice business; and that he could not carry all the law in his head about stealing away daughters, and such sort of things.
This loud commotion had woken everyone in the house, even though it was barely daylight. Among them was a serious man who had the honor of being on the county commission for the peace in Worcester. As soon as Mr. Western learned this, he offered to present his complaint to him. The justice refused to perform his duties, saying he had no clerk present and no book on legal matters; and that he couldn’t remember all the laws about kidnapping daughters and things like that.
Here Mr Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing the company that he had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he had served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland, when, chusing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his master, came over to England, and set up that business which requires no apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had succeeded, as hath been already partly mentioned.)
Here, Mr. Fitzpatrick offered to help him, letting everyone know that he had been trained in law. (In fact, he had worked for three years as a clerk for a lawyer in northern Ireland, but choosing a more refined path in life, he left his job, came to England, and started a business that doesn't require any training, namely that of a gentleman, in which he had done quite well, as has already been mentioned.)
Mr Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the present case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and the goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the fact.
Mr. Fitzpatrick stated that the law regarding daughters didn't apply in this case; that stealing a muff was definitely a felony, and having the stolen item on the person provided enough evidence of the crime.
The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and upon the violent intercession of the squire, was at length prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon viewing the muff which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the parson's swearing it to be the property of Mr Western, he desired Mr Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment, which he said he would sign.
The magistrate, encouraged by such a knowledgeable assistant and the strong insistence of the squire, finally agreed to sit in the chair of justice. Once seated, he noticed the muff that Jones was still holding, and after the parson swore it belonged to Mr. Western, he asked Mr. Fitzpatrick to prepare a commitment, which he said he would sign.
Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty, granted him. He then produced the evidence of Mr Partridge, as to the finding it; but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia herself had delivered the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where Mr Jones had found it.
Jones now wanted to speak, and after some effort, he was finally allowed to do so. He then presented evidence from Mr. Partridge about finding it; but even more importantly, Susan testified that Sophia herself had given her the muff and had instructed her to take it into the room where Mr. Jones had discovered it.
Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, I will not determine; but such were the effects of her evidence, that the magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair, declared that the matter was now altogether as clear on the side of the prisoner as it had before been against him: with which the parson concurred, saying, the Lord forbid he should be instrumental in committing an innocent person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and broke up the court.
Whether it was a natural love for justice or the remarkable attractiveness of Jones that inspired Susan to make the discovery, I won’t say; but the impact of her testimony was such that the magistrate leaned back in his chair and stated that the situation was now completely clear in favor of the prisoner, just as it had previously been against him. The parson agreed, saying it would be wrong for him to play a part in sending an innocent person to jail. The justice then stood up, acquitted the prisoner, and ended the court session.
Mr Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his daughter, without taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any answer to his claim of kindred, notwithstanding all the obligations he had just received from that gentleman. In the violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his passion, he luckily forgot to demand the muff of Jones: I say luckily; for he would have died on the spot rather than have parted with it.
Mr. Western now directed a hearty curse at everyone present and quickly ordered his horses to chase after his daughter, completely ignoring his nephew Fitzpatrick and not responding to his claim of family connection, despite all the favors he had just received from that gentleman. In the heat of his hurry and anger, he fortunately forgot to ask for Jones’s muff; I say fortunately because he would have rather died than give it up.
Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he had paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring himself even to take leave of Mrs Waters; of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she had been, though not designedly, the occasion of his missing the happiest interview with Sophia, to whom he now vowed eternal constancy.
Jones, along with his friend Partridge, set out right after he settled his bill, determined to find his beautiful Sophia, a pursuit he vowed never to give up on again. He couldn’t even bring himself to say goodbye to Mrs. Waters, whose memory he despised, since she had unintentionally caused him to miss the happiest moment with Sophia, to whom he now pledged eternal loyalty.
As for Mrs Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was going to Bath; for which place she set out in company with the two Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her cloaths; in return for which she was contented only to receive about double their value, as a recompence for the loan. Upon the road she was perfectly reconciled to Mr Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow, and indeed did all she could to console him in the absence of his wife.
As for Mrs. Waters, she seized the opportunity to take the coach heading to Bath, setting off alongside the two Irish gentlemen. The landlady kindly lent her some clothes; in return, she was satisfied with receiving about double their value as compensation for the loan. On the journey, she was completely reconciled with Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome guy, and she did everything she could to comfort him while his wife was away.
Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr Jones encountered at his inn at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the beauty and lovely behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire angel.
Thus ended the many strange adventures that Mr. Jones had at his inn in Upton, where they still talk, to this day, about the beauty and delightful behavior of the charming Sophia, known as the Somersetshire angel.
Chapter viii. — In which the history goes backward.
Before we proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to look a little back, in order to account for the extraordinary appearance of Sophia and her father at the inn at Upton.
Before we go any further in our story, it’s a good idea to take a moment to look back and explain the unusual appearance of Sophia and her father at the inn in Upton.
The reader may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter of the seventh book of our history, we left Sophia, after a long debate between love and duty, deciding the cause, as it usually, I believe, happens, in favour of the former.
The reader might be pleased to recall that, in the ninth chapter of the seventh book of our story, we left Sophia, after a long debate between love and duty, ultimately choosing love, which, as is often the case, I believe, happened.
This debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which her father had just before made her, in order to force her consent to a marriage with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully implied in her acknowledgment “that she neither must nor could refuse any absolute command of his.”
This debate came up, as we've discussed, after a visit that her father had made to her to pressure her into agreeing to a marriage with Blifil; and he had taken her acknowledgment that “she neither must nor could refuse any absolute command of his” to mean that she was fully on board with it.
Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation, overjoyed at the success he had gained with his daughter; and, as he was of a social disposition, and willing to have partakers in his happiness, the beer was ordered to flow very liberally into the kitchen; so that before eleven in the evening there was not a single person sober in the house except only Mrs Western herself and the charming Sophia.
Now after this visit, the squire went back to his evening drink, thrilled about the success he had with his daughter. Since he was a sociable guy and wanted to share in his happiness, they made sure plenty of beer flowed freely into the kitchen. By eleven in the evening, the only two people who were sober in the house were Mrs. Western herself and the lovely Sophia.
Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr Blifil; for, though the squire imagined that young gentleman had been much less acquainted than he really was with the former aversion of his daughter, as he had not, however, yet received her consent, he longed impatiently to communicate it to him, not doubting but that the intended bride herself would confirm it with her lips. As to the wedding, it had the evening before been fixed, by the male parties, to be celebrated on the next morning save one.
Early in the morning, a messenger was sent to call Mr. Blifil; because, although the squire thought the young man was less aware of his daughter's previous dislike than he actually was, he still hadn’t gotten her approval. He was eager to tell him, confident that the intended bride would confirm it herself. As for the wedding, it had been arranged the night before by the men to take place the morning after next.
Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr Blifil attended, and where the squire and his sister likewise were assembled; and now Sophia was ordered to be called.
Breakfast was now laid out in the parlor, where Mr. Blifil was present, along with the squire and his sister; and now Sophia was told to be called.
O, Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then would I draw the picture of the poor serving-man, who, with pale countenance, staring eyes, chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and trembling limbs,
O, Shakespeare! If I had your pen! O, Hogarth! If I had your pencil! Then I would draw the picture of the poor servant, who, with a pale face, wide eyes, chattering teeth, shaky tongue, and trembling limbs,
(E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd)
(Even such a man, so weak, so lifeless,
So dull, so dead in look, so sorrowful,
Drew Priam's curtains in the middle of the night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burned)entered the room, and declared—That Madam Sophia was not to be found.
entered the room and declared that Madam Sophia was not there.
“Not to be found!” cries the squire, starting from his chair; “Zounds and d—nation! Blood and fury! Where, when, how, what—Not to be found! Where?”
“Not anywhere to be found!” shouts the squire, jumping out of his chair; “Good grief and damn it! Blood and rage! Where, when, how, what—Not to be found! Where?”
“La! brother,” said Mrs Western, with true political coldness, “you are always throwing yourself into such violent passions for nothing. My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the garden. I protest you are grown so unreasonable, that it is impossible to live in the house with you.”
“Come on! Brother,” said Mrs. Western with genuine political detachment, “you always get so worked up over nothing. My niece is probably just out in the garden. I swear you've become so unreasonable that it's impossible to live in the house with you.”
“Nay, nay,” answered the squire, returning as suddenly to himself, as he had gone from himself; “if that be all the matter, it signifies not much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me when the fellow said she was not to be found.” He then gave orders for the bell to be rung in the garden, and sat himself contentedly down.
“Nah, nah,” replied the squire, snapping back to reality just as quickly as he had drifted away; “if that's all there is to it, it doesn't matter much. But honestly, I got a bad feeling when that guy said she was missing.” He then instructed for the bell to be rung in the garden and settled down comfortably.
No two things could be more the reverse of each other than were the brother and sister in most instances; particularly in this, That as the brother never foresaw anything at a distance, but was most sagacious in immediately seeing everything the moment it had happened; so the sister eternally foresaw at a distance, but was not so quick-sighted to objects before her eyes. Of both these the reader may have observed examples: and, indeed, both their several talents were excessive; for, as the sister often foresaw what never came to pass, so the brother often saw much more than was actually the truth.
No two people could be more opposite than the brother and sister in most cases; especially in that the brother never saw anything coming but was very quick to notice everything as soon as it happened. In contrast, the sister always predicted things ahead of time but wasn't as quick to see what was right in front of her. The reader may have noticed examples of both: indeed, both of their abilities were extreme; while the sister often predicted things that never happened, the brother often perceived much more than what was actually true.
This was not however the case at present. The same report was brought from the garden as before had been brought from the chamber, that Madam Sophia was not to be found.
This was not the case right now. The same report coming from the garden, as before from the room, was that Madam Sophia could not be found.
The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the name of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whilome did Hercules that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole shore echoed back the name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the garden, and all the neighbouring fields resound nothing but the name of Sophia, in the hoarse voices of the men, and in the shrill pipes of the women; while echo seemed so pleased to repeat the beloved sound, that, if there is really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her sex. -- Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last the squire, having sufficiently spent his breath, returned to the parlour, where he found Mrs Western and Mr Blifil, and threw himself, with the utmost dejection in his countenance, into a great chair.
The squire stepped out and started shouting Sophia’s name as loudly and hoarsely as Hercules did for Hylas. Just like the poet says the whole shore echoed back the name of that handsome youth, the house, garden, and nearby fields only echoed Sophia’s name, with the men shouting hoarsely and the women shrieking in high-pitched voices. Echo seemed to enjoy repeating that beloved sound so much that, if such a person truly exists, I think Ovid has misrepresented her gender. For a long time, all that reigned was chaos; finally, the squire, having shouted himself hoarse, went back into the parlor where he found Mrs. Western and Mr. Blifil. He slumped down into a large chair, looking utterly dejected.
Here Mrs Western began to apply the following consolation:
Here Mrs. Western started to share the following comfort:
“Brother, I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece should have behaved herself in a manner so unbecoming her family; but it is all your own doings, and you have nobody to thank but yourself. You know she hath been educated always in a manner directly contrary to my advice, and now you see the consequence. Have I not a thousand times argued with you about giving my niece her own will? But you know I never could prevail upon you; and when I had taken so much pains to eradicate her headstrong opinions, and to rectify your errors in policy, you know she was taken out of my hands; so that I have nothing to answer for. Had I been trusted entirely with the care of her education, no such accident as this had ever befallen you; so that you must comfort yourself by thinking it was all your own doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected from such indulgence?”
“Brother, I’m sorry for what happened, and that my niece behaved in such an unacceptable way for our family; but it's all your fault, and you have no one to blame but yourself. You know she was brought up against my advice, and now you see the result. Haven't I argued with you a thousand times about giving her too much freedom? But you know I could never convince you; and after I worked so hard to change her stubborn views and fix your mistakes, she was taken out of my control, so I’m not responsible for this. If I had been fully in charge of her education, this wouldn’t have happened; so you need to accept that this is all on you, and really, what else could we expect from such leniency?”
“Zounds! sister,” answered he, “you are enough to make one mad. Have I indulged her? Have I given her her will?——It was no longer ago than last night that I threatened, if she disobeyed me, to confine her to her chamber upon bread and water as long as she lived.——You would provoke the patience of Job.”
“Wow! Sister,” he replied, “you’re enough to drive someone crazy. Have I spoiled her? Have I let her have her way?—Just last night, I threatened that if she disobeyed me, I would lock her in her room on bread and water for as long as she lived.—You would test the patience of Job.”
“Did ever mortal hear the like?” replied she. “Brother, if I had not the patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all decency and decorum. Why would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not intreat you, to leave the whole conduct to me? You have defeated all the operations of the campaign by one false step. Would any man in his senses have provoked a daughter by such threats as these? How often have I told you that English women are not to be treated like Ciracessian[*] slaves. We have the protection of the world; we are to be won by gentle means only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and beat into compliance. I thank Heaven no Salique law governs here. Brother, you have a roughness in your manner which no woman but myself would bear. I do not wonder my niece was frightened and terrified into taking this measure; and, to speak honestly, I think my niece will be justified to the world for what she hath done. I repeat it to you again, brother, you must comfort yourself by rememb'ring that it is all your own fault. How often have I advised—” Here Western rose hastily from his chair, and, venting two or three horrid imprecations, ran out of the room.
“Have you ever heard anything like this?” she replied. “Brother, if I didn't have the patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me lose all sense of decency. Why would you interfere? Didn't I ask you, didn't I beg you, to leave the entire situation to me? You’ve ruined all our plans with one reckless move. Would any sane person provoke a daughter with threats like these? How often have I told you that English women are not to be treated like Ciracessian[*] slaves? We have the support of the world; we can only be won over with kindness, not by being bullied or beaten into submission. I thank Heaven there’s no Salique law here. Brother, you have a harshness in your manner that no woman but me would tolerate. I’m not surprised my niece was scared and felt forced to take this step; honestly, I believe she’s justified in what she did. I’ll say it one more time, brother, you need to come to terms with the fact that this is all your doing. How many times have I advised—” Just then, Western jumped up from his chair and, shouting a few terrible curses, stormed out of the room.
[*] Possibly Circassian.
[*] Maybe Circassian.
When he was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if possible) against him than she had done while he was present; for the truth of which she appealed to Mr Blifil, who, with great complacence, acquiesced entirely in all she said; but excused all the faults of Mr Western, “as they must be considered,” he said, “to have proceeded from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which must be allowed the name of an amiable weakness.” “So much the more inexcuseable,” answered the lady; “for whom doth he ruin by his fondness but his own child?” To which Blifil immediately agreed.
When he left, his sister showed even more resentment (if that’s possible) toward him than when he was there; for proof, she turned to Mr. Blifil, who, with a satisfied demeanor, completely agreed with everything she said. However, he justified all of Mr. Western's faults, stating, “These should be seen,” he said, “as stemming from a father’s excessive affection, which can be viewed as a lovable weakness.” “That only makes it more inexcusable,” replied the lady, “because who does he harm with his affection if not his own child?” To which Blifil immediately agreed.
Mrs Western then began to express great confusion on the account of Mr Blifil, and of the usage which he had received from a family to which he intended so much honour. On this subject she treated the folly of her niece with great severity; but concluded with throwing the whole on her brother, who, she said, was inexcuseable to have proceeded so far without better assurances of his daughter's consent: “But he was (says she) always of a violent, headstrong temper; and I can scarce forgive myself for all the advice I have thrown away upon him.”
Mrs. Western then expressed her confusion about Mr. Blifil and the way he had been treated by a family he wanted to honor so much. On this topic, she was very harsh about her niece's foolishness; however, she ultimately blamed her brother, saying it was inexcusable for him to have gotten this far without ensuring his daughter's consent: “But he was (she said) always of a violent, stubborn temperament; and I can hardly forgive myself for all the advice I wasted on him.”
After much of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not greatly entertain the reader, was it here particularly related, Mr Blifil took his leave and returned home, not highly pleased with his disappointment: which, however, the philosophy which he had acquired from Square, and the religion infused into him by Thwackum, together with somewhat else, taught him to bear rather better than more passionate lovers bear these kinds of evils.
After a lot of conversations like this, which probably wouldn’t interest the reader much if explained here, Mr. Blifil said goodbye and went back home, not very happy about his disappointment. However, the philosophy he learned from Square and the religious beliefs instilled in him by Thwackum, along with a few other things, helped him handle it better than more emotional lovers would deal with such situations.
Chapter ix. — The escape of Sophia.
It is now time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves her half so well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the clutches of her passionate father, and from those of her dispassionate lover.
It’s now time to take care of Sophia; whom the reader, if they love her even half as much as I do, will be happy to see has escaped from the grip of her fiery father and from that of her aloof lover.
Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous bell-metal, summoning the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly round.——In plainer language, it was twelve o'clock, and all the family, as we have said, lay buried in drink and sleep, except only Mrs Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet, and except our heroine, who now softly stole down-stairs, and, having unbarred and unlocked one of the house-doors, sallied forth, and hastened to the place of appointment.
Twelve times the clock struck on the loud bell, calling the shadows to rise and take their nightly stroll. In simpler terms, it was midnight, and the whole family, as mentioned, was lost in drink and sleep, except for Mrs. Western, who was absorbed in reading a political pamphlet, and our heroine, who quietly made her way downstairs, unlatched and unlocked one of the doors, stepped outside, and hurried to the meeting place.
Notwithstanding the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes practise, to display their fears on every little occasion (almost as many as the other sex uses to conceal theirs), certainly there is a degree of courage which not only becomes a woman, but is often necessary to enable her to discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea of fierceness, and not of bravery, which destroys the female character; for who can read the story of the justly celebrated Arria without conceiving as high an opinion of her gentleness and tenderness as of her fortitude? At the same time, perhaps, many a woman who shrieks at a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of poisoning a husband; or, what is worse, of driving him to poison himself.
Despite the many charming skills that women sometimes showcase, often displaying their fears at the slightest provocation (almost as many as men use to hide theirs), there is definitely a certain level of courage that not only suits women but is often essential for them to fulfill their responsibilities. In fact, it's the notion of fierceness, rather than bravery, that tarnishes the female character; after all, who can read the story of the rightly celebrated Arria without developing a high regard for her kindness and compassion as much as for her strength? At the same time, it’s possible that many women who scream at a mouse or a rat might have the capability to poison a husband; or, even worse, to drive him to poison himself.
Sophia, with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all the spirit which she ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the place of appointment, and, instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed, saw a man ride directly up to her, she neither screamed out nor fainted away: not that her pulse then beat with its usual regularity; for she was, at first, under some surprize and apprehension: but these were relieved almost as soon as raised, when the man, pulling off his hat, asked her, in a very submissive manner, “If her ladyship did not expect to meet another lady?” and then proceeded to inform her that he was sent to conduct her to that lady.
Sophia, with all the kindness a woman can possess, also had the spirit she should have. So, when she arrived at the meeting spot and saw a man riding directly toward her instead of her maid, she didn’t scream or faint. Her heart wasn’t beating at its usual calm pace because she felt a bit surprised and apprehensive at first. But those feelings quickly faded when the man took off his hat and, in a very polite manner, asked her if she wasn’t expecting to meet another lady. He then went on to tell her that he was sent to take her to that lady.
Sophia could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this account: she therefore mounted resolutely behind the fellow, who conveyed her safe to a town about five miles distant, where she had the satisfaction of finding the good Mrs Honour: for, as the soul of the waiting-woman was wrapt up in those very habiliments which used to enwrap her body, she could by no means bring herself to trust them out of her sight. Upon these, therefore, she kept guard in person, while she detached the aforesaid fellow after her mistress, having given him all proper instructions.
Sophia had no reason to doubt the truth of this account: she confidently climbed on the back of the man, who safely took her to a town about five miles away, where she was pleased to find the good Mrs. Honour. Since the waiting-woman was completely devoted to those very clothes that used to cover her body, she couldn’t possibly allow them to be out of her sight. So, she personally kept watch over them while sending the man after her mistress, having given him all the necessary instructions.
They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the pursuit of Mr Western, who they knew would send after them in a few hours. The London road had such charms for Honour, that she was desirous of going on directly; alleging that, as Sophia could not be missed till eight or nine the next morning, her pursuers would not be able to overtake her, even though they knew which way she had gone. But Sophia had too much at stake to venture anything to chance; nor did she dare trust too much to her tender limbs, in a contest which was to be decided only by swiftness. She resolved, therefore, to travel across the country, for at least twenty or thirty miles, and then to take the direct road to London. So, having hired horses to go twenty miles one way, when she intended to go twenty miles the other, she set forward with the same guide behind whom she had ridden from her father's house; the guide having now taken up behind him, in the room of Sophia, a much heavier, as well as much less lovely burden; being, indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with those outside ornaments, by means of which the fair Honour hoped to gain many conquests, and, finally, to make her fortune in London city.
They were now discussing what to do to avoid being chased by Mr. Western, who they knew would come after them in a few hours. The London road was so appealing to Honour that she wanted to go straight ahead, arguing that since Sophia wouldn't be missed until eight or nine the next morning, her pursuers wouldn’t be able to catch up with her, even if they knew which way she had gone. However, Sophia had too much to lose to leave anything to chance; nor did she trust her delicate legs for a race that would be decided solely by speed. So, she decided to travel cross-country for at least twenty or thirty miles before heading directly to London. Having hired horses to go twenty miles one way, with plans to go back the other way, she set off with the same guide who had taken her from her father’s house; the guide was now carrying behind him, instead of Sophia, a much heavier and less appealing load—a large suitcase stuffed with the accessories that fair Honour hoped would help her win many conquests and ultimately secure her fortune in London.
When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the London road, Sophia rode up to the guide, and, with a voice much fuller of honey than was ever that of Plato, though his mouth is supposed to have been a bee-hive, begged him to take the first turning which led towards Bristol.
When they had walked about two hundred steps from the inn on the London road, Sophia approached the guide and, with a voice much sweeter than Plato's—though his mouth is said to have been a beehive—asked him to take the first turn that led toward Bristol.
Reader, I am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern miracles. I do not, therefore, deliver the following as a certain truth; for, indeed, I can scarce credit it myself: but the fidelity of an historian obliges me to relate what hath been confidently asserted. The horse, then, on which the guide rode, is reported to have been so charmed by Sophia's voice, that he made a full stop, and expressed an unwillingness to proceed any farther.
Reader, I’m not superstitious, nor do I really believe in modern miracles. So, I’m not presenting the following as a definite truth; in fact, I can hardly believe it myself. But the responsibility of a historian requires me to share what has been confidently claimed. The horse that the guide rode is said to have been so enchanted by Sophia's voice that he stopped completely and showed no desire to go any further.
Perhaps, however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than it hath been represented; since the natural cause seems adequate to the effect: for, as the guide at that moment desisted from a constant application of his armed right heel (for, like Hudibras, he wore but one spur), it is more than possible that this omission alone might occasion the beast to stop, especially as this was very frequent with him at other times.
Perhaps, however, the fact might be true, and less miraculous than it has been portrayed; since the natural cause seems sufficient for the effect: for, as the guide at that moment stopped using his armed right heel (since, like Hudibras, he wore only one spur), it’s very possible that this omission alone could have caused the beast to stop, especially since this was quite common for him at other times.
But if the voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had very little on the rider. He answered somewhat surlily, “That measter had ordered him to go a different way, and that he should lose his place if he went any other than that he was ordered.”
But if Sophia's voice truly affected the horse, it didn't do much for the rider. He replied a bit grumpily, “That master told him to go a different way, and he would lose his spot if he took any route other than the one he was given.”
Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to add irresistible charms to her voice; charms which, according to the proverb, makes the old mare trot, instead of standing still; charms! to which modern ages have attributed all that irresistible force which the antients imputed to perfect oratory. In a word, she promised she would reward him to his utmost expectation.
Sophia, realizing that none of her attempts were working, now started to add an irresistible charm to her voice; a charm that, as the saying goes, makes even the old mare get moving instead of just standing there; a charm! that modern times have credited with the same irresistible power that the ancients attributed to flawless speech. In short, she promised she would reward him beyond his wildest expectations.
The lad was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked their being indefinite; for, though perhaps he had never heard that word, yet that, in fact, was his objection. He said, “Gentlevolks did not consider the case of poor volks; that he had like to have been turned away the other day, for riding about the country with a gentleman from Squire Allworthy's, who did not reward him as he should have done.”
The boy wasn't completely oblivious to these promises, but he didn't like that they were vague; even though he might not have known that word, that was his real issue. He said, "Kind people don't care about the struggles of the poor; I almost got sent away the other day for riding around with a gentleman from Squire Allworthy's, who didn’t pay me what I deserved."
“With whom?” says Sophia eagerly. “With a gentleman from Squire Allworthy's,” repeated the lad; “the squire's son, I think they call 'un.”—“Whither? which way did he go?” says Sophia.—“Why, a little o' one side o' Bristol, about twenty miles off,” answered the lad.—“Guide me,” says Sophia, “to the same place, and I'll give thee a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient.”—“To be certain,” said the boy, “it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship considers what a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two guineas, I'll e'en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride about my measter's horses; but one comfort is, I can only be turned away, and two guineas will partly make me amends.”
“With who?” Sophia asks eagerly. “With a guy from Squire Allworthy’s,” the boy replies; “I think they call him the squire’s son.” —“Where? Which way did he go?” asks Sophia. —“Well, a little outside of Bristol, about twenty miles away,” the boy answers. —“Take me there,” says Sophia, “and I’ll give you a guinea, or two if one isn't enough.” —“To be honest,” the boy says, “it’s really worth two, considering the risk I’m taking; but if you promise me the two guineas, I’ll go for it: it’s definitely risky to ride my master’s horses, but at least if I get fired, two guineas will help make up for it.”
The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to the remonstrances of Mrs Honour, who had much more desire to see London than to see Mr Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with her mistress, as he had been guilty of some neglect in certain pecuniary civilities, which are by custom due to the waiting-gentlewoman in all love affairs, and more especially in those of a clandestine kind. This we impute rather to the carelessness of his temper than to any want of generosity; but perhaps she derived it from the latter motive. Certain it is that she hated him very bitterly on that account, and resolved to take every opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was therefore highly unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same town and inn whence Jones had started, and still more unlucky was she in having stumbled on the same guide, and on this accidental discovery which Sophia had made.
The deal being made, the young man turned onto the Bristol road, and Sophia set off to catch up with Jones, much to the disapproval of Mrs. Honour, who was far more interested in seeing London than meeting Mr. Jones. In fact, she wasn't on good terms with him because he had neglected certain financial courtesies owed to a lady-in-waiting in all romantic matters, especially those that were secretive. We attribute this more to his careless nature than to any lack of generosity; but maybe her feelings came from the latter. What’s clear is that she despised him for this and was determined to seize every chance to undermine him in the eyes of her mistress. It was, therefore, extremely unfortunate for her that she had ended up in the same town and inn from which Jones had departed, and it was even worse that she had encountered the same guide and stumbled upon the unexpected discovery that Sophia had made.
Our travellers arrived at Hambrook[*] at the break of day, where Honour was against her will charged to enquire the route which Mr Jones had taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have informed them; but Sophia, I know not for what reason, never asked him the question.
Our travelers arrived at Hambrook[*] at dawn, where Honour, much to her dismay, was tasked with finding out the route that Mr. Jones had taken. The guide himself could have provided that information, but for some reason, Sophia never bothered to ask him.
[*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
[*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
When Mrs Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with much difficulty, procured some indifferent horses, which brought her to the inn where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of meeting with a surgeon than by having met with a broken head.
When Mrs. Honour delivered her report from the landlord, Sophia managed, with great difficulty, to get some mediocre horses that took her to the inn where Jones had been stuck more due to bad luck in encountering a surgeon than because he had a head injury.
Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had described the person of Mr Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase, to smell a rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room, instead of answering the maid, the landlady, addressing herself to the mistress, began the following speech: “Good lack-a-day! why there now, who would have thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld. I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so about your ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the world, and to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it his dear Madam Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I told him there were men enow that were good for nothing else but to be killed, that had not the love of such fine ladies.” “Sure,” says Sophia, “the good woman is distracted.” “No, no,” cries the landlady, “I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I don't know then? I assure you he told me all.” “What saucy fellow,” cries Honour, “told you anything of my lady?” “No saucy fellow,” answered the landlady, “but the young gentleman you enquired after, and a very pretty young gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the bottom of his soul.” “He love my lady! I'd have you to know, woman, she is meat for his master.”—“Nay, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting her, “don't be angry with the good woman; she intends no harm.” “No, marry, don't I,” answered the landlady, emboldened by the soft accents of Sophia; and then launched into a long narrative too tedious to be here set down, in which some passages dropt that gave a little offence to Sophia, and much more to her waiting-woman, who hence took occasion to abuse poor Jones to her mistress the moment they were alone together, saying, “that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could have no love for a lady, whose name he would thus prostitute in an ale-house.”
Here, Honour, once again tasked with an investigation, approached the landlady and, after describing Mr. Jones, quickly noticed that the clever woman started to sense something was off. So when Sophia entered the room, instead of responding to the maid, the landlady turned to Sophia and began, “Goodness! Who would have thought it? I swear, you two are the loveliest couple I've ever seen. Honestly, madam, it’s no surprise that the squire keeps talking about you. He told me you were the finest lady in the world, and I can see that’s true. Bless him, poor thing! I felt so sorry for him when he used to hug his pillow and call it his dear Madam Sophia. I did everything I could to talk him out of going to war; I told him there were plenty of men out there just waiting to be killed who didn’t have the love of such beautiful ladies.” “Sure,” says Sophia, “the poor woman is out of her mind.” “No, no,” insists the landlady, “I’m not out of my mind. What, does your ladyship think I don’t know? I assure you, he told me everything.” “What a cheeky guy,” exclaims Honour, “told you anything about my lady?” “No cheeky guy,” replies the landlady, “but the young gentleman you asked about, and he’s a very handsome young man who loves Madam Sophia Western deeply.” “He loves my lady! Let me tell you, woman, she’s meant for his master.” “Now, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting her, “don’t be angry with the good woman; she means no harm.” “No, I certainly don’t,” the landlady said, encouraged by Sophia’s kind words. She then went on with a long story, too tedious to recount here, which included some comments that offended Sophia a bit, but upset her maid even more. This led the maid to criticize poor Jones to her mistress as soon as they were alone, saying, “He must be a truly pathetic guy to put a lady's name out there like that in a bar.”
Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light, and was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures of his love (which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other circumstance) than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she imputed the whole to the extravagance, or rather ebullience, of his passion, and to the openness of his heart.
Sophia didn't view his behavior in such a negative way, and she was probably more delighted by the intense expressions of his love (which the landlady exaggerated just like she had with everything else) than she was upset by the rest of it. In fact, she attributed it all to the craziness, or rather overflow, of his passion, and to his heartfelt sincerity.
This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and placed in the most odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the waiting-woman in her endeavours to make her mistress depart from that inn without seeing Jones.
This incident, however, later came back to her mind, and was painted in the worst light by Honour, which intensified and supported those unfortunate events at Upton, and helped the waiting-woman in her efforts to make her mistress leave the inn without seeing Jones.
The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her horses were ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed she used great freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she reminded her of her intention to go to London, and gave frequent hints of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded with this serious exhortation: “For heaven's sake, madam, consider what you are about, and whither you are going.”
The landlady, seeing that Sophia planned to stay only until her horses were ready and wouldn’t eat or drink anything, quickly left. Then Honour started to reprimand her mistress (she was quite bold about it), and after a long speech where she reminded her of her plan to go to London and frequently pointed out how inappropriate it was to chase after a young man, she finally wrapped up with this serious warning: “For heaven's sake, madam, think about what you’re doing and where you’re headed.”
This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be supposed she had well considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs Honour, by the hints she threw out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the opinion of many readers, who have, I make no doubt, been long since well convinced of the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily condemned her for it as a wanton baggage.
This advice to a woman who had already traveled nearly forty miles, and not in the most pleasant weather, might seem pretty silly. You might think she had thought this through and made her decision already; in fact, Mrs. Honour, by the hints she dropped, seemed to believe so; and I’m sure many readers agree, having long been convinced of our heroine's intentions, and have condemned her for it as an irresponsible person.
But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so distracted between hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the truth?) her love for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of her aunt, of every one else, and more particularly of Jones himself, had blown into a flame, that her mind was in that confused state which may be truly said to make us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go, or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of either.
But in reality, that wasn't the case. Sophia had been so caught up lately, torn between hope and fear, her obligations and love for her father, her dislike for Blifil, her compassion, and (why not admit it?) her feelings for Jones. The behavior of her father, her aunt, everyone around her, and especially Jones himself had intensified those feelings, leaving her mind in a confused state that could truly be described as making us unaware of what we do or where we’re headed, or rather, indifferent to the outcomes of either.
The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool reflection; and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and thence to proceed directly to London.
The wise and sensible advice from her maid led her to think things through, and she ultimately decided to go to Gloucester and then head straight to London.
But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met the hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with Mr Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs Honour, stopt and spoke to her; of which Sophia at that time took little notice, more than to enquire who he was.
But unfortunately, a few miles before she entered that town, she ran into the hack-attorney, who, as mentioned before, had dined there with Mr. Jones. This guy, being well known to Mrs. Honour, stopped and talked to her; to which Sophia barely paid attention, aside from asking who he was.
But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed) he was particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had overheard Mrs Honour inform him that they were going to Gloucester, she began to fear lest her father might, by this fellow's means, be able to trace her to that city; wherefore, if she should there strike into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be able to overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and, having hired horses to go a week's journey a way which she did not intend to travel, she again set forward after a light refreshment, contrary to the desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs Whitefield, who, from good breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that evening at Gloucester.
But after hearing more details from Honour about this man later in Gloucester, and learning about the long trips he usually took, which he was well-known for, she remembered that she had overheard Mrs. Honour tell him they were going to Gloucester. She began to worry that her father could track her to that city because of this guy. So, if she decided to take the London road from there, she feared he would definitely be able to catch up with her. Because of this, she changed her plans. She hired horses to take a week-long journey in a direction she didn't actually intend to go and set off again after a light snack, despite her maid's wishes and the strong objections of Mrs. Whitefield, who, out of politeness or maybe kindness (since the poor young lady looked very tired), urged her to stay the evening in Gloucester.
Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two hours on the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely left Mrs Whitefield's about eleven at night, and, striking directly into the Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that very inn where we last saw her.
Having refreshed herself with just some tea and spent about two hours lying on the bed while her horses were being prepared, she firmly left Mrs. Whitefield's around eleven at night and, heading straight for the Worcester road, arrived at the same inn where we last saw her in less than four hours.
Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words bring her father to the same place; who, having received the first scent from the post-boy, who conducted his daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr Jones had taken that route (for Partridge, to use the squire's expression, left everywhere a strong scent behind him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a very coarse expression, which need not be here inserted; as fox-hunters, who alone will understand it, will easily suggest it to themselves.
Having followed our heroine closely from her departure to her arrival at Upton, we’ll briefly catch up with her father, who, after getting a hint from the post-boy who took his daughter to Hambrook, easily tracked her to Gloucester. He then continued on to Upton, having learned that Mr. Jones had taken that route (since Partridge, to use the squire's words, always left a strong trail behind him), and he had no doubt that Sophia was traveling, or as he put it, running, the same way. He did use a rather crude expression that doesn't need repeating here, as only fox-hunters would understand it anyway.
BOOK XI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — A crust for the critics.
In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall, perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen.
In our previous introductory chapter, we may have discussed the intimidating group of people known as critics with more bluntness than is appropriate, as they typically demand—and usually get—considerable respect from authors. In this chapter, we will explain our actions to this esteemed group; and here we might present them in a way that hasn't been considered before.
This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to condemnation.
This word "critic" comes from Greek and means judgment. So, I guess some people who don't understand the original meaning and have only seen the English translation of the original work have assumed that it refers to judgment in a legal sense, where it is often used to mean condemnation.
I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have given judgment, i.e., condemned without mercy.
I tend to agree with that perspective, as most critics in recent years seem to be lawyers. Many of these guys, possibly out of frustration with never making it to the bench at Westminster Hall, have taken seats in the theater, where they’ve used their judgment skills to issue harsh critiques, meaning they’ve condemned without mercy.
The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we would do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them, we must remind them of another officer of justice of a much lower rank; to whom, as they not only pronounce, but execute, their own judgment, they bear likewise some remote resemblance.
The gentlemen might be somewhat satisfied if we were to compare them to one of the most important and honorable positions in society. If we were looking to win their favor, we could do that. However, since we plan to be very honest and straightforward with them, we must remind them of another justice officer of a much lower rank, with whom they share some distant resemblance, as they not only make but also carry out their own judgments.
But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may, with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a common slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others, with no other design but to discover their faults, and to publish them to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation of books?
But in reality, there's another perspective from which these modern critics can be viewed fairly and rightly, and that's as common slanderers. If someone who snoops into the lives of others just to find their faults and make them public deserves to be called a slanderer of people's reputations, why shouldn't a critic who reads with the same malicious intent be justly labeled a slanderer of the reputations of books?
Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am afraid, regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt: for slander is a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable. One method, indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here disclaimed against, and that is poison: a means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar severity of the punishment.
Vice doesn’t have a more miserable servant; society doesn’t create a more disgusting pest; nor can the devil host a guest more suited to him, or more welcomed by him, than a slanderer. I'm afraid the world doesn’t regard this monster with even half the disgust he deserves; and I'm even more afraid to explain why there’s this criminal leniency towards him. Yet it’s clear that a thief looks innocent in comparison; in fact, even a murderer rarely compares to his guilt: because slander is a more vicious weapon than a sword, as the wounds it inflicts are always irreparable. There is one way of killing, the most despicable and detestable of all, which closely resembles the vice being condemned here, and that is poison: a method of revenge so low and yet so horrifying that our laws once wisely categorized it from other types of murder, imposing a particularly harsh punishment.
Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of having procured the ruin and misery of another.
Besides the terrible damage caused by slander, and the low ways it’s carried out, there are other factors that make it even worse; it often happens without any provocation, and rarely expects any reward, unless some evil and twisted mind thinks of a reward in the idea of bringing ruin and misery to someone else.
Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says—
Shakespeare has eloquently addressed this flaw when he says—
“Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM, BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED.”
“Whoever takes my wallet takes garbage; it’s something, nothing; It was mine, now it’s his, and has been a servant to thousands: But the person who steals my good name Robbs me of something that doesn’t enrich him, But makes me truly poor.”
With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child of his brain.
I’m sure my good reader will agree with all this; however, much of it might seem too harsh when talking about those who badmouth books. But let’s recognize that both come from the same malicious mindset and are equally lacking in the excuse of temptation. We shouldn’t think the harm caused this way is minor when we consider a book as the author's creation, essentially a child of their intellect.
The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff, “Alas! Thou hast written no book.” But the author whose muse hath brought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me with tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while I mention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care, the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the world.
The reader who has allowed their creativity to remain untouched up to this point can only have a vague understanding of this kind of fatherly love. To them, we might humorously echo Macduff’s heartfelt remark, “Oh no! You haven't written a book.” But the author whose creativity has given life to something will truly feel the emotional weight, perhaps shedding tears (especially if their beloved creation is no longer with them), as I talk about the discomfort that the creative process brings, the tough work involved in bringing it to life, and finally, the care and affection with which the devoted father nurtures his treasured creation until it matures and is introduced to the world.
Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of their father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the interest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.
There’s no fatherly love that feels less driven by pure instinct and can be better balanced with practical wisdom than this. These children can genuinely be called their father’s wealth; many of them have selflessly supported their parent in his old age. As a result, both the affection and the interests of the author can be seriously harmed by these critics, whose toxic words can lead to an early demise of his work.
Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author: for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother a whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead; which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that of villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.
Lastly, criticizing a book is really criticizing the author: for just as no one can label someone as a bastard without also calling their mother a whore, no one can label a book as sad, horrible nonsense, etc., without also saying the author is a fool; which, although it might sound better morally than calling someone a villain, could actually be more damaging to their reputation in the real world.
Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps, think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very ill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.
Now, no matter how ridiculous all this may seem to some, I'm sure others will feel and recognize the truth in it; in fact, some might even think I haven't addressed the topic with enough seriousness. But surely, a person can speak the truth with a smile. In reality, trashing a book out of spite or for no good reason is at least a pretty mean thing to do. And I believe a grumpy, bitter critic can be suspected of being a bad person.
I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and some perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorised to execute at least a judicial authority in foro literario.
I will therefore try, in the rest of this chapter, to explain the signs of this character and to clarify the criticism I aim to address. I can never be understood unless by those I’m referring to, as I don't mean to suggest that there are no qualified judges of writing, nor do I intend to exclude any of the esteemed critics to whom the academic world owes so much. These include Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus among the ancients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and perhaps some among us; who have certainly been rightfully appointed to hold at least a judicial authority in foro literario.
But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself read. Such censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others, may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn.
But without determining all the essential qualities of a critic, which I've discussed elsewhere, I feel confident in objecting to anyone who criticizes works they haven't actually read. Critics like these, whether they base their opinions on their own assumptions or the views of others, can rightly be said to damage the reputation of the book they criticize.
Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory terms; such as vile, dull, d—d stuff, &c., and particularly by the use of the monosyllable low; a word which becomes the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.
Such may also be suspected of deserving this label, who, without pointing out any specific faults, criticize everything with general, negative terms; like vile, dull, terrible stuff, etc., and especially by using the word low; a word that should not be used by any critic who isn't of HIGH HONOR.
Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet, if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace:
Again, while there might be some valid criticisms of the work, if those issues aren't in the most important parts, or if they're outweighed by greater merits, it would reflect more the spite of a malicious person than the judgment of a genuine critic to harshly judge the whole piece just because of a flawed part. This is directly contrary to the views of Horace:
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parum cavit natura——
But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
I am not angry, when a casual line
(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
A careless hand or human frailty shows.—MR FRANCIS.
But where the greater beauties shine in the poem, I'm not bothered by a few flaws, which either carelessness created, or human nature couldn't avoid— But where the many beauties stand out in the poem, I'm not upset when a casual line (that flows unevenly with some slight faults) reveals a careless hand or human weakness.—MR FRANCIS.
For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not always), do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To write within such severe rules as these is as impossible as to live up to some splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no man in the next.
For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be made any other way. All beauty of character, as well as appearance, and really everything human, should be evaluated this way. It would be quite cruel if a work like this history, which has taken thousands of hours to create, were at risk of being condemned just because a specific chapter, or possibly a few chapters, face reasonable and sensible objections. Yet, nothing is more common than harsh judgments against books based on such objections, which, if taken correctly (and they often aren't), don't reflect the quality of the whole work. Especially in theater, a single line that doesn't match the audience's taste or that of a single critic will surely get booed; and one disapproved scene could threaten the entire production. Writing under such strict rules is as impossible as living up to some grumpy opinions: if we judge based on the views of certain critics and some Christians, no author will find salvation in this world, and no man in the next.
Chapter ii. — The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton.
Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature, and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck, or rather his ill-conduct.
Our history, just before it had to reverse course, had noted the departure of Sophia and her maid from the inn; we will now follow the journey of that beautiful woman and allow her undeserving lover a bit more time to lament his bad luck, or rather his poor choices.
Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible.
Sophia had instructed her guide to take the back roads, and as they crossed the Severn, they had barely traveled a mile from the inn when the young lady looked back and noticed several horses racing toward them. This greatly heightened her anxiety, and she urged the guide to speed up as much as possible.
He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears, joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits; but she was now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility, and with the highest satisfaction to herself, returned.
He immediately followed her instructions, and they rode off at full speed. But the faster they went, the closer their pursuers got; and since the horses chasing them were a bit faster than those in front, they were soon caught up. This was a fortunate turn of events for poor Sophia, whose fears, mixed with her exhaustion, had nearly overwhelmed her. However, she was quickly comforted by a female voice that welcomed her in the gentlest and most polite way. Once Sophia could catch her breath, she responded with similar politeness and great satisfaction.
The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror, consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange lady in a most obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find they were both travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost, only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology, in keeping pace with her.” More civilities passed between these two ladies; for Mrs Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on through the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration, restrained her from asking the question.
The travelers who accompanied Sophia, and who had scared her so much, were, like her own group, two women and a guide. The two parties walked three full miles together before anyone spoke again; our heroine, having mostly overcome her fear (though still a bit surprised that the other woman continued to follow her, since she wasn't on a main road and had already taken several turns), approached the mysterious lady in a friendly manner and said, “I’m really happy to see we’re both traveling the same way.” The other woman, who, like a ghost, only needed to be spoken to, quickly replied, “The happiness is entirely mine; I’m a complete stranger in this land, and I’m so thrilled to meet another woman that I might have committed an inconsiderate act by keeping pace with you.” More niceties were exchanged between the two ladies; Mrs. Honour had stepped aside for the stranger’s elegant attire and had fallen behind. However, although Sophia was very curious about why the other woman continued to travel the same back roads with her, and this made her somewhat uneasy, she held back from asking, whether out of fear, modesty, or some other reason.
The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.
The strange lady was struggling with a problem that seems almost too trivial for history to mention. Her bonnet had blown off her head at least five times in the last mile, and she couldn't find any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia heard about this, she quickly gave her a handkerchief for that purpose. In the process of pulling it from her pocket, she may have been a bit careless with her horse, and unfortunately, the animal made a misstep, fell onto its front legs, and threw its fair rider off its back.
Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light, and was moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was almost perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty, which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm than a little fright by her fall.
Though Sophia fell headfirst to the ground, she fortunately wasn’t hurt at all. The same factors that may have caused her fall also kept her from feeling embarrassed; the pathway they were on was narrow and heavily overgrown with trees, which meant the moon provided very little light. To make things worse, it was currently covered by clouds, making it almost completely dark. Because of this, the young lady's modesty, which was very delicate, remained unharmed, just like her body. She was able to get back up on her horse, having only suffered a minor scare from her fall.
Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.
Daylight finally broke in all its brightness; and now the two ladies, riding side by side over a common area, were gazing intently at each other when, at the same moment, their eyes locked. Both their horses stopped, and as if in unison, they exclaimed with equal joy the names of Sophia and Harriet.
This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the strange lady could be no other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn a few minutes after her.
This unexpected encounter surprised the ladies a lot more than I think it will surprise the wise reader, who must have figured that the strange lady could only be Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western, who we mentioned earlier had left the inn just a few minutes after her.
So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western), that it is impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed between them, before either asked a very natural question of the other, namely, whither she was going?
The surprise and joy that these two cousins felt at their meeting was so great (since they had once been very close friends and had lived together for a long time with their aunt Western) that it’s impossible to recount half the congratulations they exchanged before either of them asked the very natural question of where the other was going.
This at last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, “which I suppose,” says she, “can hardly be far distant; and, believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty equal.”
This finally came from Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but even though the question seemed easy and natural, Sophia found it hard to give a quick and definite answer. She asked her cousin to hold off any curiosity until they reached an inn, “which I think,” she said, “can’t be too far away; and believe me, Harriet, I’m holding back just as much curiosity myself; because, honestly, I think our surprise is pretty much the same.”
The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and the other obliged to bring up the rear.
The conversation that happened between these ladies on the road was, I think, not very interesting to share; and even less so was the one between the two waiting maids, as they also started to exchange pleasantries. As for the guides, they were denied the enjoyment of chatting, with one in the front and the other stuck bringing up the rear.
In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall; for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what we shall not here relate for the indulgence of those readers who are capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's delicacy. Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.
They traveled for many hours until they reached a wide and well-traveled road, which, after turning right, soon brought them to a really nice-looking inn. Everyone got down, but Sophia was so exhausted that after sitting on her horse for the last five or six miles with great difficulty, she was now unable to get off without help. The landlord, who was holding her horse, quickly noticed this and offered to lift her down from the saddle. She accepted his help without hesitation. It seemed like fate wanted to embarrass Sophia that day, and this second awkward situation turned out worse than the first. As soon as the landlord lifted the young lady into his arms, his feet—which had recently been hurt by gout—gave out, and he fell. However, with impressive skill and bravery, he managed to throw himself underneath her, so he was the only one who got hurt from the fall. The major issue for Sophia was a stark blow to her modesty caused by the inappropriate laughter she noticed on the faces of most onlookers as she got up from the ground. This made her suspect what had truly happened, but we won’t elaborate here out of respect for readers who might find humor in an offense to a young lady's modesty. We have never viewed incidents like this as funny, and we must say that anyone who would want to compromise the dignity of a beautiful young woman for the trivial amusement of laughter has a very poor understanding of modesty.
This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour, very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.
This fear and shock, combined with the intense exhaustion that both her mind and body had experienced, nearly overwhelmed Sophia's strong constitution. She barely had enough strength to stumble into the inn, resting on her maid's arm. As soon as she sat down, she requested a glass of water; however, Mrs. Honour wisely switched it out for a glass of wine, in my view.
Mrs Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the same advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long journey through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she was herself perfectly easy on that account.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs. Honour that Sophia hadn’t been in bed for the past two nights and noticing how pale and worn out she looked from her exhaustion, earnestly urged her to get some rest. She was still unfamiliar with Sophia's story or her worries, but if she had known both, she would have given the same advice, as it was clear that Sophia needed to rest. Their long journey through back roads had completely eliminated any risk of pursuit, so Mrs. Fitzpatrick felt totally relaxed about that.
Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend, which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much complacence, accepted.
Sophia was easily persuaded to follow her friend's advice, which her maid also enthusiastically supported. Mrs. Fitzpatrick offered to keep her cousin company as well, and Sophia happily accepted.
The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.
The mistress had barely settled into bed when the maid got ready to do the same. She started apologizing to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in such an awful place as an inn, but Abigail cut her off, wanting to nap just as much, and expressed her desire to share the bed. Sophia's maid agreed to let her share the bed but insisted that she would take all the credit for it. After exchanging many polite gestures and compliments, the two waiting women climbed into bed together, just like their mistresses had done before them.
It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen, postboys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at that the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon, therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished it.
It was typical for my landlord (as it is for the entire profession) to ask every coachman, footman, postboy, and others about the names of all his guests, their status, and where they were from. So it’s not surprising that the unusual circumstances surrounding our travelers—especially their decision to go to bed at such an odd hour as ten in the morning—piqued his interest. As soon as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to question them about who the ladies were and where they had come from. However, while the guides shared everything they knew, they didn’t satisfy his curiosity much at all. In fact, they only made him more curious.
This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure him this reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth; which, indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though his sentences were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his hearers to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds.
This landlord was known among all his neighbors as a really insightful guy. People thought he understood things better and more deeply than anyone else in the parish, not even the parson. His appearance probably helped him earn this reputation; there was something incredibly wise and meaningful in his look, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth, which he usually did. His mannerisms also played a big role in boosting the perception of his wisdom. He was serious, if not a bit grim, and when he did speak, which was rare, he always spoke slowly. Though his sentences were short, they were often interrupted by many “hums” and “ha’s,” and “ay ays,” and other filler words. So even though he used gestures to explain himself, like shaking or nodding his head or pointing with his finger, he usually left his listeners with more questions than answers; in fact, he often hinted that he knew a lot more than he let on. This one detail alone could explain why people saw him as wise, as people tend to admire what they don’t fully understand—a big secret that many con artists rely on to pull off their tricks.
This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she thought of the ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?” said the wife, “why, what should I think of them?” “I know,” answered he, “what I think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever travel across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And one of the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances together, and whom do you think I have found them out to be?” “Nay,” answered she, “you know I never pretend to guess at your discoveries.”——“It is a good girl,” replied he, chucking her under the chin; “I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say—depend upon it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel with the young Chevalier; and have taken a roundabout way to escape the duke's army.”
This polite man, now taking his wife aside, asked her, “What do you think of the ladies who just arrived?” “Think of them?” she replied. “What should I think of them?” “I know what I think,” he answered. “The guides tell strange stories. One claims to be from Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, as far as I can tell, knows where they are heading. But who ever travels all the way from Upton to here, especially to London? And one of the maids, before she got off her horse, asked if this was the London road? Now I’ve put all these things together, and guess who I think they are?” “Come on,” she replied, “you know I never try to guess your theories.” “That’s a good girl,” he said, playfully lifting her chin. “I must admit, you’ve always trusted my judgment on these matters. So, mark my words—believe me, they are definitely some of the rebel ladies who are said to be traveling with the young Chevalier; and they’ve taken a roundabout way to avoid the duke's army.”
“Husband,” quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it; for one of them is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks for all the world like one.——But yet, when I consider one thing”——“When you consider,” cries the landlord contemptuously——“Come, pray let's hear what you consider.”——“Why, it is,” answered the wife, “that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her the trouble.”
“Husband,” said the wife, “you’ve definitely got that right; one of them is dressed as elegantly as any princess, and honestly, she looks just like one.——But still, when I think about one thing”——“When you think about it,” the landlord interrupted mockingly——“Come on, let’s hear what you’re thinking.”——“Well,” the wife responded, “it’s that she seems too humble to be a real lady: while our Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, my dear, and sweetheart; and when Betty tried to take off her shoes and stockings, she wouldn’t let her, saying she didn’t want to trouble her.”
“Pugh!” answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost think, because you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see them—I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know they would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon some such extraordinary occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries she, “you know these matters better than I, or most folk.” “I think I do know something,” said he. “To be sure,” answered the wife, “the poor little heart looked so piteous, when she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as much as if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she's a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded.” “Pooh!” answered the husband.——“But, as to what's to be done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should get the better, she may gain us interest at court, and make our fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that's true,” replied the wife; “and I heartily hope she will have it in her power. Certainly she's a sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her come to any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the landlord, “women are always so tender-hearted. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you?” “No, certainly,” answered the wife; “and as for betraying her, come what will on't, nobody can blame us. It is what anybody would do in our case.”
“Pugh!” replied the husband, “that’s nothing. Do you think just because you've seen some high-profile women being rude and disrespectful to those beneath them, that none of them know how to act when they're around their inferiors? I know a bit about fashion when I see it—I really do. Didn’t she ask for a glass of water when she came in? Other types of women would’ve asked for a drink; you know they would. If she’s not a woman of very high status, then call me a fool; and I bet anyone who buys me will get a bad deal. Now, would a woman of her standing travel without a footman unless it was for a really rare reason?” “Well, of course, husband,” she said, “you understand these things better than I do, or most people.” “I definitely know something,” he said. “Of course,” replied the wife, “the poor thing looked so pitiful when she sat down in that chair; I honestly couldn't help but feel sorry for her, almost as if she were a common person. But what should we do, husband? If she’s a rebel, I suppose you plan to turn her in to the authorities. Well, she’s a sweet-natured, good-humored lady, no matter what she is, and I don't think I could hold back my tears when I hear she’s been hanged or beheaded.” “Nonsense!” replied the husband. “But figuring out what to do isn’t so straightforward. I hope that before she leaves, we get news of a battle; because if the Chevalier wins, she might be able to gain us favor at court and make our fortunes without turning her in.” “Well, that’s true,” the wife said, “and I sincerely hope she gets that chance. She’s definitely a lovely lady; it would break my heart if anything happened to her.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the landlord, “women are always so soft-hearted. You wouldn't shelter rebels, would you?” “No, of course not,” the wife replied; “and as for turning her in, whatever happens, no one can blame us. That’s something anyone would do in our situation.”
While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the opinion of his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke the slip, and had got a day's march towards London; and soon after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, “All's our own, boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for ever! ten thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away directly.”
While our political landlord, who, as we see, had earned a well-deserved reputation for great wisdom among his neighbors, was busy pondering this issue by himself (since he paid little attention to his wife's opinion), news came in that the rebels had outsmarted the duke and had made a day's march toward London. Soon after, a well-known Jacobite squire arrived, his face beaming with joy as he shook the landlord's hand, saying, “It’s all ours, mate! Ten thousand brave Frenchmen have landed in Suffolk. Long live Old England! Ten thousand French, my good lad! I’m going to celebrate right away.”
This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to make his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.
This news shaped the wise man's opinion, and he decided to approach the young lady when she got up because he had now realized that she was none other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.
Chapter iii. — A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a moon, a star, and an angel.
The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had been some time retired to rest when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue could have occasioned; for, though she had told her maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that malady which is attended with all the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the fever on the spirits.
The sun (since he keeps a pretty regular schedule this time of year) had been resting for a while when Sophia woke up feeling really refreshed from her sleep; and even though it was short, only her extreme exhaustion could explain it. Although she had told her maid, and maybe herself too, that she felt perfectly fine when she left Upton, the truth is her mind was slightly impacted by that condition that comes with all the restless signs of a fever, which is probably what doctors refer to (if they actually mean anything) as a fever of the spirits.
Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that of Sophia, might have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs Honour of her own accord attended (for her mistress would not suffer her to be waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs Fitzpatrick, who had performed the office of the morning-star, and had preceded greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick also got out of bed at the same time and, after calling her maid, quickly got dressed. She was genuinely a very attractive woman, and if she had been in any company other than Sophia's, she might have been considered beautiful. However, when Mrs. Honour came to help on her own (because her mistress didn't want her to be woken up), and had dressed our heroine, the appeal of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had played the role of the morning star and had come before greater beauties, suffered the same fate as that star and was completely overshadowed the moment those beauties appeared.
Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this instant. We ought not, therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire, declared, and ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, she was now above-stairs.
Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this moment. We shouldn't blame the innkeeper's maid for her exaggeration, who, after coming down from lighting the fire, declared—and swore—that if there was ever an angel on earth, she was upstairs right now.
Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and Mrs Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of her husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to her aunt Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea than Sophia proposed to set out, the moon then shining extremely bright, and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she any of those apprehensions which many young ladies would have felt at travelling by night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little degree of natural courage; and this, her present sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair, greatly encreased. Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by the light of the moon, she was the better emboldened to trust to it a third time.
Sophia had informed her cousin about her plan to go to London, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick had agreed to join her. Since her husband’s arrival in Upton had put an end to her plans of going to Bath or visiting Aunt Western, they finished their tea and Sophia suggested they set out. The moon was shining very brightly, and as for the frost, she wasn’t worried about it at all. Unlike many young women who might feel anxious about traveling at night, she had, as we noted earlier, a bit of natural courage, which was heightened by her current feelings that were leaning toward despair. Plus, having traveled safely by the moonlight twice before gave her more confidence to trust it again for a third time.
The disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton, yet, being now arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what operated so strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till the next morning, and not expose herself to the dangers of travelling by night.
The attitude of Mrs. Fitzpatrick was more fearful; because, although the bigger fears had overcome the smaller ones, and her husband’s presence had made her leave Upton at such an odd hour, now that she was at a place where she felt safe from his chase, these smaller anxieties about who knows what affected her so much that she pleaded with her cousin to stay until the next morning and not risk the dangers of traveling at night.
Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at Upton, it might have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of being overtaken by him; nay, to confess the truth, I believe she rather wished than feared it; though I might honestly enough have concealed this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous emotions of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger.
Sophia, who was overwhelmed, finally gave in when she couldn’t laugh or talk her cousin out of these worries. If she had known her father was arriving at Upton, it might have been harder to convince her; because when it came to Jones, I’m afraid she didn’t really dread the thought of running into him. In fact, to be honest, I think she actually preferred it rather than feared it; although I could have honestly kept this desire from the reader, since it was one of those hidden emotions of the heart that reason often doesn’t understand.
When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in their inn they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know what their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the landlady to the highest degree; and that good woman, concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young Pretender's cause, from the great sweetness and affability with which she had been treated by his supposed mistress.
When the young ladies decided to spend the evening at their inn, the landlady came to ask what they would like to eat. Sophia had such charm in her voice, demeanor, and friendly behavior that she captivated the landlady completely. Believing she was serving Jenny Cameron, the good woman suddenly became a loyal Jacobite and genuinely hoped for the success of the young Pretender's cause, thanks to the kindness and warmth she had received from his supposed mistress.
The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs Fitzpatrick, having obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he is desirous to know her history, may read in the ensuing chapter.
The two cousins started to share their mutual curiosity about the unusual events that led to this surprising encounter. Finally, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, having secured a promise from Sophia to share her story as well, began to recount what the reader can learn about her narrative in the next chapter.
Chapter iv. — The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Mrs Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep sigh, thus began:
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, after a brief silence and a deep sigh, began:
“It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting those periods of their lives which have been most delightful to them. The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of tender grief, like what we suffer for departed friends; and the ideas of both may be said to haunt our imaginations.
“It’s natural for the unhappy to feel a hidden worry when they think about the times in their lives that brought them the most joy. Remembering past pleasures fills us with a kind of gentle sadness, similar to what we feel for friends who have passed away; both thoughts can linger in our minds.”
“For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the happiest far of my life) which we spent together when both were under the care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss Giddy no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter appellation with too much cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved it. You, my Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope you will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the wise and matronly advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball, though you could not be then fourteen years old.——O my Sophy, how blest must have been my situation, when I could think such a disappointment a misfortune; and when indeed it was the greatest I had ever known!”
“For this reason, I always reflect with sadness on those days (the happiest of my life) that we spent together while we were both under my Aunt Western's care. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss Giddy no longer with us? You remember, I'm sure, when we knew each other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter name for very good reason. I've since realized how much I deserved it. You, my Sophia, were always my superior in every way, and I truly hope you will be in your fortune as well. I will never forget the wise and motherly advice you once gave me when I was upset about missing a ball, even though you couldn't have been more than fourteen at the time. O my Sophy, how fortunate I must have been to think such a disappointment was a misfortune; and when it truly was the greatest I had ever known!”
“And yet, my dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “it was then a serious matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking, that whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and contemptible as a ball would at this time.”
“And yet, my dear Harriet,” Sophia replied, “it was a serious matter for you back then. So, take comfort in knowing that whatever you're upset about now may seem as trivial and insignificant as a ball would seem at this moment.”
“Alas, my Sophia,” replied the other lady, “you yourself will think otherwise of my present situation; for greatly must that tender heart be altered if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a tear, from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from relating what I am convinced will so much affect you.” Here Mrs Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she thus proceeded:
“Unfortunately, my Sophia,” replied the other woman, “you yourself will feel differently about my current situation; for that tender heart of yours must have changed significantly if my troubles don’t bring you many sighs and even more tears. Knowing this should probably stop me from sharing what I truly believe will touch you so deeply.” Here Mrs. Fitzpatrick paused, until, at Sophia's repeated requests, she continued:
“Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband; which was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to your father.
“Though you’ve probably heard a lot about my marriage, there may have been some misunderstandings, so I’ll start from the very beginning of my unfortunate relationship with my current husband, which began in Bath, shortly after you left my aunt and went back home to your father.”
“Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, dégagé, extremely gallant, and in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was unluckily to see him now, I could describe him no better than by telling you he was the very reverse of everything which he is: for he hath rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild Irishman. But to proceed in my story: the qualifications which he then possessed so well recommended him, that, though the people of quality at that time lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded them from all their parties, Mr Fitzpatrick found means to gain admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he required very little or no invitation; and as, being handsome and genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to ingratiate himself with the ladies, so, he having frequently drawn his sword, the men did not care publickly to affront him. Had it not been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own sex; for surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English gentry; nor did they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary favour. They all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed from envy; for by the women he was well received, and very particularly distinguished by them.
Among the fashionable young men in Bath this season, Mr. Fitzpatrick stood out. He was handsome, confident, extremely charming, and exceeded most others in style. In short, my dear, if you happened to see him now, I could only describe him as the complete opposite of who he is: he's spent so much time out of society that he has turned into a true wild Irishman. But back to my story: the qualities he possessed then made him so well-liked that, even though the high society folks kept to themselves and excluded others from their gatherings, Mr. Fitzpatrick found a way to get in. It wasn't easy to avoid him; he needed little to no invitation. Being good-looking and well-mannered, he had no trouble winning over the ladies, and since he often drew his sword, the men weren’t eager to confront him in public. If it weren’t for reasons like that, I believe he would have been kicked out by his own gender quickly; he certainly didn't have a strong claim to be favored by the English gentry, nor did they seem keen to show him any special attention. They all talked behind his back, which might have been out of envy, because he was well-received and especially favored by the women.
“My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived about the court, was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever means you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is sufficient merit for you that you are there. This observation, young as you was, you could scarce avoid making from my aunt, who was free, or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or less of this merit.
“My aunt, although she wasn’t from a high-status background herself, had always lived near the court and was part of that group. Because once you’re accepted into polite society, it’s enough that you’ve made it there, regardless of how you got in. Even at a young age, you couldn’t help but notice this about my aunt, who treated everyone more freely or more reservedly, depending on how much social status they had.”
“And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning such distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his behaviour to her, that the scandal club first began to take notice of it, and the better-disposed persons made a match between them. For my own part, I confess, I made no doubt but that his designs were strictly honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor handsome enough to attract much wicked inclination; but she had matrimonial charms in great abundance.
“And this merit, I believe, was what mainly recommended Mr. Fitzpatrick to her favor. He succeeded so well that he was always part of her private gatherings. He wasn't shy about returning that kind of attention; he soon became so particular in his behavior toward her that the gossip circles began to notice, and well-meaning people started to speculate about a match between them. For my part, I must admit, I had no doubt that his intentions were strictly honorable, as the saying goes; that is, to take a lady's fortune through marriage. I thought my aunt was neither young enough nor pretty enough to attract any wicked interest, but she definitely had plenty of matrimonial appeal.”
“I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary respect which he showed to myself from the first moment of our acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible, that disinclination which my interest might be supposed to give me towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it had that effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be violently the enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was greatly pleased; and the more so, as I was the only object of such respect; for he behaved at the same time to many women of quality without any respect at all.
"I became even more convinced of this when I saw the extraordinary respect he showed me from our very first meeting. I took it as an effort to reduce any reluctance I might feel about the match because of my own interests. I can’t say it didn’t have some effect; after all, I was quite content with my own situation and, of all people, the least driven by selfish motives. So, I couldn’t be a strong enemy of a man whose behavior towards me I found very pleasing, especially since I was the only one he treated with such respect while he showed indifference to many other women of quality."
“Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times, indeed, whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in general company, and with other women; for even in a country-dance, when he was not my partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all things so very particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have discovered it. And, and, and——” “And you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet,” cries Sophia; “you need not be ashamed,” added she, sighing; “for sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness, which too many men are able to affect.” “True,” answered her cousin; “men, who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels in the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.—Well, scandal now began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt; and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr Fitzpatrick had an intrigue with us both.
“Though I found it agreeable at first, he soon shifted to another kind of behavior, which was perhaps even more so. He now acted much softer and more tender, frequently sighing and yearning. At times, whether it was by design or just in his nature, he would revert to his usual cheerful and playful self; but that was always in the company of others and with different women. Even during a country dance, when he wasn't my partner, he would become serious and adopt the softest expression imaginable the moment he approached me. He was particularly attentive to me in every way, and I would have had to be blind not to notice it. And, and, and—” “And you were even more pleased, my dear Harriet,” Sophia exclaimed; “you shouldn’t be embarrassed,” she added with a sigh; “because surely there are irresistible charms in tenderness that too many men know how to imitate.” “True,” replied her cousin; “men who lack common sense in every other area can be quite cunning in the art of love. I wish I didn’t know of an example—Well, rumors began to swirl around me as they had with my aunt before; and some respectable ladies didn't hesitate to claim that Mr. Fitzpatrick was involved with both of us.”
“But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both our behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the eyes of an old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses which are made to them, that, like an outrageous glutton, they are not at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the same table. This I have observed in more cases than my own; and this was so strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she often found us together at her return from the pump, the least canting word of his, pretending impatience at her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One artifice succeeded with her to admiration. This was his treating me like a little child, and never calling me by any other name in her presence but that of pretty miss. This indeed did him some disservice with your humble servant; but I soon saw through it, especially as in her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a different manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a conduct of which I had discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it; for my aunt really conceived me to be what her lover (as she thought him) called me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say the truth, I wonder she had not insisted on my again wearing leading-strings.
“But, what may seem surprising is that my aunt never noticed, nor did it seem like she suspected, what was obvious enough from both our behaviors. You’d think that love completely blinds an older woman. In fact, they so eagerly absorb the compliments directed at them that, like a greedy glutton, they don’t take the time to notice what’s happening around them at the same table. I’ve seen this in more cases than just mine; and my aunt was a perfect example of this, as even though she often found us together when she returned from the pump, the slightest hint from him, acting impatient about her absence, completely silenced any suspicion. He had one trick that worked incredibly well with her. He treated me like a little child, only ever calling me “pretty miss” in her presence. This did make him look a bit bad to me, but I quickly figured it out, especially since he acted differently when she wasn’t around. However, if I wasn’t very annoyed by his behavior, which I recognized as planned, I did suffer from it; because my aunt truly thought I was what her lover (as she believed him to be) called me and treated me in every way like a complete infant. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t insist that I wear leading strings again.”
“At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn manner, to disclose a secret which I had known long before. He now placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account. He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in which he had undergone her conversation.—What shall I tell you, my dear Sophia?—Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to rival so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave as I should do, even upon the very first declaration—I wish I did not almost give him positive encouragement before we parted.
“At last, my lover (which is what he was) thought it was appropriate, in a very serious way, to reveal a secret I had known about for a long time. He now transferred all the love he had claimed to feel for my aunt onto me. He lamented, in very emotional terms, the encouragement she had given him and made a big deal about the boring hours he spent listening to her talk. —What should I tell you, my dear Sophia?—So I’ll admit the truth. I was happy with my guy. I was happy with my achievement. Competing with my aunt thrilled me; competing with so many other women fascinated me. In short, I’m afraid I didn’t act as I should have, even at his first declaration—I almost gave him clear encouragement before we said goodbye.”
“The Bath now talked loudly—I might almost say, roared against me. Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much, perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me from a company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man. And here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude to the kindness intended me by Mr Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I had followed, I had been a happy woman. `Child,' says he, `I am sorry to see the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As for your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his words), I should be heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to her. I never advise old women: for, if they take it into their heads to go to the devil, it is no more possible than worth while to keep them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy a better fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let me advise you therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with you again.' Many more things he said to me, which I have now forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at the time; for inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I could not be persuaded that women of quality would condescend to familiarity with such a person as he described.
“The Bath was now talking loudly—I might as well say, roaring against me. Several young women pretended to avoid me, not so much from any real suspicion but from a desire to get rid of me in a company where I was monopolizing their favorite guy. And I can't help but express my gratitude for the kindness shown to me by Mr. Nash, who took me aside one day and gave me advice that, if I had followed it, would have made me a happy woman. 'Child,' he said, 'I’m sorry to see the closeness between you and a guy who is completely unworthy of you, and I fear he will lead to your downfall. As for your old, unpleasant aunt, if it wouldn’t harm you or my pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I’m repeating his words), I would be very glad if that guy had everything that belongs to her. I never advise old women: if they decide to head to ruin, it’s impossible and not worth trying to stop them. Innocence, youth, and beauty deserve a better fate, and I want to save them from his grasp. So let me advise you, dear child, never let this guy get too close to you again.' He said many more things that I've now forgotten, and honestly, I paid very little attention to them at the time because my feelings went against everything he said; besides, I couldn’t believe that high-status women would lower themselves to be friendly with someone like he described.”
“But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married; imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine the maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination will suggest to you no more than what really happened.
“But I’m afraid, my dear, I’ll bore you with so many little details. To keep it short, just picture me married; picture me with my husband, at my aunt’s feet; and then imagine the craziest woman in an asylum, having a breakdown, and your imagination will suggest no more than what actually happened.”
“The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one else; for, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly, I believe she was then a little confounded at her disappointment. Since that time, I have written to her many letters, but never could obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the heavier, as she herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings: for, had it not been under the colour of paying his addresses to her, Mr Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances, I still flatter myself would not have been an easy conquest to such a person. Indeed, I believe I should not have erred so grossly in my choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I trusted totally to the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man for granted whom I saw so universally well received by the women. What is the reason, my dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the wisest and greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest fellows for companions and favourites? It raises my indignation to the highest pitch to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have been undone by fools.” Here she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter.
"The very next day, my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr. Fitzpatrick or me, and maybe to avoid everyone else too; because, although I’ve heard she later denied everything fiercely, I think she was a bit stunned by her disappointment at that moment. Since then, I’ve written her many letters, but I’ve never received a response, which honestly weighs on me, since she was, unintentionally, the cause of all my pain. If it hadn’t been for her, Mr. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t have found the chance to win my heart, which, under different circumstances, I still believe wouldn’t have been easy for someone like him to conquer. In fact, I think I wouldn’t have made such a terrible choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I completely trusted the opinions of others and foolishly assumed the worth of a man just because he was so widely welcomed by women. Why is it, my dear, that we, who have minds as sharp as the wisest and most accomplished men, often choose the dumbest guys as companions and favorites? It infuriates me to think of the many sensible women who have been led astray by fools.” Here she paused for a moment; but since Sophia didn’t respond, she continued as in the next chapter.
Chapter v. — In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
“We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding; for as to any reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of my fortune not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which I now wanted more than two years. My husband therefore was resolved to set out for Ireland; against which I remonstrated very earnestly, and insisted on a promise which he had made me before our marriage that I should never take this journey against my consent; and indeed I never intended to consent to it; nor will anybody, I believe, blame me for that resolution; but this, however, I never mentioned to my husband, and petitioned only for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the day, and to that day he obstinately adhered.
“We stayed in Bath for just two weeks after our wedding because there was no chance of making up with my aunt, and I couldn't access any of my inheritance until I turned 21, which was still over two years away. Therefore, my husband was determined to leave for Ireland, which I strongly opposed. I reminded him of the promise he made before we got married that I would never be forced to take this trip against my wishes, and I never planned to agree to it. I don’t think anyone would blame me for that decision. However, I never brought this up with my husband; I only asked for a month’s delay. But he had set the date, and he stubbornly stuck to it."
“The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his chair, and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was hardly out of the house when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which, I suppose, he had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together with his handkerchief. This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a letter, I made no scruple to open and read it; and indeed I read it so often that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then was the letter:
“The night before we were set to leave, while we were arguing this point with a lot of enthusiasm on both sides, he suddenly jumped up from his chair and left me without a word, saying he was heading to the rooms. He had barely stepped out of the house when I noticed a piece of paper on the floor, which I assume he had carelessly dropped along with his handkerchief. I picked it up and, finding it was a letter, I didn’t hesitate to open and read it; in fact, I read it so many times that I can almost recite it word for word. So here’s the letter:”
'To Mr Brian Fitzpatrick. 'SIR, 'YOURS received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner, as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one linsey-woolsey coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider, sir, how often you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this lady and t'other lady; but I can neither live on hopes or promises, nor will my woollen-draper take any such in payment. You tell me you are secure of having either the aunt or the niece, and that you might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you say is immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for once, and marry the first you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which doubt not your honouring, and am, Sir, your humble servant, 'SAM. COSGRAVE.'
'To Mr. Brian Fitzpatrick.' 'Sir, 'I've received your letter and I'm surprised that you would treat me this way, as I’ve never seen any of your money, except for one linsey-woolsey coat. Your bill is now over £150. Think about how often you’ve put me off with your plans to marry this lady or that lady; I can’t survive on hopes or promises, and my woolen dealer won’t accept those as payment. You say you’re sure you’ll marry either the aunt or the niece, and that you could have married the aunt by now, whose inheritance is huge, but you prefer the niece because she has ready cash. Please, sir, take a fool's advice for once and marry whoever you can find first. I hope you don’t mind me giving you advice, as I truly wish you well. I will draw on you in the next post in favor of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which I trust you will honor, and I am, Sir, your humble servant, 'Sam Cosgrave.'
“This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl—guess how this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with pleasure have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount my frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears before his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in my swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, `I hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; for the coach will be ready by six in the morning.' My patience was totally subdued by this provocation, and I answered, `No, sir, there is a letter still remains unpacked;' and then throwing it on the table I fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I could invent.
“This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl—guess how this letter affected me. You prefer the niece because of her ready money! If every one of those words had been a dagger, I would have gladly stabbed them into his heart; but I won't go into details about my frantic behavior at the time. I had pretty much spent all my tears before he got home, but enough of them were still visible in my swollen eyes. He slumped down into his chair, and we were both silent for a long time. Finally, in a haughty tone, he said, ‘I hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; the coach will be ready by six in the morning.’ My patience was completely pushed to its limit by this provocation, and I replied, ‘No, sir, there is still a letter left unpacked;’ and then, throwing it on the table, I started to berate him with the most bitter words I could think of.
“Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him I cannot say; but, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on this occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the most gentle means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that preference which he had given to myself, but denied with many oaths the having mentioned any such matter at all on account of the straits he was in for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to discover to me, was the only reason of his having so strenuously insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many violent protestations of love.
“Whether it was guilt, shame, or caution that held him back, I can't say; but even though he is the most passionate man, he didn't show any anger this time. Instead, he tried to calm me down in the gentlest way possible. He swore that the phrase in the letter I objected to the most wasn't his and that he had never written anything like it. He acknowledged mentioning his marriage and the preference he had for me, but he strongly denied having brought up any of that due to his financial troubles, which he said stemmed from neglecting his estate in Ireland for too long. He claimed that this was the only reason he was so insistent about our trip, something he couldn't bear to share with me. He then said several affectionate things and finished with a tender gesture and lots of heartfelt declarations of love.”
“There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word jointure in the taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this Mr Fitzpatrick well knew.——As I imagined, therefore, that the fellow must have inserted this of his own head, or from hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on that odious line on no better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not an advocate rather than a judge?—But why do I mention such a circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of my forgiveness?—In short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much, half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little more than a week arrived at the seat of Mr Fitzpatrick.
“There was one thing that really influenced my opinion of him, even though he didn’t bring it up, and that was the mention of 'jointure' in the tailor's letter, considering my aunt had never been married, which Mr. Fitzpatrick definitely knew. I figured that the guy must have included that on his own or from gossip, so I convinced myself he might have made that horrible comment based on no better information. What kind of logic is that, my dear? Wasn’t I acting more like a defender than a judge?—But why do I bring this up or use it to justify my forgiveness?—In short, even if he had done something twenty times worse, the love and affection he showed would have been enough for me to forgive him. I no longer had any objections to us leaving, so we set out the next morning, and in just over a week, we arrived at Mr. Fitzpatrick’s place.”
“Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which past during our journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.
"Your curiosity lets me skip talking about the things that happened during our journey; it would be really unpleasant to go through it all again, and just as uncomfortable for you to experience it with me."
“This seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been formerly inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the less room on account of the furniture; for indeed there was very little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us at the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me unintelligible, welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and melancholy, that it threw my spirits into the lowest dejection; which my husband discerning, instead of relieving, encreased by two or three malicious observations. `There are good houses, madam,' says he, `as you find, in other places besides England; but perhaps you had rather be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.'
“This place is an old mansion: if I were in one of those cheerful moods you’ve seen me in before, I could describe it to you in a ridiculous way. It looked like it used to belong to a gentleman. There was plenty of space, not that it was cluttered with furniture, because there wasn’t much in it at all. An old woman, who seemed as old as the house and looked a lot like the character Chamont mentions in The Orphan, greeted us at the gate. In a howl that was barely human and totally unintelligible to me, she welcomed her master home. Overall, the whole scene was so dark and depressing that it brought my spirits down to an all-time low; and my husband, noticing this, only made it worse with a couple of sarcastic comments. ‘There are nice houses, madam,’ he said, ‘as you’ll find in other places besides England; but maybe you’d prefer a dingy room in Bath.’”
“Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a cheerful good-natured companion to support and comfort her! But why do I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my companion, far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced me that I must have been wretched with him in any place, and in any condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you have never seen; for, indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but in a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though you have a father, he is not of that character. This surly fellow had formerly appeared to me the very reverse, and so he did still to every other person. Good heaven! how is it possible for a man to maintain a constant lie in his appearance abroad and in company, and to content himself with shewing disagreeable truth only at home? Here, my dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which they put on their tempers in the world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay and good-humoured my husband hath at any time been in company, the more sullen and morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible. My little comical ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others, have called so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he sung and whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable he was angry, and abused me: for, though he was never pleased with my good-humour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in him, yet my low spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to my repentance of having (as he said) married an Irishman.
"Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any situation, has a cheerful and good-natured partner to support and comfort her! But why do I think about happy circumstances only to make my own misery worse? My partner, far from lifting the gloom of loneliness, quickly proved to me that I would have been miserable with him anywhere, in any condition. In short, he was a grumpy guy, a type you probably haven't encountered; after all, no woman really sees it except in a father, a brother, or a husband; and, although you have a father, he isn't like that. This grumpy guy had once seemed to me to be just the opposite, and he still did to everyone else. Good heavens! How can a man maintain a constant lie in his appearance out in public and just show his unpleasant true self at home? Here, my dear, they make up for the uncomfortable restraint they impose on their temper in society; because I've noticed, the more cheerful and pleasant my husband has been around others, the more sullen and moody he would be at our next private meeting. How can I describe his cruelty? He was cold and unfeeling toward my affection. My little silly ways, which you, my Sophy, and others have found so charming, he dismissed with contempt. In my most serious moments, he would sing and whistle; and whenever I was completely down and unhappy, he would become angry and insult me: for, though he was never pleased with my cheerfulness, nor thought it had anything to do with my happiness with him, my low spirits always upset him, and he blamed it on my supposed regret for marrying an Irishman."
“You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I really forgot myself), that, when a woman makes an imprudent match in the sense of the world, that is, when she is not an arrant prostitute to pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and affection for her man. You will as easily believe that this affection may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly eradicate it. This contempt I now began to entertain for my husband, whom I now discovered to be—I must use the expression—an arrant blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long before; but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for the folly of those they like: besides, give me leave to tell you, it requires a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the disguises of gaiety and good breeding.
“You can easily understand, my dear Graveairs (forgive me, I really lost my train of thought), that when a woman makes a questionable choice in the eyes of society, meaning she isn’t just focused on financial gain, she must have some feelings and affection for her partner. You would also believe that this affection can fade; in fact, I assure you, contempt can completely wipe it out. This is the contempt I started to feel for my husband, who I now realized to be—I must say it—an absolute fool. You might wonder why I didn’t see this sooner, but women tend to come up with countless excuses for the foolishness of those they care about; furthermore, I must tell you, it takes a keen eye to see a fool through the masks of cheerfulness and good manners.”
“It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as I confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his company; and indeed I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it; for our house was now most elegantly furnished, our cellars well stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great abundance. As my gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with great hospitality, so his neighbours resorted to him with great alacrity; and sports and drinking consumed so much of his time, that a small part of his conversation, that is to say, of his ill-humours, fell to my share.
“It’s easy to imagine that once I started to dislike my husband, as I admit I quickly did, I would also grow to dislike his company. Luckily, I wasn’t bothered by him much at all; our house was beautifully furnished, our cellars were well stocked, and we had plenty of dogs and horses. So, while he entertained our neighbors with great hospitality, they happily came to visit him. His time was mostly taken up by sports and drinking, leaving me with only a small portion of his conversation, which meant mostly dealing with his bad moods.”
“Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided all other disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some which constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being relieved from them. These companions were my own racking thoughts, which plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In this situation I past through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you can, to yourself, what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the man I scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a lying-in (ten times more painful in such a circumstance than the worst labour can be when one endures it for a man one loves) in a desert, or rather, indeed, a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without any of those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings of our sex at that season.”
“It would have been so much better for me if I could have just avoided all the annoying people around me; but, unfortunately, I was stuck with some who constantly tormented me, and it only got worse since I saw no chance of getting away from them. These companions were my own troubling thoughts that plagued and haunted me day and night. In this situation, I went through a nightmare that words can't describe. Just imagine, my dear, if you can, what I must have gone through. I became a mother with the man I despised, hated, and loathed. I experienced all the pain and suffering of giving birth (which is ten times more agonizing in such a situation than the worst labor can be when enduring it for someone you love) in a place that felt deserted, or rather, a chaotic party scene, without a friend, without a companion, or any of those comforting things that often help ease, and sometimes even outweigh, the pain women suffer during that time.”
Chapter vi. — In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful consternation.
Mrs Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of Sophia; for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety, and left her no appetite but what Mrs Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her relation.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was continuing her story when dinner was brought in, much to Sophia's dismay; the troubles of her friend had heightened her anxiety and left her with no appetite except for the one that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was meant to fulfill with her tale.
The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the same respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on had the ladies arrived in a coach and six. -- The married lady seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than was her cousin; for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted, saying, “Perhaps all may yet end better than either you or I expect.”
The landlord showed up with a plate under his arm, displaying the same respect on his face and in his manner as he would have if the ladies had arrived in a fancy carriage. The married lady seemed less affected by her own troubles than her cousin did; the former ate very heartily, while the latter could barely get down a bite. Sophia also looked more worried and sad than the other lady, who, noticing her friend’s distress, urged her to stay hopeful, saying, “Maybe things will turn out better than either of us expects.”
Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and was resolved not to omit it. “I am sorry, madam,” cries he, “that your ladyship can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after so long fasting. I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything, for, as madam there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps some folks who have given other folks the slip may get to London before they are overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they will find people who will be very ready to receive them.”
Our landlord thought he finally had a chance to speak up and was determined not to miss it. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “that you can’t eat; you must be hungry after such a long fast. I hope you’re not worried about anything because, as that lady said, things might turn out better than anyone expects. A gentleman who was just here brought some great news; and maybe some people who have managed to slip away will get to London before they're caught. If they do, I’m sure they’ll find folks who will happily welcome them.”
All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see and hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore immediately concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was known, and pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of the power of speech; which she no sooner recovered than she desired the landlord to send his servants out of the room, and then, addressing herself to him, said, “I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech you—nay, I am convinced, if you have any compassion or goodness, you will not betray us.”
All people who feel threatened interpret everything they see and hear as a part of that threat. Sophia immediately concluded from the previous conversation that her father knew about her and was pursuing her. She was overwhelmed with fear and was speechless for a few minutes; as soon as she regained her voice, she asked the landlord to send his staff out of the room. Then, turning to him, she said, “I see, sir, that you know who we are, but I beg you—no, I'm sure that if you have any kindness or decency, you won’t betray us.”
“I betray your ladyship!” quoth the landlord; “no (and then he swore several very hearty oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten thousand pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my life yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife can witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your horse, and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's service to the grave; but what signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To be sure some people this morning would have thought of getting a reward; but no such thought ever entered into my head. I would sooner starve than take any reward for betraying your ladyship.”
“I betray you, my lady!” said the landlord; “no (and then he swore several strong oaths); I would rather be cut into a thousand pieces. I despise all treachery. Me! I’ve never betrayed anyone in my life, and I definitely won’t start with such a lovely lady as you. Everyone would think badly of me if I did, especially since it’s in your power to reward me soon. My wife can vouch for me; I recognized you the moment you stepped into the house: I said it was your honor before I helped you off your horse, and I’ll carry the bruises I got while helping you to my grave; but what does that matter, as long as I saved you? Of course, some people this morning might have thought about getting a reward, but that never crossed my mind. I would rather starve than accept any reward for betraying you.”
“I promise you, sir,” says Sophia, “if it be ever in my power to reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity.”
“I promise you, sir,” Sophia says, “if I ever have the chance to reward you, you won't regret your generosity.”
“Alack-a-day, madam!” answered the landlord; “in your ladyship's power! Heaven put it as much into your will! I am only afraid your honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I refused—refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure you might have been in some houses;—but, for my part, would not methinks for the world have your ladyship wrong me so much as to imagine I ever thought of betraying you, even before I heard the good news.”
"Alas, madam!" the landlord replied. "It's all up to you! I hope it’s in your will! I just worry that you might forget someone as humble as an innkeeper; but if you do remember, I hope you don’t forget the reward I turned down—turned down! Well, I mean I would have turned it down, and I guess it can be considered turning it down since I could have definitely had it; and you could have been in some places—but honestly, I wouldn’t want you to think for a moment that I ever considered betraying you, even before I heard the good news."
“What news, pray?” says Sophia, something eagerly.
“What’s the news, please?” Sophia asks eagerly.
“Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?” cries the landlord; “nay, like enough, for I heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I had never heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would have betrayed your honour! no, if I would, may I—” Here he subjoined several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted, and begged to know what he meant by the news.—He was going to answer, when Mrs Honour came running into the room, all pale and breathless, and cried out, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they are come, they are come!” These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but Mrs Fitzpatrick asked Honour who were come?—“Who?” answered she, “why, the French; several hundred thousands of them are landed, and we shall be all murdered and ravished.”
“Hasn’t your lady heard it, then?” the landlord exclaimed; “no, probably not, because I just heard it a few minutes ago; and if I had never heard it, may the devil take me this instant if I would ever betray your honor! No, if I would, may I—” He then added several terrible curses, which Sophia finally interrupted, asking what he meant by the news.—He was about to respond when Mrs. Honour rushed into the room, all pale and out of breath, and shouted, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they have come, they have come!” These words nearly froze Sophia’s blood; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked Honour who had come?—“Who?” she replied, “the French; several hundred thousand of them have landed, and we will all be murdered and raped.”
As a miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value twenty shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire, turns pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful palaces only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes instantly to himself, and smiles at his good fortunes: or as (for we dislike something in the former simile) the tender mother, when terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but when she is told that little master is safe, and the Victory only, with twelve hundred brave men, gone to the bottom, life and sense again return, maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the general benevolence which at another time would have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in her mind;—so Sophia, than whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling the general calamity of her country, found such immediate satisfaction from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken by her father, that the arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown her, and said “she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared somebody else was come.”
As a miser living in a nice city with a cottage worth twenty shillings, when he hears news of a fire from afar, he turns pale and trembles at the thought of losing his home. But when he discovers that only the beautiful palaces have burned down and his cottage is safe, he quickly regains his composure and smiles at his good luck. Or, to use a different example, a loving mother, terrified at the thought that her beloved son has drowned, is struck speechless and almost dead from shock. But when she learns that her son is safe and that only the ship Victory, along with twelve hundred brave men, has sunk, her life and senses return, and her maternal love enjoys the sudden relief from her fears. The general compassion she would normally feel for the tragic loss lies dormant in her mind. Similarly, Sophia, who was deeply capable of feeling the grief of her country's misfortune, found immediate comfort from the fear of being caught by her father, so much so that the arrival of the French hardly affected her. She gently scolded her maid for the scare she had caused and said, “I’m glad it’s not worse; I was afraid someone else had come.”
“Ay, ay,” quoth the landlord, smiling, “her ladyship knows better things; she knows the French are our very best friends, and come over hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make Old England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to tell your ladyship the news.—His honour's majesty, Heaven bless him, hath given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the landlord, smiling, “she knows better; she knows the French are our best friends and they’ve come here for our benefit. They’re the ones who will make England thrive again. I bet she thought the duke was coming, and that would be enough to scare her. I was just about to tell you the news.—His royal highness, God bless him, has managed to evade the duke and is making his way to London as quickly as possible, and ten thousand French troops have landed to join him on the way.”
Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman who related it; but, as she still imagined he knew her (for she could not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show any dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the cloth from the table, withdrew; but at his departure frequently repeated his hopes of being remembered hereafter.
Sophia wasn’t very happy about this news, nor with the guy who shared it; however, since she still thought he knew her (as she couldn’t possibly suspect the actual truth), she didn't dare show any displeasure. Now the landlord, having cleared the table, left; but as he left, he kept expressing his hopes of being remembered in the future.
The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being known at this house; for she still applied to herself many things which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore ordered her maid to pump out of him by what means he had become acquainted with her person, and who had offered him the reward for betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in readiness by four in the morning, at which hour Mrs Fitzpatrick promised to bear her company; and then, composing herself as well as she could, she desired that lady to continue her story.
Sophia’s mind was far from at ease thinking about being recognized in this house; she kept connecting many things the landlord had said to Jenny Cameron to herself. So, she instructed her maid to find out how he knew her and who had put him up to betraying her. She also arranged for the horses to be ready by four in the morning, the time when Mrs. Fitzpatrick promised to join her. Then, doing her best to calm herself, she asked that lady to keep telling her story.
Chapter vii. — In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
While Mrs Honour, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress, ordered a bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to partake of it, Mrs Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.
While Mrs. Honour, following her mistress's orders, got a bowl of punch and invited my landlord and landlady to enjoy it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick continued her story.
“Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our neighbourhood were of my husband's acquaintance. Among these there was a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a woman, so agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our first knowing each other, which was soon after my lying-in, we were almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to make myself equally agreeable to her.
“Most of the officers stationed in a nearby town were friends of my husband. Among them was a lieutenant, a rather handsome man, who was married to a woman so pleasant in her personality and conversation that from the moment we met, shortly after I gave birth, we became almost inseparable friends; I was fortunate enough to be just as pleasant to her.”
“The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was frequently of our parties; indeed he was very little with my husband, and no more than good breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost constantly at our house. My husband often expressed much dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to his; he was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty curse for drawing away his companions; saying, `I ought to be d—n'd for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by making a milksop of him.'
“The lieutenant, who was neither a drunk nor an athlete, often joined our gatherings; in fact, he spent very little time with my husband and only came around because of good manners, as he practically lived at our place. My husband frequently expressed his frustration over the lieutenant choosing to hang out with me instead of him; he got really angry with me because of it and gave me plenty of harsh words for stealing away his friend, saying, ‘I should be damned for turning one of the best guys in the world into a softie.’”
“You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger of my husband arose from my depriving him of a companion; for the lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that I am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to come to the house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most rancorous kind of envy, the envy of superiority of understanding. The wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his, by a man of whom he could not entertain the least jealousy. O my dear Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a man, as is most probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to submit to such a superiority.—Promise me, Sophy, you will take this advice; for you will hereafter find its importance.” “It is very likely I shall never marry at all,” answered Sophia; “I think, at least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any defects before marriage; and I promise you I would rather give up my own than see any such afterwards.” “Give up your understanding!” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “oh, fie, child! I will not believe so meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up; but never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the wife in so many instances, if she had intended we should all of us have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of sense never expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one notable example; for though he had a very good understanding, he always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better. And this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.
"You would be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you think that my husband's anger came from losing a companion; the lieutenant was not someone a fool could enjoy being around. Even if I entertained that idea, my husband had no right to blame me for losing his companion, since I’m sure it was my conversation that made him want to come to our house in the first place. No, child, it was envy—the worst kind of envy, the kind that stems from feeling inferior in understanding. He couldn't stand seeing my conversations preferred over his by a man he couldn't possibly feel jealous of. Oh my dear Sophy, you're a smart woman; if you marry someone, which is very likely, who is less capable than you, make sure to test his temperament before marriage and see if he can handle being outshone. Promise me, Sophy, you'll take this advice; you'll realize how important it is later on." "It's very likely I may never marry at all," Sophia replied. "At the very least, I wouldn't marry a man if I notice any flaws in his understanding beforehand, and I promise you I’d rather give up my own than witness such flaws after." "Give up your understanding!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Oh, come on, child! I won’t think so poorly of you. I might be convinced to give up everything else, but never this. Nature wouldn’t have given this superiority to women so often if she intended for us all to surrender it to men. In fact, sensible men never expect this from us; the lieutenant I just mentioned was a prime example. Even though he was quite smart, he always admitted (and it was true) that his wife was smarter. And perhaps this was one reason for the hatred my tyrant had for her."
“Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an ugly b— (for, indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon earth at the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said, he wondered what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company: since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country; and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way; for the ladies there are at least no better than the mere country ladies here; and I think I need make no other excuse to you for declining any intimacy with them.
"Before he would be controlled by a wife, he said, especially one as unattractive as her (for she certainly wasn't a classic beauty, but she was quite charming and very refined), he would rather see all the women on earth go to hell, which was a phrase he often used. He expressed his disbelief at what I found so captivating about her company: since this woman, he said, has joined us, it seems like the end of your beloved reading, which you claimed to enjoy so much that you couldn't find the time to visit the ladies in this country; I must admit I had been a bit rude in this regard, since the ladies there are at least no better than the average country ladies here; and I don't think I need to offer any other excuse to you for avoiding any closeness with them."
“This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the while the lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was contented to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner above mentioned by my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he was frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin, and once made a journey of two months to London: in all which journeys I thought it a very singular happiness that he never once desired my company; nay, by his frequent censures on men who could not travel, as he phrased it, without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that, had I been never so desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have been in vain; but, Heaven knows, such wishes were very far from my thoughts.
“This correspondence, however, lasted a whole year, while the lieutenant was stationed in that town; I was willing to put up with the constant insults from my husband during that time when he was home. He was often away in Dublin for a month at a time and once took a two-month trip to London. Throughout all these trips, I felt oddly fortunate that he never once wanted me along; in fact, through his frequent criticisms of men who couldn't travel without their wives, he made it clear that even if I had wanted to go with him, it wouldn’t have mattered. But, honestly, such wishes were far from my mind.”
“At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day long. How many books do you think I read in three months?” “I can't guess, indeed, cousin,” answered Sophia. “Perhaps half a score.” “Half a score! half a thousand, child!” answered the other. “I read a good deal in Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.
“At last my friend was taken away from me, and I was once again left alone, dealing with the frustrating conversations in my own head, and turning to books for comfort. I now read almost all day long. How many books do you think I read in three months?” “I really can't guess, cousin,” answered Sophia. “Maybe half a dozen.” “Half a dozen! How about half a thousand, kid!” replied the other. “I read a lot in Daniel's English History of France; a ton in Plutarch's Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.
“During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I thought, moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to any of them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application.” Here she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia, said, “Methinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which reproaches me of a neglect in another place, where I should have met with a kinder return.” “Indeed, dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “your story is an apology for any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of a remissness, without so good an excuse.—Yet pray proceed; for I long, though I tremble, to hear the end.”
“During this time, I wrote three desperate and, I thought, heartfelt letters to my aunt; but since I didn’t get a response to any of them, my pride wouldn’t let me keep asking.” Here she stopped, and, looking intently at Sophia, said, “I think, my dear, I see something in your eyes that accuses me of neglecting someone else, where I should have received a kinder response.” “Indeed, dear Harriet,” Sophia replied, “your story excuses any neglect; but I must admit, I feel I've been lax, without such a good reason. —But please continue; I’ve been eager, though afraid, to hear how it ends.”
Thus, then, Mrs Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:—“My husband now took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of three months; during the greater part of this time I led a life which nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable; for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind, like mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate. What added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not that I pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which I believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I resolved, in every instance, to discharge the duty of the tenderest mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie heavy on our hands.
So, Mrs. Fitzpatrick continued her story: “My husband went on a second trip to England, where he stayed for over three months. During most of that time, I lived in a way that could only be considered bearable if I had experienced something worse; because complete isolation can never feel right to a social person like me, unless it frees me from the presence of those I despise. What made my misery even worse was losing my little baby: not that I claim to have had the kind of intense love for it that I believe I might have felt under different circumstances; but I made it my duty to act as the most caring mother in every situation, and this responsibility kept me from feeling the weight of the heaviest burden of all, when it can even be said to weigh heavily on our hearts.”
“I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen nobody all that time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of Ireland to visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and then I gave her a pressing invitation to return; for she was a very agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest.
“I had spent a full ten weeks almost completely alone, seeing nobody during that time except my servants and a few visitors, when a young lady, a relative of my husband, came from a far part of Ireland to visit me. She had previously stayed at my house for a week, and I had offered her a strong invitation to come back; she was a very pleasant woman and had enhanced her good natural qualities with a proper education. In fact, she was a welcomed guest to me.”
“A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits, without enquiring the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the young lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, `Though politeness had prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations of his behaviour, yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt great concern upon that account; but none more than herself.' And after some more general discourse on this head, which I own I could not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution and enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound secret—that my husband kept a mistress.
A few days after she arrived, noticing that I was really down, without asking why—because she already knew—this young woman started to feel sorry for me. She said, "Even though politeness stopped me from complaining to my husband's family about how he treats me, they all noticed it and were very concerned, especially me." After some more general talk on the topic, which I couldn't help but support, she finally shared a big secret after a lot of careful consideration and secrecy: my husband had a mistress.
“You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost insensibility—Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this? Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at others having possession even of what we despise? Or are we not rather abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our vanity? What think you, Sophia?”
“You might think I heard this news completely unfazed—if that’s what you think, you’re mistaken. My contempt didn’t suppress my anger toward my husband; instead, hate flared up in this situation. What could be the reason for this? Are we so horribly selfish that we care about others having something we look down on? Or are we just incredibly vain, and is this the biggest blow to our vanity? What do you think, Sophia?”
“I don't know, indeed,” answered Sophia; “I have never troubled myself with any of these deep contemplations; but I think the lady did very ill in communicating to you such a secret.”
“I honestly don’t know,” Sophia replied. “I’ve never really thought about any of these deep questions; but I believe the lady did a really bad thing by sharing such a secret with you.”
“And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural,” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “and, when you have seen and read as much as myself, you will acknowledge it to be so.”
“And yet, my dear, this behavior is natural,” replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick; “and, when you have seen and read as much as I have, you will admit it.”
“I am sorry to hear it is natural,” returned Sophia; “for I want neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very dishonourable and very ill-natured: nay, it is surely as ill-bred to tell a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them of their own.”
“I’m sorry to hear that it’s natural,” Sophia replied. “I don’t need reading or experience to know that it’s very dishonorable and very mean-spirited. In fact, it’s just as rude to tell a husband or wife about each other's faults as it is to point out their own.”
“Well,” continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, “my husband at last returned; and, if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him now more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly nothing so much weakens our contempt, as an injury done to our pride or our vanity.
“Well,” continued Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “my husband finally came back, and if I know my own feelings at all, I hated him more than ever; but I found him a bit less despicable: because nothing diminishes our contempt as much as a blow to our pride or vanity.”
“He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behaviour the first week of our marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he might, possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of it, love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too restless to remain contented without the gratification which it receives from its object; and one can no more be inclined to love without loving than we can have eyes without seeing. When a husband, therefore, ceases to be the object of this passion, it is most probable some other man—I say, my dear, if your husband grows indifferent to you—if you once come to despise him—I say—that is—if you have the passion of love in you—Lud! I have bewildered myself so—but one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose the concatenation of ideas, as Mr Locke says:—in short, the truth is—in short, I scarce know what it is; but, as I was saying, my husband returned, and his behaviour, at first, greatly surprized me; but he soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me to account for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of my fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do without my assistance; and to obtain this favour was the whole and sole motive of all the fondness which he now put on.
“He now acted so differently towards me compared to how he had recently behaved, and it reminded me so much of his demeanor during the first week of our marriage that, if I had any feelings left for him, he might have rekindled my affection. However, while hate can replace contempt and might even conquer it, I don’t believe love can do the same. The reality is that love is too restless to stay satisfied without the attention it craves from its object; you can’t feel love without actually loving, just as you can’t have eyes without seeing. So when a husband stops being the focus of that love, it’s likely that another man will take that place—I mean, my dear, if your husband becomes indifferent to you—once you start to despise him—if you still feel love for him—oh dear! I’ve confused myself—people tend to lose their train of thought in such abstract reflections, as Mr. Locke would say:—to be brief, I’m not quite sure what I’m getting at; but as I was saying, my husband returned and his behavior surprised me at first; however, he quickly explained the reason behind it and helped me understand. In short, he had spent all the cash from my fortune; and since he couldn’t mortgage his own estate any further, he wanted to raise money for his lavish lifestyle by selling a small estate of mine, which he couldn’t do without my help; and that was the only reason for all the affection he was now showing me.”
“With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told him truly, that, had I been possessed of the Indies at our first marriage, he might have commanded it all; for it had been a constant maxim with me, that where a woman disposes of her heart, she should always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind, long ago, to restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to retain what little remained of the latter.
“With this, I firmly refused to comply. I told him, and I was honest about it, that if I had owned the Indies at our first marriage, he could have had everything; because it had always been my belief that when a woman gives her heart, she should also secure her fortune. But since he had been so kind to give back my heart long ago, I was determined to keep whatever little remained of my fortune.”
“I will not describe to you the passion into which these words, and the resolute air in which they were spoken, threw him: nor will I trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came, you may be well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it did come, with all the embellishments which anger and disdain could bestow upon it.
“I won’t go into detail about the passion these words and the determined way they were said stirred in him, nor will I burden you with the entire scene that followed between us. You can be sure that the story of the mistress came out, and it came out loaded with all the embellishments that anger and contempt could add to it.
“Mr Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate himself; but took a method which almost equally confounded me. What was this but recrimination? He affected to be jealous:—he may, for aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper; nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have put it into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure my reputation. My fame, I thank heaven, hath been always as spotless as my life; and let falsehood itself accuse that if it dare. No, my dear Graveairs, however provoked, however ill-treated, however injured in my love, I have firmly resolved never to give the least room for censure on this account.—And yet, my dear, there are some people so malicious, some tongues so venomous, that no innocence can escape them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look, the least familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you, ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all that.—But where was I? O let me see, I told you my husband was jealous—And of whom, I pray?—Why, of whom but the lieutenant I mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a year and more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if, indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit in order to abuse me.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed a bit stunned by this, and more confused than I had ever seen him, though his thoughts are always pretty muddled, that’s for sure. He didn’t try to defend himself, but took an approach that left me just as perplexed. What was this but blaming me back? He pretended to be jealous—he might actually have a jealous streak in his nature; in fact, he must have been born with it, or else the devil must have put it in his head because I challenge anyone to tarnish my character: even the most scandalous gossip hasn't dared to criticize my reputation. I’m grateful that my reputation has always been as spotless as my life; let falsehood itself accuse me if it dares. No, my dear Graveairs, no matter how provoked, mistreated, or hurt in my love, I have firmly resolved never to give anyone a reason to criticize me on that front.—And yet, my dear, some people are so malicious, some tongues so toxic, that no amount of innocence can outrun them. The most casual word, the most innocent look, a little too much familiarity, the simplest act of kindness, will be twisted and exaggerated into something outrageous by some. But I disregard it, my dear Graveairs, I really do despise all such gossip. I assure you, no such malice has ever caused me a moment of discomfort. No, I promise you I’m above all that.—But where was I? Oh, let me see, I told you my husband was jealous—jealous of whom, I wonder?—Why, of whom else but the lieutenant I mentioned before! He had to look back over a year ago to find any reason for this strange passion, if he truly felt any, and wasn’t just pretending to mess with me.”
“But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short, then, after many scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so heartily on my side, that Mr Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of doors; when he found I was neither to be soothed nor bullied into compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will conclude he beat me; but this, though he hath approached very near to it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room, without suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a servant every day made my bed, and brought me my food.
“But I've already tired you with too many details. I'll wrap up my story quickly. In short, after many unworthy scenes that my cousin supported me through so passionately that Mr. Fitzpatrick eventually kicked her out, he realized that I couldn't be calmed or intimidated into compliance. So, he resorted to some pretty extreme measures. You might think he hit me; he got pretty close, but he never actually did. He locked me in my room and wouldn’t let me have any pen, ink, paper, or books. A servant came every day to make my bed and bring me my meals."
“When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a visit, and, with the voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much the same, of a tyrant, asked me, `If I would yet comply?' I answered, very stoutly, `That I would die first.' `Then so you shall, and be d—nd!' cries he; `for you shall never go alive out of this room.'
“When I had been imprisoned for a week, he came to visit me and, using a tone like a schoolteacher—or often, a bully—asked me, ‘Will you comply now?’ I replied firmly, ‘I would rather die first.’ ‘Then that’s how it will be, and damn you!’ he shouted; ‘you will never leave this room alive.’”
“Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission; when, one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for some short time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an accident happened.—I—at a time when I began to give way to the utmost despair——everything would be excusable at such a time—at that very time I received——But it would take up an hour to tell you all particulars.—In one word, then (for I will not tire you with circumstances), gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door, and set me at liberty.
“Here I stayed for another two weeks; and, to be honest, my resolve was almost broken, and I started thinking about giving in; when, one day, while my husband was away for a short trip, the best luck imaginable struck—just when I was at my lowest point—anything would be understood in such a moment—at that exact moment I received—But it would take an hour to explain all the details. In short, to avoid boring you with the specifics, money, the universal key to all locks, opened my door and set me free.”
“I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage to England; and was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself into the protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would afford it me. My husband overtook me last night at the inn where I lay, and which you left a few minutes before me; but I had the good luck to escape him, and to follow you.
“I hurried to Dublin, where I quickly got a ticket to England; then I set off for Bath, hoping to seek refuge with my aunt, your father, or any relative who could help me. My husband caught up with me last night at the inn where I was staying, just after you left; but I was fortunate enough to avoid him and continue after you."
“And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it is to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its dullness.”
“And so, my dear, this concludes my story: it’s certainly a tragic one for me; but maybe I should instead apologize to you for how boring it is.”
Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity you from my soul!——But what could you expect? Why, why, would you marry an Irishman?”
Sophia let out a deep sigh and replied, “Honestly, Harriet, I truly feel sorry for you! But what did you expect? Why on earth would you marry an Irishman?”
“Upon my word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is unjust. There are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any among the English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me, rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”—“Can no man,” said Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, “do you think, make a bad husband, who is not a fool?” “That,” answered the other, “is too general a negative; but none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the worst husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of sense rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well.”
“Honestly,” her cousin replied, “your criticism is unfair. There are men among the Irish who are just as worthy and honorable as those among the English; in fact, to tell the truth, generosity of spirit seems to be more common among them. I've seen good husbands there too, and I doubt those are very common in England. Ask me instead what I expected when I married a fool, and I’ll tell you a hard truth: I didn’t realize he was one.” “Can no man,” Sophia said in a very quiet and changed voice, “do you think, be a bad husband if he’s not a fool?” “That,” the other replied, “is too broad of a statement; but none are as likely as a fool to be a bad husband. Among the people I know, the silliest guys are the worst husbands; and I’ll confidently say that a sensible man rarely treats a wife who deserves well very poorly.”
Chapter viii. — A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an unexpected friend of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related—not what follows, but what hath gone before in this history: for which reason the reader will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.
Sophia, at her cousin's request, shared not what happens next, but what has happened before in this story. For this reason, I think the reader will forgive me for not repeating it again.
One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative, namely, that she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning to the end, than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called a kind of dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady.—But so it was.
One comment I can’t help but make about her story is that she mentioned Jones no more than if he didn't exist at all. I won’t try to explain or excuse this. In fact, if this is considered a form of dishonesty, it seems even more inexcusable given how open and sincere the other lady was. But that’s just how it was.
Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived in the room where the two ladies were sitting a noise, not unlike, in loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel; nor, in shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to screech owls; or, indeed, more like (for what animal can resemble a human voice?) to those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems to derive its name from a duplicity of tongues, issue from the mouths, and sometimes from the nostrils, of those fair river nymphs, ycleped of old the Naïades; in the vulgar tongue translated oyster-wenches; for when, instead of the antient libations of milk and honey and oil, the rich distillation from the juniper-berry, or, perhaps, from malt, hath, by the early devotion of their votaries, been poured forth in great abundance, should any daring tongue with unhallowed license prophane, i.e., depreciate, the delicate fat Milton oyster, the plaice sound and firm, the flounder as much alive as when in the water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine cod alive but a few hours ago, or any other of the various treasures which those water-deities who fish the sea and rivers have committed to the care of the nymphs, the angry Naïades lift up their immortal voices, and the prophane wretch is struck deaf for his impiety.
Just as Sophia finished telling her story, a noise erupted in the room where the two ladies were sitting, loud like a pack of hounds just released from their kennel; shrill like cats yowling or like screech owls; or, more accurately (since what animal can really mimic a human voice?) like those sounds that come from the lovely beings at the gates named for their duality of tongues, originating from the mouths, and sometimes the nostrils, of those beautiful river nymphs, known in the past as the Naiads; or, in simpler terms, oyster-wenches; because when, instead of the traditional offerings of milk, honey, and oil, a rich drink from the juniper berry, or maybe from malt, has been generously poured out by their loyal worshippers, any bold person who dares to disrespect, i.e., criticize, the exquisite fat Milton oysters, the firm and sound plaice, the flounder still lively as if in the water, the shrimp as large as a prawn, the fine cod that was alive just hours before, or any of the various treasures that those water deities who fish the seas and rivers have entrusted to the nymphs, the furious Naiads raise their immortal voices, and the disrespectful individual is struck deaf for their impiety.
Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below; and soon the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to approach nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs, it at last entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to drop all metaphor and figure, Mrs Honour, having scolded violently below-stairs, and continued the same all the way up, came in to her mistress in a most outrageous passion, crying out, “What doth your ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the master of this house, hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand it out to my face, that your ladyship is that nasty, stinking wh—re (Jenny Cameron they call her), that runs about the country with the Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy villain had the assurance to tell me that your ladyship had owned yourself to be so; but I have clawed the rascal; I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My lady! says I, you saucy scoundrel; my lady is meat for no pretenders. She is a young lady of as good fashion, and family, and fortune, as any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great Squire Western, sirrah? She is his only daughter; she is——, and heiress to all his great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch wh—re by such a varlet!—To be sure I wish I had knocked his brains out with the punch-bowl.”
The noise from one of the rooms below was overwhelming; soon the thunder, which had been rumbling in the distance, grew louder and moved closer, finally making its way upstairs into the room where the ladies were. To get straight to the point, Mrs. Honour, having shouted angrily downstairs and continuing all the way up, burst into her mistress's room in a furious rage, exclaiming, “What do you think, my lady? Can you believe that this brazen scoundrel, the master of this house, had the audacity to tell me, right to my face, that you are that filthy, stinking wh—re (they call her Jenny Cameron) who runs around with the Pretender? That lying, insolent man even had the nerve to say that you had admitted it! But I gave him a piece of my mind; I left marks from my nails on his disrespectful face. My lady! I said, you insolent brute; my lady is not for pretenders. She is a young woman of the finest class, family, and wealth in Somersetshire. Haven't you heard of the great Squire Western, you rascal? She is his only daughter and the heiress to all his vast estate. For such a lowlife to call my lady a filthy Scottish wh—re! I really wish I had knocked his brains out with the punch bowl.”
The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this occasion Honour had herself caused, by having in her passion discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord sufficiently accounted for those passages which Sophia had before mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account; nor could she, upon the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour, and she cried, “Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship would have made a laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an impudent low rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know, for taking your part, since proffered service, they say, stinks; but to be sure I could never bear to hear a lady of mine called whore.—Nor will I bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes out who dares for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the contrary. Nobody ever could say the least ill of the character of any lady that ever I waited upon.”
The main anxiety Sophia felt at that moment was caused by Honour, who had in her anger revealed her identity. However, since this misunderstanding from the landlord explained the situations Sophia had previously misinterpreted, she felt somewhat relieved; in fact, she couldn't help but smile. This infuriated Honour, who exclaimed, “Honestly, madam, I didn't think you'd make a joke out of this. To be called a whore by such a brazen lowlife. You might be upset with me, for all I know, for defending you—after all, they say that offered help is often unwelcome—but I could never stand to hear any lady of mine called a whore.—And I won’t tolerate it. I know your ladyship is as virtuous as any woman who has ever set foot on English soil, and I will scratch out the eyes of any scoundrel who dares to even imply otherwise. No one has ever said a single bad thing about the character of any lady I’ve ever served.”
Hinc illae lachrymae; in plain truth, Honour had as much love for her mistress as most servants have, that is to say—But besides this, her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited on; for she thought her own was in a very close manner connected with it. In proportion as the character of her mistress was raised, hers likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it; and, on the contrary, she thought the one could not be lowered without the other.
Hence those tears; to be honest, Honour had as much affection for her mistress as most servants do, which is to say—But besides this, her pride forced her to uphold the reputation of the lady she served; she believed her own was closely tied to it. As her mistress's status improved, she believed hers did too; conversely, she thought that if one fell, the other would as well.
On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story. “The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day, from a house where she had made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his mistress the reason of his being in that condition, answered, `I have been fighting, madam, with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a wh—re.' `You blockhead,' replied Mrs Gwynn, `at this rate you must fight every day of your life; why, you fool, all the world knows it.' `Do they?' cries the fellow, in a muttering voice, after he had shut the coach-door, `they shan't call me a whore's footman for all that.'”
On this subject, dear reader, I need to pause for a moment to share a story. “The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping out one day from a house where she had made a brief visit, got into her coach and noticed a huge crowd gathered, and her footman all bloody and dirty. When she asked him why he was in that state, he replied, 'I've been fighting, madam, with a rude jerk who called you a w—re.' 'You fool,' Mrs. Gwynn said, 'at this rate, you'll have to fight every day of your life; everyone knows that.' 'Do they?' the footman muttered, after he had shut the coach door. 'They won't call me a whore's footman for that.'”
Thus the passion of Mrs Honour appears natural enough, even if it were to be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was another cause of her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind our reader of a circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed certain liquors, which, being applied to our passions, or to fire, produce effects the very reverse of those produced by water, as they serve to kindle and inflame, rather than to extinguish. Among these, the generous liquor called punch is one. It was not, therefore, without reason, that the learned Dr Cheney used to call drinking punch pouring liquid fire down your throat.
So, Mrs. Honour's intense feelings seem pretty understandable, even if we can't explain them otherwise; however, there was actually another reason for her anger that we should remind our readers about, which was mentioned in the earlier comparison. There are certain drinks that, when they hit our emotions or fire, create the exact opposite effects of water, as they ignite and intensify rather than douse. One of these drinks is the rich beverage known as punch. That's why the knowledgeable Dr. Cheney used to refer to drinking punch as pouring liquid fire down your throat.
Now, Mrs Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down her throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her pericranium and blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed to keep her residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the heart, and there inflamed the noble passion of pride. So that, upon the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage of the waiting-woman; though at first sight we must confess the cause seems inadequate to the effect.
Now, Mrs. Honour had unfortunately poured so much of this strong drink down her throat that the fumes started rising into her head and clouding her judgment, which is supposed to take up residence there, while the heat from her stomach easily reached her heart and ignited the fierce emotion of pride. So overall, we shouldn't be surprised by the intense anger of the waiting-woman; even though at first glance, the cause might seem insufficient for such a reaction.
Sophia and her cousin both did all in their power to extinguish these flames which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at length prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the fire, having consumed all the fuel which the language affords, to wit, every reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.
Sophia and her cousin did everything they could to put out the flames that had roared so loudly throughout the house. Eventually, they succeeded; or, to take the metaphor a step further, the fire, having burned through all the fuel that language provides—specifically, every insulting term in it—finally extinguished itself.
But, though tranquillity was restored above-stairs, it was not so below; where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the beauty of her husband by the flesh-spades of Mrs Honour, called aloud for revenge and justice. As to the poor man, who had principally suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the blood which he lost might have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not only applied her nails to his cheeks, but likewise her fist to his nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood in great abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake; but indeed nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as the manner in which he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour of Mrs Honour, it had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was now assured by a person of great figure, and who was attended by a great equipage, that one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate acquaintance.
But while things were calm upstairs, it wasn’t the same downstairs; where my landlady, really upset about the damage done to her husband's looks by Mrs. Honour's fists, was loudly calling for revenge and justice. As for the poor man, who had suffered the most in this fight, he remained completely quiet. Maybe the blood he lost had cooled his temper; after all, the enemy had not only scratched his cheeks with her nails but also punched him in the nose, which was crying tears of blood in large quantities. We could think about his mistakes, but nothing quieted his anger quite as much as realizing where he had gone wrong; as for Mrs. Honour's behavior, it only reinforced his initial opinion. Now, however, he had the assurance from a person of high status, accompanied by a grand entourage, that one of the ladies was fashionable and a close acquaintance of his.
By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and acquainted our fair travellers that a great gentleman below desired to do them the honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled at this message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil, notwithstanding the landlord's blunder, to have come from her father; but fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace, and is apt to conclude hastily from every slight circumstance, without examining the evidence on both sides.
At this person's command, the landlord went up and informed our travelers that a distinguished gentleman downstairs wanted to honor them with a visit. Sophia turned pale and trembled at this news, though the reader might assume it was too polite, despite the landlord's mistake, to have come from her father; however, fear has the usual flaw of a justice of the peace, often jumping to conclusions based on minor details without considering the evidence from both sides.
To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer had arrived very late that evening at the inn, in his way to London. This nobleman, having sallied from his supper at the hurricane before commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and upon a short enquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very particularly acquainted, was above. This information he had no sooner received than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified him, and sent him upstairs with compliments rather civiller than those which were delivered.
To satisfy the reader's curiosity, instead of his worries, we’ll inform him that an Irish nobleman arrived very late that evening at the inn while on his way to London. This gentleman, having just finished his dinner at the previously mentioned hurricane, had seen Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s attendant and, after a brief inquiry, learned that her lady was upstairs, someone he knew quite well. As soon as he got this information, he spoke to the landlord, calmed him down, and sent him upstairs with more polite compliments than were actually given.
It may perhaps be wondered at that the waiting-woman herself was not the messenger employed on this occasion; but we are sorry to say she was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office. The rum (for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt) had basely taken the advantage of the fatigue which the poor woman had undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties, at a time when they were very unable to resist the attack.
It might be surprising that the maid wasn’t the one sent with the message this time; unfortunately, she wasn’t fit for that role, or any other, at the moment. The rum (as the landlord referred to the liquor made from malt) had unfortunately exploited the exhaustion the poor woman had endured, severely impairing her abilities when she was least able to fight back.
We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we thought ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity which we profess, shortly to hint a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to have spared. Many historians, indeed, for want of this integrity, or of diligence, to say no worse, often leave the reader to find out these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to his great confusion and perplexity.
We won’t go into too much detail about this tragic scene; however, we felt it necessary, due to our commitment to historical accuracy, to briefly mention something we would have preferred to avoid. Many historians, lacking this commitment or diligence, often leave readers to uncover these minor details on their own, which can lead to confusion and frustration.
Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been enabled to escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same gallant disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex, as ever knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.
Sophia quickly calmed down when the noble lord walked in, who was not only a close friend of Mrs. Fitzpatrick but also a very special friend of hers. To be honest, it was with his help that she managed to escape from her husband; this nobleman shared the same brave spirit as the legendary knights we read about in heroic tales and had rescued many a trapped maiden from confinement. He was indeed as fierce an opponent of the cruel authority too often wielded by husbands and fathers over the young and beautiful women as any knight-errant was against the harsh power of sorcerers. In fact, I have often thought that those sorcerers found in romantic stories were really just the husbands of that time, and marriage itself was perhaps the enchanted castle where the maidens were said to be held captive.
This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and had been for some time acquainted with the lady. No sooner, therefore, did he hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to procure her liberty; which he presently effected, not by storming the castle, according to the example of antient heroes, but by corrupting the governor, in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft is held to be preferable to valour, and gold is found to be more irresistible than either lead or steel.
This nobleman owned land near Fitzpatrick and had known the lady for a while. As soon as he learned about her being held captive, he eagerly set out to secure her freedom. He achieved this not by attacking the castle like ancient heroes, but by bribing the governor, following the modern approach to warfare, where cunning is seen as more effective than bravery, and money is often more persuasive than weapons.
This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material enough to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition that she had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps supernatural means, had possessed herself of the money with which she had bribed her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a hint of what seemed to her of too little importance to be mentioned.
This situation, however, since the lady didn’t consider it important enough to share with her friend, we decided not to reveal it to the reader at that time. We preferred to let him believe for a bit that she had either found the money, created it, or somehow, perhaps through some extraordinary or even supernatural means, acquired the money she had used to bribe her keeper, rather than disrupt her story by mentioning something she felt was too trivial to include.
The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing some surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor could he refrain from telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs Fitzpatrick very freely answered, “That she had been prevented in her purpose by the arrival of a person she need not mention. In short,” says she, “I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not affect to conceal what the world knows too well already). I had the good fortune to escape in a most surprizing manner, and am now going to London with this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped from as great a tyrant as my own.”
The peer, after a brief conversation, couldn’t help but express some surprise at seeing the lady in that place; he also couldn’t resist telling her he thought she had gone to Bath. Mrs. Fitzpatrick replied openly, “I was stopped from my plans by the arrival of someone I don’t need to mention. In short,” she said, “I was confronted by my husband (since I don’t need to pretend to hide what everyone already knows). I was fortunate to escape in a most surprising way, and I am now heading to London with this young lady, who is a close relative of mine, and who has escaped from a tyrant as great as my own.”
His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique glances at the matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more meritorious part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of his protection, and of his coach and six, which was instantly accepted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her persuasions, by Sophia.
His lordship, realizing that this tyrant was also a husband, delivered a speech packed with compliments for both ladies, while also criticizing his own gender. He didn’t shy away from some indirect remarks about marriage itself and the unfair advantages it gives men over the more thoughtful and deserving members of society. He concluded his speech by offering his protection and his fancy carriage, which Mrs. Fitzpatrick immediately accepted, and eventually, with her encouragement, so did Sophia.
Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the ladies retired to rest, where Mrs Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peer, and enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for his wife; saying, she believed he was almost the only person of high rank who was entirely constant to the marriage bed. “Indeed,” added she, “my dear Sophy, that is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will certainly be deceived.”
With everything settled, his lordship took his leave, and the ladies went to bed, where Mrs. Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin with many praises of the noble peer, emphasizing his deep affection for his wife. She said she believed he was almost the only person of high status who was completely faithful to his marriage. “Honestly,” she added, “my dear Sophy, that’s a very rare quality among men of rank. Don’t expect it when you get married; trust me, if you do, you’ll definitely end up disappointed.”
A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps contributed to form a dream of no very pleasant kind; but, as she never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to see it related here.
A soft sigh escaped Sophia at these words, which might have helped create a not-so-pleasant dream; however, since she never shared this dream with anyone, the reader shouldn't expect to see it described here.
Chapter ix. — The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stagecoach. The civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of Sophia. Her generosity. The return to it. The departure of the company, and their
arrival at London; with some remarks for the use of travellers.
arrival at London; with some tips for travelers.
Those members of society who are born to furnish the blessings of life now began to light their candles, in order to pursue their daily labours for the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings. The sturdy hind now attends the levee of his fellow-labourer the ox; the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from their hard mattress; and now the bonny housemaid begins to repair the disordered drum-room, while the riotous authors of that disorder, in broken interrupted slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the hardness of down disquieted their repose.
Those members of society who are born to provide the blessings of life now started to light their candles to begin their daily work for those who are born to enjoy these blessings. The strong farmer now attends to his fellow worker, the ox; the clever craftsman and the hardworking mechanic get up from their rough mattresses; and now the cheerful housemaid begins to tidy up the messy room, while the noisy creators of that mess, in restless broken sleep, toss and turn as if the hardness of the bed disrupted their rest.
In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven than the ladies were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his lordship and his equipage were prepared to attend them.
In simple terms, the clock had barely struck seven when the ladies were ready for their journey; and, at their request, his lordship and his carriage were prepared to accompany them.
And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his lordship himself should be conveyed; for though in stage-coaches, where passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place of four; for well he contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed alderman, may take up no more room than the slim miss, or taper master; it being the nature of guts, when well squeezed, to give way, and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in these vehicles, which are called, for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they are often larger than the others, this method of packing is never attempted.
And now a tricky situation came up; it was about how to transport his lordship. In stagecoaches, where passengers are treated like luggage, the clever driver easily fits six people into space meant for four. He knows how to make sure that the hefty hostess or well-fed city official takes up no more space than the slim young lady or slender young man, as the body tends to compress and fit into a tighter space when it's squeezed. However, in these vehicles, which are called gentlemen's coaches for distinction, though they are often larger than the others, this method of packing is never attempted.
His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails should, by turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship's horses, which was presently equipped with a side-saddle for that purpose.
His lordship would have quickly resolved the issue by bravely suggesting he get on his horse, but Mrs. Fitzpatrick absolutely refused to let him. So, it was decided that the maids would take turns riding one of his lordship's horses, which was soon fitted with a side-saddle for that reason.
Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their former guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on account of what he had suffered under the hands of her enraged waiting-woman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her some uneasiness; and this was of the hundred-pound bank-bill which her father had given her at their last meeting; and which, within a very inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present worth. She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things to no purpose, the bill was not to be found: and she was at last fully persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she now recollected some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time, and the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her handkerchief the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the distress of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies let go of their previous guides, and Sophia gave a gift to the landlord, partly to make up for the bruise he got from her and partly because of what he endured from her angry waiting-woman. It was then that Sophia noticed something missing that made her anxious: the hundred-pound banknote her father had given her at their last meeting, which was pretty much all the money she had at that moment. She looked everywhere and rummaged through all her belongings in vain; the note was nowhere to be found. Eventually, she was convinced she must have lost it from her pocket when she fell off her horse in the dark lane, as mentioned before. This seemed more likely since she remembered some disturbance in her pockets at that time and the struggle she had to pull out her handkerchief just before her fall to help Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is any strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though nothing could be worse timed than this accident at such a season, immediately got the better of her concern, and, with her wonted serenity and cheerfulness of countenance, returned to her company. His lordship conducted the ladies into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs Honour, who, after many civilities, and more dear madams, at last yielded to the well-bred importunities of her sister Abigail, and submitted to be complimented with the first ride in the coach; in which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to have pursued her whole journey, had not her mistress, after several fruitless intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on horseback.
Misfortunes like this, no matter how inconvenient they are, can't break a strong mind without the help of greed. So, even though this accident couldn't have come at a worse time, Sophia quickly overcame her worries and, with her usual calmness and cheerful demeanor, went back to her friends. His lordship helped the ladies into the carriage, and he also assisted Mrs. Honour, who, after exchanging many polite remarks and more "dear madams," eventually gave in to her well-mannered sister Abigail's pleas and agreed to be the first to ride in the coach. In fact, she would have been quite happy to finish her entire journey that way if her mistress hadn’t, after several unsuccessful hints, insisted that she take her turn on horseback.
The coach, now having received its company, began to move forwards, attended by many servants, and led by two captains, who had before rode with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as gentlemen; but they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman, or indeed would have condescended lower, for the honour of his lordship's company, and for the convenience of his table.
The coach, now that it had its passengers, started to move forward, accompanied by many servants and led by two captains who had previously ridden with his lordship. They would have been let go from the coach for a much less significant reason than accommodating two ladies. In this situation, they were just being gentlemen; however, they were always ready to step in as footmen or even do less, all for the honor of his lordship's company and the convenience of his table.
My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the quantum of this present; but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it satisfied the landlord for his bodily hurt; but he lamented he had not known before how little the lady valued her money; “For to be sure,” says he, “one might have charged every article double, and she would have made no cavil at the reckoning.”
My landlord was so happy with the gift he got from Sophia that he was more pleased than upset about his bruises and scratches. You might be curious about how much this gift was worth, but we can’t reveal that. Whatever it was, it made the landlord forget his pain; but he wished he had known earlier how little the lady cared about spending money. “Because, honestly,” he said, “I could have charged double for everything, and she wouldn't have complained about the bill.”
His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the generosity of Sophia. “Indeed,” cries she, “my dear, the lady knows better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might very well think we should not put up such a business without some satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite deal more than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take.” “You are always so bloodily wise,” quoth the husband: “it would have cost her more, would it? dost fancy I don't know that as well as thee? but would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets? Indeed, if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad to have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a good picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer, and why should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?” “Nay, to be sure,” answered she, “you must know best.” “I believe I do,” replied he. “I fancy, when money is to be got, I can smell it out as well as another. Everybody, let me tell you, would not have talked people out of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not have cajoled this out of her, mind that.” The wife then joined in the applause of her husband's sagacity; and thus ended the short dialogue between them on this occasion.
His wife, however, didn't share this view; whether she genuinely felt more hurt on behalf of her husband than he did for himself, I can't say. What’s clear is that she was much less pleased with Sophia's generosity. “Honestly,” she said, “you should know that the lady has a better grasp of how to handle her money than you think. She might believe we wouldn't just accept this situation without some compensation, and going through the legal system would have cost her a lot more than this little issue, which I can't believe you'd agree to take.” “You're always so annoyingly clever,” the husband replied. “It would have cost her more, would it? Do you really think I don’t know that? But would any of that extra or so much have come to us? Honestly, if our son Tom the lawyer were still alive, I would have loved to hand this nice little issue over to him. He would have made a nice profit from it, but I don't have any relatives who are lawyers now, so why should I go to court just for the benefit of strangers?” “Well, I suppose you know best,” she responded. “I believe I do,” he replied. “I think when there’s money to be made, I can spot it just as well as anyone else. Let me tell you, not everyone would have talked someone out of this. Remember that; not everyone would have sweet-talked her into giving this up.” The wife then joined in praising her husband's wisdom, and that was the end of their brief conversation on the matter.
We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition that they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the second evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one adventure on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate. Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes, and our history shall keep pace with the travellers who are its subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious traveller in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities which it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's Park, days are too short for the ravished imagination; while we admire the wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of these, art chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend for our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which can be exceeded only in the other.
We will now say goodbye to these kind people and join his lordship and his lovely companions, who traveled impressively fast, covering ninety miles in two days. By the second evening, they arrived in London without facing any noteworthy adventures along the way that would befit this story. Our writing, therefore, will follow the pace of the journey it describes, and our history will match the journey of its travelers. Good writers should take a cue from the skilled traveler in this case, who always adjusts the time spent in any place based on the beauty, elegance, and curiosities it offers. At Eshur, Stowe, Wilton, Eastbury, and Prior's Park, the days feel too short for our amazed minds, as we marvel at the incredible power of art in enhancing nature. In some of these locations, art captures our admiration; in others, nature and art compete for our applause, but in the last, nature appears to win. Here, Nature is at her most beautiful, while Art, dressed with modest simplicity, respectfully supports her generous mistress. Here, Nature truly reveals the finest treasures she has shared with the world, and here, human nature presents you with a sight that can only be surpassed elsewhere.
The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye of the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from Stockbridge, where no other object than one single tree only in sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions to our prospect.
The same taste and imagination that indulge in these beautiful scenes can also find enjoyment in less noteworthy places. The woods, rivers, and lawns of Devon and Dorset catch the attention of the curious traveler, slowing down their pace, which they later make up for by quickly rushing across the dark heath of Bagshot or the charming plain that stretches westward from Stockbridge, where the only thing in sight for sixteen miles is a single tree, unless the clouds, feeling for our weary spirits, graciously reveal their colorful landscapes to us.
Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice, the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the numerous offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through the verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a half per hour with the utmost exactness; the eyes of the beast and of his master being alike directed forwards, and employed in contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With equal rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath adorned the rich cloathing town; where heaps of bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have been piled there before.
The money-focused businessman, the wise judge, the respected doctor, and the well-dressed farmer all travel on, accompanied by their many children of wealth and boredom. They move at the same steady speed, whether through lush meadows or over barren land, with their horses maintaining a precise pace of four and a half miles per hour. Both horse and rider have their eyes fixed forward, focused on the same sights in the same way. The good rider equally admires the grand designs of the architect and those beautiful buildings that an unknown name has added to the wealthy, well-dressed town, where stacks of bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to the piles of money that have been there before.
And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly able to perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper assistance in difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination to discover our meaning, yet we shall not indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is required; for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do; or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to thyself.
And now, reader, since we’re eager to focus on our heroine, we’ll leave it to your judgment to relate all this to the Boeotian writers and their opposite authors. You will be more than capable of doing this on your own. So, make an effort this time; because, while we’re always here to help you with tougher parts—unlike some others who expect you to rely on mind-reading to grasp our meaning—we won’t indulge your laziness when all that’s needed is your own attention. You’d be very wrong to think that when we started this big project, we meant to give your judgment nothing to do; or that by not exercising this skill occasionally, you’ll be able to read through our pages with any enjoyment or benefit.
Chapter x. — Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning suspicion.
Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship's house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of their journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the two ladies; for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer.
Our company arrived in London and were dropped off at his lordship's house, where, while they rested after the tiring journey, servants were sent out to find a place for the two ladies to stay. Since her ladyship was not in town at the time, Mrs. Fitzpatrick absolutely refused to stay overnight in the peer's mansion.
Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I may call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must make allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right side, and which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do well to imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations, seem to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this formality; but it will, however, be always more commended; and this, I believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in some very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or the other.
Some readers might criticize this remarkable purity of virtue, as I can call it, for being too sensitive and meticulous; but we need to consider her situation, which was truly precarious. When we reflect on the malicious gossip from others, we must recognize that if there was a fault, it was a fault on the side of caution, and any woman in the same situation would do well to follow her example. The most obvious display of virtue, when it’s just for show, might, in some theoretical discussions, seem less admirable than genuine virtue without that display; however, it will always receive more praise. I think everyone would agree that it's essential, except in very specific circumstances, for every woman to uphold either one or the other.
A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had determined to throw herself when she quitted her father's house. And this she was the more eager in doing from some observations she had made during her journey in the coach.
A place to stay was being arranged, so Sophia joined her cousin for that evening; but she was determined to ask about the woman she had decided to seek help from when she left her father's house the next morning. She was even more eager to do this because of some things she had noticed during her journey in the coach.
Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to enter into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think proper not to mention more plainly till we have first suggested a word or two to our reader touching suspicion in general.
Now, while we definitely don’t want to label Sophia with the unpleasant trait of suspicion, we are a bit hesitant to reveal to our reader the thoughts that occupied her mind about Mrs. Fitzpatrick; Sophia certainly had some doubts about her at the moment, which can often creep into the minds of the most flawed individuals. We believe it’s best not to be more explicit about this until we’ve first shared a few thoughts with our reader regarding suspicion in general.
Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first of these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of its discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the rather as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees what is not, and always more than really exists. This is that quick-sighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil can escape; which observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart of the observer, so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies evil, as it were, in the first embryo; nay, sometimes before it can be said to be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible; but, as this degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being; so from the fallibility of such acute discernment have arisen many sad mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches to innocence and virtue. I cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast quick-sightedness into evil as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious evil in itself. And I am the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid it always proceeds from a bad heart, for the reasons I have above mentioned, and for one more, namely, because I never knew it the property of a good one. Now, from this degree of suspicion I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.
There have always seemed to me to be two levels of this. The first level I choose to derive from the heart, as its extreme quickness in understanding suggests some prior internal impulse. This top level often creates its own objects; it perceives what isn't there and sees way more than what actually exists. This is that sharp insight whose keen eyes miss no sign of wrongdoing; it observes not just actions, but also the words and expressions of people. Since it comes from the observer's heart, it dives into the heart of the observed, spotting evil almost in its early stages, sometimes even before it can be said to be conceived. An admirable ability, if it were infallible; however, since this level of perfection is claimed by only one person, the flaws in such a sharp perception have caused many unfortunate troubles and painful heartaches to innocence and virtue. Therefore, I can't help but see this vast quickness in spotting evil as a harmful excess and a serious flaw in itself. I'm even more inclined to this view because I'm afraid it usually comes from a bad heart, for the reasons I mentioned earlier and one more: I have never seen it as a trait of a good heart. Now, I completely and absolutely clear Sophia of this level of suspicion.
A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is, indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes, and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no less certain and necessary a consequence of our having any brains. This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though, through human fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in the lap or in the embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who profess the art of cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the familiarities which he really had seen, and which we are at least favourable enough to when we call them innocent freedoms. The reader will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I shall add but one more, which, however unchristian it may be thought by some, I cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done already, and that it is possible for one who hath been a villain once to act the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this degree of suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was really not better than she should be.
A second level of this quality seems to come from the mind. This is, in fact, nothing other than the ability to see what’s in front of you and to draw conclusions from what you observe. The first of these is unavoidable for anyone with eyes, and the second is perhaps just as certain and necessary a result of having brains. This is just as harsh an enemy to guilt as the first is to innocence; I can’t view it in a favorable light, even if, due to human error, it can sometimes be misunderstood. For example, if a husband were to accidentally catch his wife in the lap of or in the arms of one of those charming young men who specialize in ruining marriages, I wouldn’t blame him too much for inferring more than what he actually saw, based on the familiarities he did see, which we at least kindly refer to as innocent freedoms. The reader can easily think of many such examples; I’ll add just one more, which some may find unchristian, but I believe is entirely justifiable: the suspicion that a person is capable of doing what they have already done, and that someone who has been a villain once can play that role again. To be honest, I believe Sophia was guilty of this kind of suspicion. From this level of doubt, she had actually come to think that her cousin was really no better than she should be.
The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely considered that the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to meet its enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner therefore was she determined to take the first opportunity of quitting the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast herself under the protection of some other man; and whom could she so properly choose to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune, of honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to knight-errantry, that is, to be the champions of ladies in distress, had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already given her all the instances of it in his power?
The situation was this: Mrs. Fitzpatrick wisely thought that the virtue of a young lady is like that of a poor hare in the world, which, whenever it goes out, is bound to encounter enemies; it can hardly expect anything else. As soon as she decided to seize the first chance to leave her husband’s protection, she resolved to put herself under the care of another man; and who better to choose as her guardian than someone of high standing, wealth, and honor? This person not only had a brave spirit that drove men to act as champions for ladies in distress, but he had also often expressed a strong affection for her and had already shown this in every way he could.
But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to denominate him by a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship should perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and without publickly assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to prevent any other person from seeing him in this light, it was agreed that the lady should proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship should first go to London, and thence should go down to that place by the advice of his physicians.
But since the law has foolishly overlooked the role of a vice-husband or guardian for a runaway woman, and because people tend to give him a more negative title, it was decided that he should carry out all such supportive roles for the lady in secret, without publicly taking on the role of her protector. To make sure no one else saw him this way, they agreed that the lady would travel directly to Bath, while he would first go to London and then head to Bath afterward on the advice of his doctors.
Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps the exact secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in her narrative served not a little to heighten those suspicions which were now risen in the mind of her cousin.
Now Sophia understood all this very clearly, not from what Mrs. Fitzpatrick said or how she acted, but from the peer, who was much worse at keeping secrets than the good lady. In fact, the strict secrecy that Mrs. Fitzpatrick had maintained in her story only made the suspicions in her cousin's mind grow stronger.
Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was not a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known; and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did not desire her cousin to stay with her with more earnestness than civility required. Whether she had discerned and resented the suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other motive it arose, I cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of parting with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of going.
Sophia easily found the woman she was looking for; there wasn't a chairman in town who didn't know her house well. When she got a very eager invitation in response to her first message, she accepted it right away. Mrs. Fitzpatrick didn't want her cousin to stay with her any more than politeness required. Whether she sensed and resented the mentioned suspicion, or for some other reason, I can't say; but it's clear that she was just as eager to see Sophia go as Sophia was to leave.
The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for heaven's sake, to take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of reconciling her to her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” says she, “the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us both; That whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in the world.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, “Never fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than I. I will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me give you one piece of advice: leave the character of Graveairs in the country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this town.”
The young woman, as she prepared to say goodbye to her cousin, felt compelled to offer a brief word of advice. She urged her, for heaven's sake, to look after herself and to think about the risky position she was in, adding that she hoped a way would be found to reconcile her with her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” she said, “the saying my Aunt Western has often told us both: that whenever a marriage is broken, and war is declared between husband and wife, it's nearly impossible for her to make a peace that isn't disadvantageous for herself in any way. Those are my aunt's exact words, and she has quite a bit of experience in life.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick replied with a scornful smile, “Don't worry about me, dear; take care of yourself since you’re younger than I am. I’ll come to visit you in a few days, but, dear Sophy, let me give you one piece of advice: leave the serious persona behind in the countryside, because believe me, it won’t suit you in this city.”
Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite, welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her to leave the squire and to fly to London than she highly applauded her sense and resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in the opinion which Sophia had declared she entertained of her ladyship, by chusing her house for an asylum, she promised her all the protection which it was in her power to give.
So the two cousins said their goodbyes, and Sophia went straight to Lady Bellaston, where she received a very warm and courteous welcome. The lady had taken a strong liking to her when she had previously seen her with her Aunt Western. She was genuinely happy to see her, and as soon as she learned the reasons that prompted Sophia to leave the squire and come to London, she praised her sense and determination. After expressing great pleasure in the positive view Sophia had shared about her, by choosing her home as a safe haven, she promised her all the support she could provide.
As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we have left long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him themselves.
Now that we’ve placed Sophia in safe hands, I trust the reader will be happy to leave her there for a bit and check in on some other characters, especially poor Jones, who we've left alone long enough to atone for his past mistakes, which, as is often the case with wrongdoing, have already brought their own punishment upon him.
BOOK XII. — CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.
Chapter i. — Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what is to be considered as lawful prize.
The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this mighty work, I have often translated passages out of the best antient authors, without quoting the original, or without taking the least notice of the book from whence they were borrowed.
The knowledgeable reader must have noticed that throughout this significant work, I have frequently translated excerpts from respected ancient authors without referencing the original text or acknowledging the sources from which they were taken.
This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the ingenious Abbé Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work of great erudition and of equal judgment. “It will be easy,” says he, “for the reader to observe that I have frequently had greater regard to him than to my own reputation: for an author certainly pays him a considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned quotations that come in his way, and which would have cost him but the bare trouble of transcribing.”
This approach to writing is well articulated by the clever Abbé Bannier in the preface to his Mythology, a highly knowledgeable and well-reasoned work. “It will be easy,” he says, “for the reader to notice that I often prioritized him over my own reputation: an author certainly does the reader a significant favor when, for his sake, he leaves out scholarly quotes that he could easily have included with minimal effort.”
To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a downright cheat on the learned world, who are by such means imposed upon to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what they have already in gross, if not in their memories, upon their shelves; and it is still more cruel upon the illiterate, who are drawn in to pay for what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who intermixes great quantity of Greek and Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which they are treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up their lots, that, in order to purchase the commodity you want, you are obliged at the same time to purchase that which will do you no service.
Filling a work with these scraps can be seen as a complete scam against the educated audience, who are tricked into buying what they already have, either in bulk or in their memories, in smaller pieces. It's even more unfair to those who lack education, who are lured into paying for things that are completely useless to them. A writer who mixes in a lot of Greek and Latin with their work treats the audience, including ladies and gentlemen, just like auctioneers do, who often mix up their lots so much that to buy what you actually want, you have to also buy something that’s of no use to you.
And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested but that it may be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the expense of my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use either of the thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that I have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by suppressing the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of plagiarism than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly celebrated Frenchman.
Yet, since there’s no action so good and selfless that it can't be misunderstood by ignorance and twisted by malice, I've sometimes been tempted to protect my own reputation at the expense of my reader. I've thought about copying the original text or, at the very least, quoting chapter and verse whenever I’ve used someone else's ideas or words. I honestly wonder if I’ve often been hurt by the opposite approach; by not revealing the original author’s name, I might have been seen as a plagiarist instead of being thought to act from the kind intention pointed out by that well-respected Frenchman.
Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and justify the fact. The antients may be considered as a rich common, where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a free right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clearer light, we moderns are to the antients what the poor are to the rich. By the poor here I mean that large and venerable body which, in English, we call the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree of intimacy with this mob, must well know that it is one of their established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours without any reluctance; and that this is held to be neither sin nor shame among them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on against a certain person of opulence called the squire, whose property is considered as free-booty by all his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of honour and moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from punishment on all such occasions.
Now, to avoid any accusations in the future, I hereby confess and explain the situation. The ancients can be seen as a vast common area where anyone with even the smallest piece of land in Parnassus has the right to nurture their creativity. To put it more clearly, we moderns are to the ancients what the poor are to the rich. By "poor," I mean that large and respected group which we refer to in English as the mob. Anyone who has had the privilege of getting to know this mob well understands that it's one of their key principles to take from their wealthier neighbors without any hesitation; and that this is neither considered wrong nor embarrassing among them. They abide by this principle so regularly that, in nearly every parish in the kingdom, there’s a kind of alliance constantly working against a certain wealthy person known as the squire, whose possessions are seen as fair game by all his poorer neighbors. They believe that there is no wrongdoing in such acts, viewing it as a matter of pride and moral duty to protect each other from punishment in these situations.
In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor neighbours in their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob show to one another. To steal from one another is indeed highly criminal and indecent; for this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor (sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than ourselves), or, to set it under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spittal.
In the same way, we should regard the ancients, like Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and others, as wealthy landowners from whom we, the less fortunate poets of Parnassus, have an age-old tradition of taking whatever we can. This freedom I ask for, and I am just as willing to give it back to my less fortunate neighbors when it's their turn. All I ask, and all I expect from my fellow writers, is to uphold the same honesty among ourselves that the crowd shows to one another. Stealing from each other is truly wrong and shameful; it can be seen as cheating the needy (sometimes even those who are in greater need than we are), or, to state it bluntly, robbing the poor.
Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to take to myself any passage which I shall find in an antient author to my purpose, without setting down the name of the author from whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I expect all readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my own. This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that I preserve strict honesty towards my poor brethren, from whom, if ever I borrow any of that little of which they are possessed, I shall never fail to put their mark upon it, that it may be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner.
Since, after careful consideration, I can confidently say that my conscience doesn't accuse me of any petty theft, I'm willing to admit to the earlier charge; I will never hesitate to claim any text from an ancient author that suits my needs without mentioning the author's name. In fact, I fully claim ownership of all ideas the moment I incorporate them into my writings, and I expect all readers to view them as completely my own from now on. However, I ask to be granted this right only as long as I remain honest with my fellow writers. If I ever borrow any of their limited resources, I will always make sure to acknowledge their contribution so that it can be returned to its rightful owner at any time.
The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who, having formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope, however, very luckily found them in the said play, and, laying violent hands on his own property, transferred it back again into his own works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper punishment for such his unjust dealings in the poetical trade.
The omission of this was very blameworthy for a certain Mr. Moore, who had previously borrowed some lines from Pope and his associates, took the liberty to copy six of them into his play, The Rival Modes. Mr. Pope, however, fortunately discovered them in that play and, reclaiming his own work, brought it back into his own writings. As an additional punishment, he imprisoned Mr. Moore in the dreadful dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unfortunate reputation now resides, and will forever remain, as fitting retribution for his unfair practices in the world of poetry.
Chapter ii. — In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.
The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our heroe.
The story now goes back to the inn at Upton, from where we will first follow the path of Squire Western; because, as he is nearing the end of his journey, we will then have plenty of time to focus on our hero.
The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter. The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should but overtake her.
The reader may be pleased to remember that the squire left the inn in a fit of rage, and in that rage, he went after his daughter. The stableman told him that she had crossed the Severn, so he also crossed that river with his gear and rode at full speed, swearing he would take the harshest revenge on poor Sophia if he caught up with her.
He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck directly into the Worcester road.
He hadn’t gone far before he reached a crossroads. Here, he held a brief meeting to discuss his options, and after considering various opinions, he ultimately decided to leave his pursuit up to chance and headed straight onto the Worcester road.
In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure never was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley of oaths and execrations.
In this road, he walked for about two miles when he started to complain bitterly, often shouting, “What a pity! There's never been a more unlucky guy than me!” Then he unleashed a stream of curses and insults.
The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion. “Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope. Howbeit we have not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will tarry in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case, in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be compos voti.”
The pastor tried to offer him comfort during this time. “Don’t be sad, sir,” he said, “like those who have no hope. Although we haven’t caught up with the young lady yet, it’s good that we’ve been able to follow her path so far. Maybe she’ll get tired from her travels and stop at an inn to rest; if that happens, you will definitely be compos voti very soon.”
“Pogh! d—n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lamenting the loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this season, and especially after so long a frost.”
“Ugh! Damn that woman!” replied the squire, “I’m really upset about losing such a great morning for hunting. It’s incredibly frustrating to miss out on what seems to be one of the best scenting days of the season, especially after such a long freeze.”
Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's horse and his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and the squire, crying, “She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not gone!” instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds, with much hallowing and whooping, while the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear.
Whether Fortune, who sometimes shows a bit of mercy in her wildest schemes, might have felt sorry for the squire; and since she had decided not to let him catch up to his daughter, might have planned to make it up to him in another way, I won’t say. But he had barely spoken the words just mentioned, followed by a couple of curses, when a pack of hounds began to howl nearby. Both the squire and his horse perked up at the sound, and the squire shouted, “She’s gone, she’s gone! Damn it if she isn’t gone!” He quickly urged his horse forward, who didn’t really need the encouragement, as it clearly shared his eagerness. The whole group then charged into a cornfield, making their way toward the hounds with much shouting and cheering, while the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear.
Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no sooner perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former sport, and still retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband to pursue the little animal.
Thus the fable says that the lovely Grimalkin, whom Venus changed from a cat into an attractive woman at the request of a passionate lover, as soon as she spotted a mouse, remembering her old playful days and still holding onto her original nature, jumped off her husband's bed to chase after the little creature.
What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep reflections, that, “if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then we may apply the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.
What are we supposed to make of this? It’s not that the bride was unhappy with the affection from her love-struck groom; because, while some might say that cats are ungrateful, women and cats can certainly be pleased and content in certain situations. The truth is, as the wise Sir Roger L'Estrange notes in his thoughtful insights, that “if we try to shut Nature out, she will find a way in; and that even if a cat is a lady, she will still hunt.” Similarly, we shouldn't accuse the squire of lacking love for his daughter; in reality, he cared a lot for her. We just need to remember that he was a squire and a sportsman, which allows us to apply the fable to him, along with the wise reflections.
The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress; and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to meditate a portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.
The hounds ran really fast, as they say, and the squire chased after them over hills and ditches, shouting excitedly and moving quickly, enjoying himself completely; he didn’t let thoughts of Sophia disturb his satisfaction in the hunt, which he claimed was one of the best he’d ever experienced and totally worth a fifty-mile trip. While the squire overlooked his daughter, the servants likely forgot their mistress too; and the parson, after expressing his astonishment in Latin to himself, ultimately also stopped thinking about the young lady and, lagging behind, started to consider a sermon for the upcoming Sunday.
The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of his brother squire and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the hunt with his holla.
The squire who owned the hounds was really happy about his brother squire and fellow sportsman's arrival; after all, everyone recognizes skill in their own way, and no one was more skilled in the field than Mr. Western, nor did anyone else know how to motivate the dogs with his voice and energize the hunt with his shout better than he did.
Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though often close to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt, however, often saw and approved the great judgment of the stranger in drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had occasioned it, the two squires met, and in all squire-like greeting saluted each other.
Sportsmen, caught up in the excitement of the chase, are too involved to pay attention to any kind of ceremony, or even basic decency: if any of them falls into a ditch or a river, the others typically just move on and leave him to deal with it himself. During this time, the two squires, though often near each other, didn’t exchange a single word. The master of the hunt, however, frequently noticed and admired the stranger’s excellent judgment in pulling the dogs when they were lost, and this led him to think very highly of the stranger’s understanding, especially since the number of his attendants commanded considerable respect for his status. So, once the chase ended with the death of the small animal that caused it, the two squires met and greeted each other in the typical squire fashion.
The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a hearty bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire Western.
The conversation was entertaining enough, and we might share it in an appendix or on another occasion; however, since it doesn't relate to this story, we can't bring ourselves to include it here. It ended with a second chase, followed by an invitation to dinner. Once accepted, it led to a vigorous drinking session, which culminated in a deep nap for Squire Western.
Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue of mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well account, without the least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had swallowed the third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered that though he was not carried off to bed till long after, the parson considered him as absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to Sophia, he obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he intended to urge the next morning for Mr Western's return.
Our squire was certainly no match for either his host or Parson Supple, who was quite drunk that evening. The intense mental and physical exhaustion he had experienced could easily explain this, without taking away from his honor. He was, as people say, pretty tipsy; by the time he finished the third bottle, he was completely overwhelmed. Even though he didn’t go to bed until much later, the parson thought he was out of it. He then filled the other squire in on everything about Sophia and got his promise to back up the arguments he planned to present the next morning for Mr. Western’s return.
No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in order to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began his dissuasives, which the host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed, and Mr Western agreed to return home; being principally moved by one argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might probably be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He then took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his hastening home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire; but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue in quest of his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter execrations which he could invent.
As soon as the good squire finished his evening and started calling for his morning drink while summoning his horses to continue his chase, Mr. Supple began to persuade him against it. The innkeeper strongly supported his arguments, which eventually convinced Mr. Western to head back home. He was mainly swayed by one point: he wasn't sure which way to go and might end up riding farther away from his daughter instead of closer. He then said goodbye to his fellow hunter and expressed his relief that the frost had ended (which might have been a big reason for his rush home) before setting off, or rather turning back, for Somersetshire. But not before he sent part of his group to look for his daughter and unleashed a stream of the most harsh curses he could come up with.
Chapter iii. — The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and Partridge on the road.
At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we have been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have concluded we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in that situation in which prudent people usually desist from enquiring any farther after their friends, lest they should be shocked by hearing such friends had hanged themselves.
At last, we return to our hero; and honestly, we've had to leave him for so long that I fear many of our readers may think we intended to leave him behind forever. He's currently in a situation where sensible people typically stop asking about their friends, afraid they might be upset to find out those friends have taken their own lives.
But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say, neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and though it is not easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable than those of poor Jones at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him with the same diligence as if he was wantoning in the brightest beams of fortune.
But, really, even if we don't have all the virtues, I can confidently say we also don't have all the vices of a sensible person. And although it's hard to imagine a situation much worse than poor Jones's right now, we'll come back to him and pay attention to him with the same care as if he were enjoying the best of luck.
Mr Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few minutes after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued the same road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses were by any means to be at that time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from very different reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly, Partridge grunted altogether as sadly at every step.
Mr. Jones and his companion Partridge left the inn a few minutes after Squire Western had departed and started down the same road on foot, since the hostler informed them that no horses could be obtained at Upton at that time. They walked on with heavy hearts; although their worries stemmed from very different reasons, they were both displeased. While Jones sighed deeply, Partridge grunted sadly with each step he took.
When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his opinion which track they should pursue. “Ah, sir,” answered Partridge, “I wish your honour would follow my advice.” “Why should I not?” replied Jones; “for it is now indifferent to me whither I go, or what becomes of me.” “My advice, then,” said Partridge, “is, that you immediately face about and return home; for who that hath such a home to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the country like a vagabond? I ask pardon, sed vox ea sola reperta est.”
When they reached the crossroads where the squire had stopped to think, Jones stopped too and turned to Partridge, asking for his opinion on which path they should take. “Ah, sir,” Partridge replied, “I wish you would take my advice.” “Why shouldn’t I?” Jones said. “I honestly don’t care where I go or what happens to me.” “My advice, then,” Partridge continued, “is that you turn around and go home right away; because who with a home as good as yours would wander around the countryside like a drifter? I apologize, sed vox ea sola reperta est.”
“Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to return to;—but if my friend, my father, would receive me, could I bear the country from which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself!—No; let me blame thee. D—nation seize thee—fool—blockhead! thou hast undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy body.”—At which words he laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and shook him more heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done before.
“Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to go back to;—but if my friend, my father, would accept me, could I stand being in the country from which Sophia has fled? Cruel Sophia! So cruel! No; let me blame myself!—No; let me blame you. Damn you—fool—idiot! You’ve ruined me, and I will rip your soul from your body.” At these words, he roughly grabbed the collar of poor Partridge and shook him more vigorously than a chill or his own fears had ever done before.
Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he had meant no harm—when Jones, after staring wildly on him for a moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself, that, had it fallen on the other, would certainly have put an end to his being, which indeed the very apprehension of it had almost effected.
Partridge fell to his knees, shaking, and pleaded for mercy, insisting he meant no harm—when Jones, after staring at him in shock for a moment, released his grip and unleashed his anger on himself, which, if directed at Partridge, would have definitely ended his life, and the mere thought of it almost did.
We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth, we have, from this reason alone, often done great violence to the luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent descriptions out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the case, from our own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the pages of voluminous historians.
We could spend some time going into detail about all the crazy antics Jones got up to on this occasion, but we’re not sure the reader would put in the same effort to read them. Given that we worry the reader might just skip over our hard work painting this scene, we’ve decided to save ourselves the trouble. Honestly, this concern has often forced us to reign in our creativity, and we’ve left out many great descriptions that would’ve otherwise been included. To be fair, this suspicion usually comes from our own guilty conscience; we’ve often been guilty ourselves of skipping ahead while reading lengthy histories.
Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the part of a madman for many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which no sooner happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his pardon for the attack he had made on him in the violence of his passion; but concluded, by desiring him never to mention his return again; for he was resolved never to see that country any more.
Suffice it to say that Jones, after acting like a madman for quite a while, gradually came back to his senses. As soon as he did, he turned to Partridge and sincerely apologized for the attack he made during his fit of anger. However, he ended by asking him to never bring up his return again, as he was determined never to set foot in that country again.
Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out, “Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the steps of my angel—I will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave lad, now for the army:—it is a glorious cause, and I would willingly sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my preserving.” And so saying, he immediately struck into the different road from that which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same through which Sophia had before passed.
Partridge easily forgave and promised to follow the orders given to him. Then Jones excitedly shouted, “Since it’s absolutely impossible for me to keep chasing after my angel, I’ll go after glory instead. Come on, my brave friend, let’s head to the army—it’s a noble cause, and I’d happily give my life for it, even if it wasn’t worth saving.” With that, he immediately took a different path from the one the squire had chosen and, by pure chance, ended up following the exact route Sophia had taken earlier.
Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to each other, though Jones, indeed, muttered many things to himself. As to Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps, perfectly recovered from his former fright; besides, he had apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit of wrath, especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not, perhaps, create any great wonder in the reader. In short, he began now to suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.
Our travelers walked a full mile without saying a word to each other, although Jones did mumble a lot to himself. As for Partridge, he was completely silent; maybe he hadn't fully gotten over his earlier fright. Plus, he was worried about triggering another outburst from his friend, especially since he was starting to think, which might not surprise the reader, that Jones had completely lost his mind.
At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his companion, and blamed him for his taciturnity; for which the poor man very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now this fear being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises of indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue; which, perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt, when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into the pastures.
Eventually, Jones, tired of talking to himself, turned to his companion and criticized him for being so quiet. The poor guy explained that it was due to his fear of offending anyone. Now that this fear was mostly gone, thanks to some strong promises of safety, Partridge felt free to speak again; he was probably just as happy to be able to talk as a young colt is when the bridle is taken off and it's set loose in a meadow.
As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” says he, “that could never be a man, who dresses himself and lives after such a strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a horse than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs strangely in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps, might be sent to forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter which he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner, and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us, considering what we are going about? besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and methought the blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”
As Partridge was prevented from discussing the topic that first came to mind, he turned to the next thing he was thinking about, which was the Man of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” he said, “it can't be a man who dresses and lives in such a strange way, so different from everyone else. Plus, his diet, as the old woman told me, mostly consists of herbs, which is better suited for a horse than a person: indeed, the landlord in Upton mentioned that the neighbors around there have very scary ideas about him. It oddly occurs to me that he might be some kind of spirit, perhaps sent to warn us: and who knows if everything he told us about fighting, getting captured, and the great danger of being hanged was meant as a warning to us, considering what we’re planning to do? Besides, I didn't dream of anything last night except for fighting; in fact, I thought blood was pouring out of my nose like a tap. Truly, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”
“Thy story, Partridge,” answered Jones, “is almost as ill applied as thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it—and what then?” “What then?” replied Partridge; “why then there is an end of us, is there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end of poor Partridge.” “And an end of poor Partridge,” cries Jones, “there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into a coward.
"Your story, Partridge," Jones replied, "is almost as poorly stated as your Latin. Nothing is more likely than death for those who go into battle. We might both end up dying—so what then?" "What then?" Partridge answered; "well then, that's the end for us, right? When I'm gone, it's all over for me. What does the cause matter to me, or who wins, if I get killed? I won't benefit from it at all. What do all the bells ringing and bonfires mean to someone who's six feet under? Poor Partridge will be done for." "And poor Partridge will be done for," Jones exclaimed, "that has to happen eventually. If you love Latin, I can share some great lines from Horace that would inspire courage in a coward."
`Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.'” Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori Mors et fugacem persequitur virum Nec parcit imbellis juventae Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.'”
“I wish you would construe them,” cries Partridge; “for Horace is a hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them.”
“I wish you would explain them,” Partridge exclaims; “because Horace is a tough author, and I can't understand them the way you say them.”
“I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own,” said Jones; “for I am but an indifferent poet:
“I'll give you a bad imitation, or more accurately, a paraphrase of my own,” said Jones; “because I'm not a great poet:
`Who would not die in his dear country's cause? Since, if base fear his dastard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly:—One common grave Receives, at last, the coward and the brave.'”
`Who wouldn’t die for their beloved country? Because if cowardice makes him retreat, he can’t escape death:—In the end, one common grave accepts both the coward and the brave.'`
“That's very certain,” cries Partridge. “Ay, sure, Mors omnibus communis: but there is a great difference between dying in one's bed a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog; or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword, and that too before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us! to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and swearing among them. I wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish you would repent before it is too late; and not think of going among them.—Evil communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal reason. For as for that matter, I am no more afraid than another man, not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh must die; but yet a man may live many years, for all that. Why, I am a middle-aged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I have read of several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such age as that, neither.—But if it be only to eighty or ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than another man; but, surely, to tempt death before a man's time is come seems to me downright wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but, let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a madman—I ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honour into another passion.”
“That's very true,” Partridge exclaims. “Yes, of course, Mors omnibus communis: but there's a huge difference between dying peacefully in our own bed many years from now, like a good Christian, with all our friends mourning us, and being shot today or tomorrow like a rabid dog; or, perhaps, being cut into twenty pieces with a sword, and that too before we've repented for all our sins. Oh Lord, have mercy on us! Indeed, soldiers are a wicked bunch. I've never liked dealing with them. I could hardly think of them as Christians. All they do is curse and swear. I wish you would repent; I sincerely hope you do before it's too late, and that you don't think about getting involved with them.—Bad company corrupts good character. That's my main reason. As for me, I’m not any more afraid than anyone else, not really. I know everyone has to die eventually; but still, a person can live for many years despite that. I mean, I'm middle-aged now, and I could still have a lot of years ahead of me. I've read about several people who lived to be over a hundred, and some much more than that. Not that I expect or hope to live to that age, no.—But even if it's only to eighty or ninety. Thank goodness, that's still a long way off; and I'm not afraid of dying then, any more than anyone else is; but surely to tempt death before one's time seems completely wicked and presumptuous to me. Besides, if it were for a good cause, but, really, what could two people accomplish? As for me, I don't understand any of it. I've only fired a gun about ten times in my life; and even then, it wasn’t loaded with bullets. And as for the sword, I never learned to fence and know nothing about it. And then there are cannons, which it must be considered incredibly presumptuous to engage with; and only a madman would do that—I apologize; I truly meant no harm; I hope I haven't upset you.”
“Be under no apprehension, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I am now so well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any account.” “Your honour,” answered he, “may call me coward, or anything else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus. I never read in my grammar that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds Christian blood.”
“Don’t worry, Partridge,” Jones shouted. “I’m fully convinced of your cowardice, so you can’t provoke me no matter what.” “Your honor,” he replied, “you can call me a coward or anything else you want. If wanting to stay safe and sound makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus. I’ve never read in my studies that a man can’t be good without fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not a single word about fighting; and I’m sure the scriptures are so against it that no one can convince me he’s a good Christian while he spills Christian blood.”
Chapter iv. — The adventure of a beggar-man.
Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which the last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross-way, when a lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him a severe rebuke, saying, “Every parish ought to keep their own poor.” Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, “if he was not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his heart. Your religion,” says he, “serves you only for an excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such a miserable condition?” And at the same time, putting his hand in his pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.
Just as Partridge finished sharing that good and righteous teaching that wrapped up the last chapter, they reached another intersection, where a limping guy in torn clothes asked them for some change. Partridge sharply scolded him, saying, “Every community should take care of its own needy.” Jones then burst out laughing and asked Partridge, “Aren’t you embarrassed? You preach so much about charity, but you have none in your heart. Your faith seems to just be an excuse for your faults and doesn't motivate your good deeds. How can anyone who truly believes be so indifferent to helping someone in such a desperate situation?” As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and handed the poor man a shilling.
“Master,” cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have a curious thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he is poor.” He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it into the hands of Jones.
“Master,” the guy calls out after thanking him, “I have something interesting here in my pocket that I found about two miles away, if you’d like to buy it. I wouldn’t show it to just anyone, but since you’re such a kind gentleman and good to the less fortunate, you won’t think a person is a thief just because they’re poor.” He then took out a small gold-colored pocketbook and handed it to Jones.
Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand. He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips; nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made him forget he was not alone.
Jones opened it and, guess what, reader, he saw on the first page the words Sophia Western, written in her own lovely handwriting. As soon as he read the name, he pressed it to his lips; he couldn't help but get lost in some intense joy, even with others around him. But maybe it was these very feelings that made him forget he wasn't alone.
While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had really been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to eat but his own works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western had given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than £100.
While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had a delicious brown-buttered crust in his mouth or if he were a total bookworm, or an author who survived on nothing but his own writings, a piece of paper fell from its pages to the ground. Partridge picked it up and handed it to Jones, who soon realized it was a banknote. It was, in fact, the same note that Western had given his daughter the night before she left, and a Jew would have jumped at the chance to buy it for five shillings less than £100.
The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect) those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from a principle of honesty) had never opened it: but we should not deal honestly by the reader if we omitted to inform him of a circumstance which may be here a little material, viz. that the fellow could not read.
The eyes of Partridge lit up at this news, which Jones announced loudly; and so did (though with a slightly different look) those of the poor guy who found the book and who (I hope for the sake of honesty) had never opened it: but we wouldn’t be fair to the reader if we didn't mention one detail that might be a bit important, namely that the guy couldn't read.
Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him that the owner of the bill might possibly want it before he should be able to convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder that he knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon as possible, and return it her.
Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and excitement from finding the book, was now mixed with concern about this new discovery; for his imagination quickly suggested to him that the owner of the bill might want it back before he could return it to her. He then informed the finder that he knew the woman to whom the book belonged and would try to find her as soon as possible to return it to her.
The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated toyman; but the real value of the silver which it contained in its clasp was about eighteen-pence; and that price the said toyman, as it was altogether as good as when it first issued from his shop, would now have given for it. A prudent person would, however, have taken proper advantage of the ignorance of this fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay, some perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned serjeants may doubt whether he could, under these circumstances, have maintained.
The pocket book was a late gift from Mrs. Western to her niece; it cost twenty-five shillings and was purchased from a well-known toy seller. However, the actual value of the silver clasp inside was only about eighteen pence, and that’s the price the toy seller would have offered for it since it was in just as good condition as when it first came out of his shop. A smart person would have taken advantage of this seller's ignorance and wouldn’t have paid more than a shilling or maybe six pence for it. In fact, some might not have offered anything at all and would have let the seller pursue a legal claim, which some experienced lawyers might question whether he could actually support under these circumstances.
Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly have been suspected of extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the book. The poor man, who had not for a long time before been possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks, and discovered little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had before shown when he had first read the name of Sophia Western.
Jones, on the other hand, whose personality seemed generous and might have been unfairly suspected of being a bit too showy, readily gave a guinea for the book. The poor man, who hadn’t had such wealth in a long time, thanked Mr. Jones a thousand times and showed just as much excitement in his demeanor as Jones had when he first read the name Sophia Western.
The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place where he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr Jones desired; for his guide unfortunately happened to be lame, and could not possibly travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place, therefore, was at above three miles' distance, though the fellow had said otherwise, the reader need not be acquainted how long they were in walking it.
The guy quickly agreed to take our travelers to the spot where he had found the pocket book. So, they headed there together, but not as quickly as Mr. Jones wanted since his guide unfortunately had a limp and couldn’t walk any faster than a mile an hour. Since the location was over three miles away, despite what the guy had said, you don’t need to know how long it took them to walk there.
Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as often, talked much to himself, and very little to his companions. At all which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge; who more than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.
Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it just as often, talked a lot to himself, and barely spoke to his companions. The guide showed some signs of surprise to Partridge, who shook his head more than once and said, "Poor guy! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano."
At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt the pocket-book, and where the fellow had as happily found it. Here Jones offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but the fellow, in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now considerably abated, and who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a discontented look, and, scratching his head, said, “He hoped his worship would give him something more. Your worship,” said he, “will, I hope, take it into your consideration that if I had not been honest I might have kept the whole.” And, indeed, this the reader must confess to have been true. “If the paper there,” said he, “be worth £100, I am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides, suppose your worship should never see the lady, nor give it her—and, though your worship looks and talks very much like a gentleman, yet I have only your worship's bare word; and, certainly, if the right owner ben't to be found, it all belongs to the first finder. I hope your worship will consider of all these matters: I am but a poor man, and therefore don't desire to have all; but it is but reasonable I should have my share. Your worship looks like a good man, and, I hope, will consider my honesty; for I might have kept every farthing, and nobody ever the wiser.” “I promise thee, upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that I know the right owner, and will restore it her.” “Nay, your worship,” answered the fellow, “may do as you please as to that; if you will but give me my share, that is, one-half of the money, your honour may keep the rest yourself if you please;” and concluded with swearing, by a very vehement oath, “that he would never mention a syllable of it to any man living.”
Eventually, they reached the exact spot where Sophia had sadly dropped the pocketbook, and where the guy had happily found it. Here, Jones offered to say goodbye to his guide and speed up his pace, but the guy, whose initial shock and joy from finding the guinea had faded, and who had now had enough time to gather his thoughts, put on a dissatisfied expression and, scratching his head, said, “I hope you’ll give me something more. I trust you’ll consider that if I hadn’t been honest, I could have kept it all.” And indeed, the reader must admit that this was true. “If the paper there is worth £100, then surely finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides, what if you never see the lady again or give it to her—and while you seem like a gentleman, I only have your word for it; if the rightful owner isn’t found, it all belongs to the first person who found it. I hope you’ll think about all this: I’m just a poor man and don’t expect to have everything; but it’s only fair I get my share. You seem like a good person, and I hope you’ll acknowledge my honesty; I could have kept every penny, and no one would have been the wiser.” “I promise you, on my honor,” Jones exclaimed, “that I know the rightful owner and will return it to her.” “Well, you can do what you want with that,” the guy replied, “but just give me my share, which is half of the money, and you can keep the rest if you want;” and he wrapped up with a strong oath, “that he would never mention a word of it to anyone.”
“Lookee, friend,” cries Jones, “the right owner shall certainly have again all that she lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I really cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where you live, and it is more than possible you may hereafter have further reason to rejoice at this morning's adventure.”
“Hey there, friend,” shouts Jones, “the rightful owner will definitely get back everything she lost; and as for any additional reward, I honestly can’t give you anything right now; but let me know your name and where you live, and it’s very possible that you might have more reasons to celebrate this morning's adventure in the future.”
“I don't know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow; “it seems I must venture whether you will return the lady her money or no; but I hope your worship will consider—” “Come, come,” said Partridge, “tell his honour your name, and where you may be found; I warrant you will never repent having put the money into his hands.” The fellow, seeing no hopes of recovering the possession of the pocket-book, at last complied in giving in his name and place of abode, which Jones writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and then, placing the paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he cried out, “There, friend, you are the happiest man alive; I have joined your name to that of an angel.” “I don't know anything about angels,” answered the fellow; “but I wish you would give me a little more money, or else return me the pocket-book.” Partridge now waxed wrath: he called the poor cripple by several vile and opprobrious names, and was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would not suffer any such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would certainly find some opportunity of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast as his heels would carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hundred pound had infused new spirits, followed his leader; while the man, who was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his parents; “for had they,” says he, “sent me to charity-school to learn to write and read and cast accounts, I should have known the value of these matters as well as other people.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘venture,’” the guy shouted; “it looks like I have to risk it whether you’ll give the lady her money back or not; but I hope you’ll consider—” “Come on,” said Partridge, “just tell him your name and where we can find you; I guarantee you won’t regret giving him the money.” The guy, seeing no chance of getting his pocket-book back, finally agreed to give his name and address, which Jones wrote down on a piece of paper using Sophia’s pencil. Then, placing the paper on the same page where she had written her name, he shouted, “Look, friend, you’re the luckiest guy alive; I’ve joined your name with that of an angel.” “I don’t know anything about angels,” the guy replied; “but I wish you’d give me a little more money, or just return my pocket-book.” Partridge was now getting angry; he called the poor cripple a bunch of nasty names and was about to hit him, but Jones wouldn’t allow it. He told the guy he would definitely find a way to help him, and then Mr. Jones left as quickly as he could; Partridge, filled with excitement over the hundred pounds, followed him, while the man, left behind, started cursing them both and his parents. “If they had,” he said, “sent me to charity school to learn to read, write, and do math, I would have understood the value of these things just like everyone else.”
Chapter v. — Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his companion met on the road.
Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or breath for conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure, caused him at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his walks, had never given him such an opportunity of showing his honesty. They had proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and begged him a little to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to comply, as he had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had enabled him to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a wide common, where were several roads.
Our travelers were now walking so fast that they had very little time or breath for conversation. Jones was lost in thought about Sophia, while Partridge was focused on the bank bill, which, although it brought him some joy, also made him resentful of fate, which had never given him such a chance to prove his honesty during his travels. They had gone over three miles when Partridge, unable to keep up with Jones any longer, called out and asked him to slow down a bit. Jones was more than willing to oblige since he had lost track of the horses’ footprints, which the thaw had allowed him to follow for some miles. Now, he found himself on a wide common with several roads branching off.
He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should pursue; when on a sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed at no great distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of Partridge, and he cried out, “Lord have mercy upon us all; they are certainly a coming!” “Who is coming?” cries Jones; for fear had long since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia, without entertaining one thought of an enemy. “Who?” cries Partridge, “why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be very honest gentlemen, for anything I know to the contrary. The devil take him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have nothing to say to me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a civil way. For Heaven's sake, sir, don't affront them if they should come, and perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the wiser way to creep into some of yonder bushes, till they are gone by? What can two unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a madman; I hope your honour is not offended; but certainly no man who hath mens sana in corpore sano——” Here Jones interrupted this torrent of eloquence, which fear had inspired, saying, “That by the drum he perceived they were near some town.” He then made directly towards the place whence the noise proceeded, bidding Partridge “take courage, for that he would lead him into no danger;” and adding, “it was impossible the rebels should be so near.”
He stopped to think about which road he should take when, all of a sudden, they heard the sound of a drum that seemed to be close by. This sound immediately scared Partridge, and he shouted, “Lord have mercy on us; they’re definitely coming!” “Who’s coming?” Jones asked, as fear had long been replaced by lighter thoughts in his mind; ever since his encounter with the lame man, he had been completely focused on chasing after Sophia and hadn’t thought about any enemies. “Who?” Partridge exclaimed, “the rebels! But why call them rebels? They might just be honest gentlemen, for all I know. To hell with anyone who insults them, I say; if they don’t bother me, I won’t bother them, except politely. For heaven’s sake, sir, don’t provoke them if they show up; they might not harm us; wouldn’t it be smarter to hide in those bushes until they pass? What can two unarmed men do against maybe fifty thousand? Only a madman would take that risk; I hope you’re not upset; but of course, no man who has mens sana in corpore sano—” Here, Jones cut off this flow of fear-driven speech, saying, “From the drum, I can tell we’re near a town.” He then headed straight toward the source of the noise, telling Partridge to “be brave, because he wouldn’t lead him into any danger,” and added, “there's no way the rebels could be this close.”
Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though he would more gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed his leader, his heart beating time, but not after the manner of heroes, to the music of the drum, which ceased not till they had traversed the common, and were come into a narrow lane.
Partridge felt a bit reassured by this final promise; and even though he would have preferred to go in the opposite direction, he followed his leader, his heart racing, but not like a hero, to the beat of the drum, which didn’t stop until they crossed the common and entered a narrow lane.
And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir, here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them already.”
And now Partridge, who was keeping pace with Jones, spotted something flying in the air just a few yards ahead of him. Thinking it was the enemy's colors, he started shouting, “Oh Lord, sir, here they are; there’s the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I’ve never seen anything so terrifying; and we’re already within range of them!”
Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which Partridge had thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I fancy you will be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats up for recruits to a puppet-show.”
Jones barely glanced up when he immediately recognized what Partridge had misinterpreted. “Partridge,” he said, “I think you’ll be able to handle this entire army on your own; based on the colors, I can tell what that drum we heard earlier was, and it’s calling for recruits to a puppet show.”
“A puppet-show!” answered Partridge, with most eager transport. “And is it really no more than that? I love a puppet-show of all the pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I am quite famished to death; for it is now almost dark, and I have not eat a morsel since three o'clock in the morning.”
“A puppet show!” Partridge exclaimed, filled with excitement. “Is it really just that? I love a puppet show more than any other activity in the world. Please, good sir, let’s stay and watch it. Plus, I’m absolutely starving; it’s nearly dark, and I haven’t eaten anything since three o’clock this morning.”
They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones was prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer any assurance of being in the road he desired. They walked both directly into the kitchen, where Jones began to enquire if no ladies had passed that way in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the state of their provisions; and indeed his enquiry met with the better success; for Jones could not hear news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great satisfaction, found good reason to expect very shortly the agreeable sight of an excellent smoaking dish of eggs and bacon.
They arrived at an inn, or more like a pub, where Jones was convinced to stay since he no longer had any guarantee he was on the right road. They both walked straight into the kitchen, where Jones started asking if any ladies had passed by that morning, while Partridge eagerly checked on their supplies; and in fact, he had better luck. Jones couldn't find any news about Sophia, but Partridge, much to his delight, discovered they would soon be served a delicious smoking plate of eggs and bacon.
In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect from what it causes in the puny part of the species. In the latter it generally destroys all that appetite which tends towards the conservation of the individual; but in the former, though it often induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well as of everything else; yet place a good piece of well-powdered buttock before a hungry lover, and he seldom fails very handsomely to play his part. Thus it happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps wanted a prompter, and might have travelled much farther, had he been alone, with an empty stomach; yet no sooner did he sit down to the bacon and eggs, than he fell to as heartily and voraciously as Partridge himself.
In strong and healthy people, love has a very different effect than it does on those who are weaker. For the latter, it usually destroys any appetite that helps keep the individual alive; but for the former, while it may often lead to forgetfulness and a disregard for food and everything else, just put a good plate of well-cooked meat in front of a hungry lover, and they usually do their part quite nicely. This was the case here; for although Jones might have needed a little nudge and could have gone much farther on an empty stomach if he were alone, as soon as he sat down to the bacon and eggs, he dug in as eagerly and greedily as Partridge himself.
Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as the moon was now past the full, it was extremely dark. Partridge therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see the puppet-show, which was just going to begin, and to which they were very eagerly invited by the master of the said show, who declared that his figures were the finest which the world had ever produced, and that they had given great satisfaction to all the quality in every town in England.
Before our travelers had finished their dinner, night fell, and since the moon was now past full, it became very dark. Partridge therefore convinced Jones to stay and watch the puppet show, which was about to start, and they were eagerly invited by the master of the show, who claimed that his puppets were the finest ever made and that they had brought great satisfaction to all the nobility in every town in England.
The puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency. It was called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low wit or humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without anything which could provoke a laugh. The audience were all highly pleased. A grave matron told the master she would bring her two daughters the next night, as he did not show any stuff; and an attorney's clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the characters of Lord and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature. Partridge likewise concurred with this opinion.
The puppet show was performed regularly and respectfully. It was called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it was indeed a very serious and solemn performance, lacking any low humor or jokes; or, to be fair, lacking anything that could provoke laughter. The audience was all very pleased. A serious matron told the master she would bring her two daughters the next night, as he didn’t resort to crude material; and an attorney's clerk and an excise officer both stated that the characters of Lord and Lady Townley were well portrayed and very true to life. Partridge also agreed with this opinion.
The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could not refrain from adding some more of his own. He said, “The present age was not improved in anything so much as in their puppet-shows; which, by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such idle trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational entertainment. I remember,” said he, “when I first took to the business, there was a great deal of low stuff that did very well to make folks laugh; but was never calculated to improve the morals of young people, which certainly ought to be principally aimed at in every puppet-show: for why may not good and instructive lessons be conveyed this way, as well as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and they represent the life in every particular; and I question not but people rise from my little drama as much improved as they do from the great.” “I would by no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession,” answered Jones, “but I should have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance master Punch, for all that; and so far from improving, I think, by leaving out him and his merry wife Joan, you have spoiled your puppet-show.”
The master was so pleased with all the praise that he couldn't help but add some of his own. He said, “The current era has really advanced, especially in puppet shows; by getting rid of Punch and his wife Joan, along with other silly distractions, they have finally become a more thoughtful form of entertainment. I remember when I started in this business, there was a lot of low-quality stuff that made people laugh but didn’t really teach young folks anything, which should definitely be the main goal of every puppet show. Why can’t we share good and educational lessons this way, just like in any other format? My puppets are life-sized, and they represent life in every detail; I have no doubt that audiences leave my performances just as enriched as they do from the big productions.” “I don’t want to undermine the creativity of your craft,” replied Jones, “but I would have really liked to see my old friend Master Punch. Honestly, I think by cutting him and his lively wife Joan, you’ve ruined your puppet show.”
The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for Jones, from these words. And with much disdain in his countenance, he replied, “Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I have the satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and it is impossible to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some of the quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring Punch again upon the stage. I believe I lost some money for not agreeing to it; but let others do as they will; a little matter shall never bribe me to degrade my own profession, nor will I ever willingly consent to the spoiling the decency and regularity of my stage, by introducing any such low stuff upon it.”
The wire dancer immediately looked down on Jones after hearing those words. With a sneer on his face, he responded, “That may be your opinion, sir, but I'm pleased to know that the best critics disagree with you, and it’s impossible to please everyone. I do admit that some people in Bath, a couple of years ago, were really eager to bring Punch back onto the stage. I think I lost some money by not going along with it; but let others do what they want; a small amount of money will never convince me to lower my own profession, nor will I ever agree to ruin the decency and order of my stage by bringing in such low-quality material.”
“Right, friend,” cries the clerk, “you are very right. Always avoid what is low. There are several of my acquaintance in London, who are resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage.” “Nothing can be more proper,” cries the exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth. “I remember,” added he, “(for I then lived with my lord) I was in the footman's gallery, the night when this play of the Provoked Husband was acted first. There was a great deal of low stuff in it about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for parliament-man; and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the stage, his coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen in our gallery could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe, friend, you have left all that matter out, and you are to be commended for it.”
“Absolutely, my friend,” the clerk exclaims, “you’re totally right. Always steer clear of anything low. I know several people in London who are determined to keep anything low off the stage.” “That’s completely appropriate,” the exciseman says, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “I remember,” he added, “(since I was living with my lord at the time) I was in the footman’s gallery the night this play, The Provoked Husband, premiered. There was a lot of low content about a country gentleman coming to town to run for parliament; they even brought a bunch of his servants on stage, and I particularly remember his coachman. But the guys in our gallery couldn’t stand anything so low, and they condemned it. I see, friend, that you’ve left all that out, and you deserve praise for it.”
“Nay, gentlemen,” cries Jones, “I can never maintain my opinion against so many; indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done very right in dismissing Punch from his service.”
“Come on, guys,” says Jones, “I can’t keep my opinion when so many disagree; honestly, if most of the audience doesn’t like him, the smart guy running the show might have been totally justified in letting Punch go.”
The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of the great force of example, and how much the inferior part of mankind would be deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in their superiors; when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident, which, though perhaps we might have omitted it at another time, we cannot help relating at present, but not in this chapter.
The host of the show then launched into a second speech, talking a lot about the powerful impact of setting an example, and how much the lower ranks of society would be discouraged from wrongdoing by seeing how disgusting it was in those above them; just then, he was unfortunate enough to be interrupted by an event that, though we might have skipped over at another time, we can't overlook right now, but not in this chapter.
Chapter vi. — From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.
A violent uproar now arose in the entry, where my landlady was well cuffing her maid both with her fist and tongue. She had indeed missed the wench from her employment, and, after a little search, had found her on the puppet-show stage in company with the Merry Andrew, and in a situation not very proper to be described.
A loud commotion erupted in the entryway, where my landlady was harshly scolding her maid both physically and verbally. She had noticed the girl was missing from her duties and, after a brief search, discovered her on the puppet-show stage with the Merry Andrew, in a situation that wasn't appropriate to detail.
Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to modesty; yet had she not impudence enough to deny a fact in which she was actually surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and attempted to mitigate the offence. “Why do you beat me in this manner, mistress?” cries the wench. “If you don't like my doings, you may turn me away. If I am a w—e” (for the other had liberally bestowed that appellation on her), “my betters are so as well as I. What was the fine lady in the puppet-show just now? I suppose she did not lie all night out from her husband for nothing.”
Though Grace (that was her name) had lost any claim to modesty, she didn’t have the nerve to deny a truth that genuinely shocked her. So, she took a different approach and tried to soften the blow. “Why are you hitting me like this, mistress?” the girl exclaimed. “If you don’t like what I’m doing, you can just fire me. If I’m a w—e” (since the other had freely called her that), “then so are others who are better than me. What about that fancy lady in the puppet show just now? I doubt she stayed out all night away from her husband for no reason.”
The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her husband and the poor puppet-mover. “Here, husband,” says she, “you see the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one doth draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made amends for the litter they make; and then to have one's house made a bawdy-house of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be gone to-morrow morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is only the way to teach our servants idleness and nonsense; for to be sure nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I remember when puppet-shows were made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah's Rash Vow, and such good things, and when wicked people were carried away by the devil. There was some sense in those matters; but as the parson told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil now-a-days; and here you bring about a parcel of puppets drest up like lords and ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches; and when their heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no wonder everything else is so.”
The landlady burst into the kitchen, fuming at both her husband and the unfortunate puppet-master. “Hey, husband,” she said, “look at the mess that comes from letting these people stay in our home. If I pour a bit more drink for them, it hardly makes up for the mess they leave behind; and now my house is turning into a brothel thanks to these filthy creatures. To put it plainly, I want you to leave by tomorrow morning; I won't put up with this nonsense anymore. It only teaches our servants to be lazy and foolish; honestly, nothing good can come from such mindless performances. I remember when puppet shows had decent biblical stories, like Jephthah's Rash Vow and other worthwhile tales, and when wicked people were taken away by the devil. Those stories actually had meaning; but as the preacher told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil nowadays; and here you bring in a bunch of puppets dressed up like nobility, just to confuse poor country girls; and once their heads are turned upside down, it’s no wonder everything else is a mess.”
Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a riotous and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly about, if a man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the tumult is presently appeased, and the mob, which when collected into one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their long ears at the grave man's discourse.
Virgil, I believe, tells us that when a crowd is gathered in a chaotic and disorderly way, and various projectiles are flying around, if a serious and authoritative person shows up, the chaos will quickly settle down. The crowd, which when gathered together can be compared to a donkey, perks up its long ears to listen to the wise man’s speech.
On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are disputing; when wisdom herself may in a manner be considered as present, and administering arguments to the disputants; should a tumult arise among the mob, or should one scold, who is herself equal in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said philosophers; their disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her ministerial office, and the attention of every one is immediately attracted by the scold alone.
On the other hand, when a group of serious men and philosophers are having a debate; when wisdom herself can almost be seen as present, guiding the arguments of those debating; if a commotion breaks out among the crowd, or if someone starts yelling, matching the noise of a large crowd, enters the scene with the philosophers; their discussions stop instantly, wisdom no longer plays her role, and everyone's attention is immediately drawn to the loud person alone.
Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced the master of the puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to that grave and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a sufficient taste already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very inopportune as this accident; the most wanton malice of fortune could not have contrived such another stratagem to confound the poor fellow, while he was so triumphantly descanting on the good morals inculcated by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopt, as that of quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the great virtues of his pills and powders, the corpse of one of his martyrs should be brought forth, and deposited before the stage, as a testimony of his skill.
So the earlier uproar and the landlady's arrival cut off the puppet-show master and quickly ended his serious speech, which we've already given the reader a good sense of. Nothing could have occurred at a worse time than this incident; even the cruelest twist of fate couldn't have come up with a better plan to embarrass the poor guy while he was confidently talking about the valuable lessons his shows taught. His mouth was now as completely shut as a quack's must be if, in the middle of a speech about the amazing benefits of his pills and powders, one of his failed patients was brought out and placed in front of the stage as proof of his expertise.
Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man ran out to punish his Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to put forth her silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at that time more like a piece of copper), Jones called for his reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had just awaked from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having lately carried two points, as my reader hath seen before, was emboldened to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take up a lodging that evening in the house where he then was. He introduced this with an affected surprize at the intention which Mr Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many excellent arguments against it, he at last insisted strongly that it could be to no manner of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which way the lady was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the farther from her; “for you find, sir,” said he, “by all the people in the house, that she is not gone this way. How much better, therefore, would it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to meet with somebody to enquire of?”
Instead of answering his landlady, the puppet-show man rushed out to confront his Merry Andrew. As the moon began to shine with her silver light, as poets like to say (though it looked more like a piece of copper at that moment), Jones asked for his bill and told Partridge, who his landlady had just woken from a deep nap, to get ready for their journey. However, Partridge, having recently achieved two successes, felt brave enough to try for a third: convincing Jones to stay the night in the house they were in. He started this with a feigned surprise at Jones’s plan to leave and, after presenting several strong arguments against it, he ultimately insisted that it wouldn’t make any sense at all. He pointed out that unless Jones knew where the lady had gone, every step he took could lead him further away from her. “As you can see, sir,” he said, “from all the people in the house, she hasn’t gone this way. So, wouldn’t it be much better to stay until morning, when we might run into someone to ask about her?”
This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was weighing it the landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was master into the same scale. “Sure, sir,” said he, “your servant gives you most excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this time of the year?” He then began in the usual stile to trumpet forth the excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my landlady likewise opened on the occasion——But, not to detain the reader with what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to tell him Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few hours' rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut his eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of the broken head had happened.
This last argument did have some impact on Jones, and while he was thinking it over, the landlord used all his persuasive skills to influence him. “Of course, sir,” he said, “your servant is giving you great advice; who would travel at night this time of year?” He then started in his usual way to boast about the excellent accommodations his inn offered; my landlady also chimed in on the occasion——But, to avoid boring the reader with the typical spiel from any host or hostess, it’s enough to say that Jones was eventually convinced to stay and get a few hours of much-needed rest, since he had barely slept since leaving the inn where the incident with his head injury occurred.
As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that night, he presently retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the pocket-book and the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had refreshed himself with several naps, was more inclined to eating than to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.
As soon as Jones decided not to go any further that night, he went to sleep with his two companions, the wallet and the muff; but Partridge, who had taken a few naps, was more interested in eating than sleeping, and even more in drinking than in either.
And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my landlady being again reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side forgave the indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion had cast on his performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled round the fire the landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the puppet-show, the attorney's clerk, the exciseman, and the ingenious Mr Partridge; in which company past the agreeable conversation which will be found in the next chapter.
And now that the storm Grace had caused was over, and my landlady had made up with the puppet man, who in turn forgave her rude comments about his performances, there was a perfect sense of peace and calm in the kitchen. Gathered around the fire were the landlord and landlady, the puppet show master, the attorney's clerk, the exciseman, and the clever Mr. Partridge. They enjoyed a pleasant conversation that will continue in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of the good company assembled in the kitchen.
Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a servant, yet he condescended in most particulars to imitate the manners of that rank. One instance of this was, his greatly magnifying the fortune of his companion, as he called Jones: such is a general custom with all servants among strangers, as none of them would willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the higher the situation of the master is, the higher consequently is that of the man in his own opinion; the truth of which observation appears from the behaviour of all the footmen of the nobility.
Although Partridge's pride prevented him from admitting he was a servant, he still chose to imitate the behaviors typical of that role in many ways. One example of this was his tendency to greatly exaggerate the wealth of his companion, whom he referred to as Jones. This is a common practice among servants when around strangers, as none of them would want to be seen as the attendant to someone poor. The higher the status of the master, the more elevated the servant feels about themselves; this observation is evident in the behavior of all the footmen in noble households.
But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them, and the footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves entitled to a part of that respect which is paid to the quality and estate of their masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to virtue and understanding. These advantages are strictly personal, and swallow themselves all the respect which is paid to them. To say the truth, this is so very little, that they cannot well afford to let any others partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour on the domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most deplorable want of both in his master. Indeed it is otherwise in the want of what is called virtue in a mistress, the consequence of which we have before seen: for in this dishonour there is a kind of contagion, which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all who approach it.
But while titles and wealth create a certain splendor around them, and the servants of wealthy and influential people feel entitled to some of the respect given to their masters' status, it's quite different when it comes to virtue and understanding. These qualities are personal and take away all the respect they themselves attract. To be honest, the amount of respect they command is so minimal that they can't afford to share it with anyone else. Therefore, these qualities don't bring any honor to the servants, nor do they diminish the servants' worth if their master lacks them severely. However, in the case of a mistress lacking what is considered virtue, as we've seen before, there is a kind of contagion in that dishonor, much like that of poverty, which affects everyone who comes near it.
Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among the men only) should have so great regard for the reputation of the wealth of their masters, and little or none at all for their character in other points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend upon a rogue or a blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the fame of the iniquities and follies of their said masters as far as possible, and this often with great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman is often a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman whose livery he wears.
Now, for these reasons, we shouldn't be surprised that servants (I mean men only) care so much about the wealth of their masters' reputation but not at all about their character in other areas. They might feel embarrassed to be the footman for a beggar but not for a crook or a fool. As a result, they have no hesitation in spreading the word about their masters' misdeeds and foolishness, often doing so with great humor and entertainment. In fact, a footman is often both witty and stylish, at the expense of the gentleman whose uniform he wears.
After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune to which Mr Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an apprehension, which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for which, as we hinted at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short, he was now pretty well confirmed in an opinion that his master was out of his wits, with which opinion he very bluntly acquainted the good company round the fire.
After Partridge had gone on and on about the huge fortune Mr. Jones was set to inherit, he openly shared a concern that he started to have the day before, which, as we mentioned at that time, seemed to be backed up by Jones's behavior. In short, he was now fairly convinced that his master had lost his mind, and he bluntly informed the good company gathered around the fire about his opinion.
With this sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. “I own,” said he, “the gentleman surprized me very much, when he talked so absurdly about puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived that any man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say now accounts very well for all his monstrous notions. Poor gentleman! I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange wildness about his eyes, which I took notice of before, though I did not mention it.”
With this feeling, the puppet-show guy totally agreed. “Honestly,” he said, “the gentleman really surprised me when he talked so ridiculously about puppet shows. It’s hard to believe that anyone in their right mind could be so wrong; what you just said explains all his bizarre ideas. Poor man! I'm genuinely concerned for him; he has a strange wild look in his eyes, which I noticed before, even though I didn’t bring it up.”
The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the sagacity of having observed it. “And certainly,” added he, “it must be so; for no one but a madman would have thought of leaving so good a house to ramble about the country at that time of night.”
The landlord agreed with this last point and claimed he had been smart enough to notice it. “And of course,” he added, “it has to be true; because no one but a fool would think of leaving such a nice house to wander around the countryside at this time of night.”
The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, “He thought the gentleman looked and talked a little wildly;” and then turning to Partridge, “if he be a madman,” says he, “he should not be suffered to travel thus about the country; for possibly he may do some mischief. It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his relations.”
The tax collector, taking his pipe out of his mouth, said, “I think the guy looks and acts a bit crazy;” and then turning to Partridge, “if he’s a madman,” he said, “he shouldn’t be allowed to roam around the country like this; he might cause some trouble. It’s a shame he wasn’t detained and sent back to his family.”
Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded that Jones had run away from Mr Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he could by any means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose fierceness and strength he had seen, and indeed felt, some instances, had however represented any such scheme as impossible to be executed, and had discouraged him from applying himself to form any regular plan for the purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments of the exciseman than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed a hearty wish that such a matter could be brought about.
Now some similar thoughts were also in Partridge's mind; since he was convinced that Jones had run away from Mr. Allworthy, he imagined he would gain great rewards if he could somehow bring him back. However, his fear of Jones, whose fierceness and strength he had seen and even experienced firsthand, made him think that such a scheme was impossible to carry out, discouraging him from coming up with any solid plan for it. But as soon as he heard the exciseman's views, he seized the chance to share his own thoughts and expressed a strong desire for such a situation to be realized.
“Could be brought about!” says the exciseman: “why, there is nothing easier.”
"That could definitely happen!" says the tax collector. "There's nothing simpler."
“Ah! sir,” answered Partridge, “you don't know what a devil of a fellow he is. He can take me up with one hand, and throw me out at window; and he would, too, if he did but imagine—”
“Ah! sir,” replied Partridge, “you have no idea what a force he is. He can lift me with one hand and toss me out the window; and he would, too, if he even thought—”
“Pogh!” says the exciseman, “I believe I am as good a man as he. Besides, here are five of us.”
“Pogh!” says the tax collector, “I think I'm just as good a man as he is. Plus, there are five of us here.”
“I don't know what five,” cries the landlady, “my husband shall have nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent hands be laid upon anybody in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young gentleman as ever I saw in my life, and I believe he is no more mad than any of us. What do you tell of his having a wild look with his eyes? they are the prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the prettiest look with them; and a very modest civil young man he is. I am sure I have bepitied him heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he was crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially such a sweet young gentleman as he is, to look a little otherwise than he did before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better than such a handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of your quality folks, one of your Townly ladies that we saw last night in the puppet-show, who don't know what they would be at.”
“I don’t know what to say,” the landlady exclaims, “my husband won’t get involved in this. And no one is going to lay a hand on anyone in my house. The young gentleman is as handsome as anyone I’ve ever seen, and I believe he’s no more crazy than any of us. What do you mean about his wild look? Those are the prettiest eyes I've ever seen, and he has the most charming expression. He’s a very polite and respectful young man. I’ve felt so sorry for him ever since that gentleman over there in the corner told us he was heartbroken. That’s enough to make anyone, especially such a sweet young gentleman, look a little different than he did before. Honestly! What more could the lady want than such a handsome man with a great estate? I bet she’s one of those high-society types, one of those Townly ladies we saw last night at the puppet show, who don’t even know what they want.”
The attorney's clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the business without the advice of counsel. “Suppose,” says he, “an action of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what defence could we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of madness to a jury? But I only speak upon my own account; for it don't look well for a lawyer to be concerned in these matters, unless it be as a lawyer. Juries are always less favourable to us than to other people. I don't therefore dissuade you, Mr Thomson (to the exciseman), nor the gentleman, nor anybody else.”
The lawyer's assistant also stated that he wouldn't get involved in the matter without legal advice. "What if," he said, "a false imprisonment case was brought against us? What defense could we have? Who knows what evidence of insanity a jury might consider convincing? But I'm just speaking for myself; it doesn't reflect well on a lawyer to be involved in these things unless they're acting in a legal capacity. Juries are usually less sympathetic to us than to others. So, I'm not trying to discourage you, Mr. Thomson (to the tax collector), or anyone else."
The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man said, “Madness was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to decide: for I remember,” says he, “I was once present at a tryal of madness, where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as a March hare; and twenty others, that he was as much in his senses as any man in England.—And indeed it was the opinion of most people, that it was only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his right.”
The tax collector shook his head at this comment, and the puppet-show performer said, “Determining madness can be tough for a jury: I remember being at a trial where twenty witnesses claimed the person was as crazy as a March hare; and twenty others insisted he was as sane as anyone in England. In fact, most people believed it was just a scheme by his relatives to take away the poor man’s rights.”
“Very likely!” cries the landlady. “I myself knew a poor gentleman who was kept in a mad-house all his life by his family, and they enjoyed his estate, but it did them no good; for though the law gave it them, it was the right of another.”
“Very likely!” shouts the landlady. “I knew a poor guy who was kept in a mental hospital his whole life by his family, and they got to enjoy his estate, but it didn’t do them any good; because even though the law gave it to them, it actually belonged to someone else.”
“Pogh!” cries the clerk, with great contempt, “who hath any right but what the law gives them? If the law gave me the best estate in the country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right.”
“Pogh!” the clerk exclaims with clear disdain, “who has any rights other than what the law grants them? If the law awarded me the finest estate in the country, I wouldn’t care much about who had the rights.”
“If it be so,” says Partridge, “Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.”
“If that’s the case,” says Partridge, “Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.”
My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at the gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an affrighted countenance cried out, “What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have given the duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is certainly true, for a man on horseback just now told me so.”
My landlord, who had rushed out at the arrival of a horseman at the gate, now came back into the kitchen, looking scared, and exclaimed, “What do you think, guys? The rebels have escaped the duke and are almost in London. It’s definitely true; a guy on horseback just told me that.”
“I am glad of it with all my heart,” cries Partridge; “then there will be no fighting in these parts.”
“I’m really happy about it,” Partridge exclaims; “then there won't be any fighting around here.”
“I am glad,” cries the clerk, “for a better reason; for I would always have right take place.”
“I’m glad,” says the clerk, “for a better reason; because I always want what’s right to happen.”
“Ay, but,” answered the landlord, “I have heard some people say this man hath no right.”
“Ay, but,” replied the landlord, “I’ve heard some people say this man has no right.”
“I will prove the contrary in a moment,” cries the clerk: “if my father dies seized of a right; do you mind me, seized of a right, I say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one right descend as well as another?”
“I’ll prove the opposite in a minute,” says the clerk: “if my father dies owning a right; do you understand, owning a right, I say; doesn’t that right go to his son? And doesn’t one right pass down just like another?”
“But how can he have any right to make us papishes?” says the landlord.
“But how can he have any right to make us Catholics?” says the landlord.
“Never fear that,” cries Partridge. “As to the matter of right, the gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to the matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know very well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and honour they had no such design.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Partridge exclaims. “Regarding the issue of right, that gentleman has proven it as clearly as the sun; and when it comes to religion, that’s completely irrelevant. Even the Catholics themselves don’t expect anything like that. A Catholic priest I know very well, who is a very honest man, told me on his word of honor that they had no such plans.”
“And another priest, of my acquaintance,” said the landlady, “hath told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of people, and spend their money very freely; and it is always a maxim with me, that one man's money is as good as another's.”
“And another priest I know,” said the landlady, “has told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of Catholics. I know a lot of Catholics who are good, honest people and spend their money quite freely; and I’ve always believed that one person's money is just as good as anyone else's.”
“Very true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man, “I don't care what religion comes; provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they are enemies to puppet-shows.”
“Very true, ma'am,” said the puppet-show man, “I don't mind what religion comes; as long as the Presbyterians aren't in charge; because they're against puppet shows.”
“And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest,” cries the exciseman; “and are desirous to see popery brought in, are you?”
“And so you would give up your faith for your own benefit,” the exciseman shouts; “and you want to see Catholicism come back, right?”
“Not I, truly,” answered the other; “I hate popery as much as any man; but yet it is a comfort to one, that one should be able to live under it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure, every man values his livelihood first; that must be granted; and I warrant, if you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of losing your place than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be an excise under another government as well as under this.”
“Not me, honestly,” the other replied. “I dislike Catholicism just as much as anyone; but it’s comforting to know that I can live under it, which I couldn't do among Presbyterians. Of course, everyone prioritizes their income; that’s a given. And I bet if you were honest, you’re more worried about losing your job than anything else; but don’t worry, my friend, there will be taxes under any government, just like there are now.”
“Why, certainly,” replied the exciseman, “I should be a very ill man if I did not honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no more than natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that there would be an excise-office under another government, since my friends would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow them? No, no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes only of keeping my place under another government; for I should certainly be no better, and very probably might be worse.”
“Of course,” replied the tax officer, “I would be a very sick man if I didn’t respect the king, whose bread I eat. That’s only natural, as the saying goes: why would it matter to me if there were a tax office under different leadership, since my friends would be gone, and I could only expect to follow them? No, no, my friend, I will never be fooled out of my beliefs just to keep my job under a new government; I would certainly be no better off, and I might even be worse.”
“Why, that is what I say,” cries the landlord, “whenever folks say who knows what may happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead to lend my money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it again? I am sure it is safe in my own bureau, and there I will keep it.”
“Why, that’s exactly what I say,” the landlord exclaims, “whenever people say who knows what might happen! Good grief! Shouldn’t I be a fool to lend my money to someone I don’t even know, just because they might pay me back? I’m sure it’s safe in my own drawer, and that’s where I’ll keep it.”
The attorney's clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of Partridge. Whether this proceeded from the great discernment which the former had into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the sympathy between their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in principle; they now shook hands heartily, and drank bumpers of strong beer to healths which we think proper to bury in oblivion.
The attorney's clerk really liked Partridge's wisdom. Whether this came from the clerk's keen insight into people and situations, or from a shared mindset—since they were both true Jacobites at heart—they shook hands warmly and toasted with large glasses of strong beer to healths that we believe are best forgotten.
These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my landlord himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his house again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this occasion soon put an end to the conversation. Here, therefore, we will put an end to the chapter.
These toasts were then raised by everyone there, including my landlord, even though he didn't want to. But he couldn't resist the threats from the clerk, who vowed he would never step foot in his house again if he refused. The drinks consumed during this occasion quickly put an end to the conversation. So, we'll conclude the chapter here.
Chapter viii. — In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.
As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already slept nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been awakened by a most violent noise at his chamber-door, where the sound of many heavy blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder. Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry-Andrew, without either mercy or moderation.
There’s no healthier, and probably few stronger, sleep aids than exhaustion. You could say Jones had taken quite a big dose, and it hit him hard. He had already been asleep for nine hours and might have slept even longer if he hadn’t been woken up by a loud commotion at his door, where the sound of heavy banging was mixed with shouts of murder. Jones quickly jumped out of bed, only to discover the master of the puppet show beating his poor Merry-Andrew’s back and sides without any mercy or restraint.
Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man was no more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-coloured jester had been to contend with this puppet-man.
Jones quickly stepped in to defend the suffering party and cornered the insulting conqueror against the wall: the puppet-show guy was no more capable of standing up to Jones than the poor, colorful jester had been able to stand up to this puppet-man.
But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong, he had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no sooner found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him with the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first discharged a volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded to some particular accusations—“D—n your bl—d, you rascal,” says he, “I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to rob the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in a wood to strip her—to strip one of the prettiest ladies that ever was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as myself, only because she likes me better than you.”
But even though the Merry-Andrew was a little guy and not very strong, he still had a bit of a temper. So, as soon as he found himself free from his enemy, he started attacking him with the only weapon they were equally matched in. First, he let loose a barrage of general insults and then moved on to some specific accusations—“Damn your blood, you scoundrel,” he said, “I have not only helped you (because you owe all the money you make to me), but I saved you from getting hanged. Didn’t you try to rob that lady of her beautiful riding outfit just yesterday in that back alley? Can you deny that you wanted to get her alone in the woods to strip her— to strip one of the prettiest ladies anyone has ever seen? And here you are, attacking me and nearly killing me, for no reason other than I’m not harming a girl who's as interested in me as I am in her, just because she likes me more than you.”
Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch with him into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his master with his drum the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge, he departed with the utmost expedition.
Jones barely heard this before he left the master, urgently urging him to stop any further insults toward the clown. He then took the poor guy into his own room, where he quickly learned news about Sophia, whom the boy had seen pass by while he was following his master with his drum the day before. He easily convinced the lad to show him the exact spot, and after summoning Partridge, he left as quickly as possible.
It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready for his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and over, Jones would not quit the place before he had perfectly reconciled all differences between the master and the man.
It was nearly eight o'clock before everything was ready for his departure: Partridge wasn’t in a hurry, and they couldn’t settle the bill right away; and once those were taken care of, Jones wouldn’t leave until he had completely resolved all the issues between the master and the servant.
When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the trusty Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past; and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the extraordinary manner in which he received his intelligence. Of this Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness, began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have good success in the end: for, he said, “two such accidents could never have happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not designed to bring them together at last.” And this was the first time that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of his companion.
Once this was successfully done, he moved forward, and the reliable Merry-Andrew guided him to the place where Sophia had passed by; after generously rewarding his guide, he continued on with great eagerness, thrilled by the unusual way he received the news. As soon as Partridge learned this, he earnestly began to predict, assuring Jones that he would ultimately succeed: he said, “Such coincidences couldn’t occur just to lead him after his mistress if fate didn’t intend for them to come together in the end.” This was the first time Jones paid any attention to the superstitious beliefs of his companion.
They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain overtook them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with Jones to enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed it may be called one) which partakes more of the English than of the French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this was an excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast, though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the house could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia.
They had barely walked two miles when a heavy rainstorm hit them; and since they happened to be near a pub, Partridge, with much pleading, convinced Jones to go inside and wait out the storm. Hunger is a foe (if it can even be called that) that tends to affect the English more than the French; for even if you suppress it time after time, it will always come back eventually. And so it did with Partridge, who, as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, started asking the same questions he had asked the night before. This resulted in a delicious cold meat dish being served at the table, which both Partridge and Jones enjoyed for breakfast. However, Jones began to feel uneasy again since the people at the inn could give him no new information about Sophia.
Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally, notwithstanding the violence of the storm still continued; but Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting his eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the kitchen, and who at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to Jones, and cried, “Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan't serve the turn this bout. Why, here's more news of Madam Sophia come to town. The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that rode before her. I can swear to my own plaister on his face.”—“Heavens bless you, sir,” cries the boy, “it is your own plaister sure enough; I shall have always reason to remember your goodness; for it hath almost cured me.”
After finishing their meal, Jones was getting ready to head out again, even though the storm was still raging. But Partridge fervently requested another mug, and finally, noticing a boy by the fire who had just entered the kitchen and was looking at him intently, he turned abruptly to Jones and said, “Master, I need your hand—one mug won't cut it this time. Look, there's more news about Madam Sophia in town. That boy there by the fire is the very one who rode ahead of her. I can recognize my own plaster on his face.” — “Heavens bless you, sir,” the boy exclaimed, “it is indeed your plaster! I will always remember your kindness; it has almost healed me.”
At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy follow him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private apartment; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he never willingly mentioned her name in the presence of many people; and, though he had, as it were, from the overflowings of his heart, given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was impossible she should be known; yet, even there, the reader may remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her surname.
At these words, Jones jumped up from his chair and told the boy to follow him right away as he left the kitchen for a private room. He was so careful about Sophia that he never liked to mention her name around others. Even though he had, from the depths of his heart, toasted to Sophia among the officers, thinking she couldn't possibly be known there, the reader may recall how reluctant he was to even say her last name.
Hard therefore was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious readers, very absurd and monstrous, that he should principally owe his present misfortune to the supposed want of that delicacy with which he so abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much more offended at the freedoms which she thought (and not without good reason) he had taken with her name and character, than at any freedoms, in which, under his present circumstances, he had indulged himself with the person of another woman; and to say truth, I believe Honour could never have prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not been for those two strong instances of a levity in his behaviour, so void of respect, and indeed so highly inconsistent with any degree of love and tenderness in great and delicate minds.
It was indeed hard, and perhaps many wise readers would find it quite absurd and outrageous, that he should primarily attribute his current misfortune to the supposed lack of the sensitivity he had in abundance. In truth, Sophia was much more upset by the liberties she believed (and not without good reason) he had taken with her name and reputation than by any liberties he had indulged in with another woman under the circumstances. To be honest, I think that honor could never have convinced her to leave Upton without seeing Jones if it hadn't been for those two strong examples of his behavior, which were so disrespectful and, in fact, greatly inconsistent with any real love and tenderness in thoughtful and sensitive people.
But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader is shocked at their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I must remind such persons that I am not writing a system, but a history, and I am not obliged to reconcile every matter to the received notions concerning truth and nature. But if this was never so easy to do, perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For instance, as the fact at present before us now stands, without any comment of mine upon it, though it may at first sight offend some readers, yet, upon more mature consideration, it must please all; for wise and good men may consider what happened to Jones at Upton as a just punishment for his wickedness with regard to women, of which it was indeed the immediate consequence; and silly and bad persons may comfort themselves in their vices by flattering their own hearts that the characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue. Now, perhaps the reflections which we should be here inclined to draw would alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon doctrine, which it is the purpose of this whole work to inculcate, and which we must not fill up our pages by frequently repeating, as an ordinary parson fills his sermon by repeating his text at the end of every paragraph.
But this is how things turned out, and this is what I need to share; if any reader finds it strange, I can't do anything about that. I want to remind those people that I'm not creating a theory, but telling a story, and I'm not required to make everything fit into the usual ideas about truth and nature. However, if this was never simple to achieve, maybe it would be smarter for me to just steer clear of it. For example, as the current situation stands, without any comments from me, it might initially upset some readers, but upon deeper reflection, it should please everyone; because wise and good people might see what happened to Jones at Upton as fair punishment for his wrongdoing towards women, which was indeed the immediate result; while foolish and immoral people may soothe their guilty consciences by convincing themselves that a person's character is more about chance than about virtue. Now, perhaps the thoughts we might want to draw here would challenge both these ideas and demonstrate that these events only serve to reinforce the important, valuable, and uncommon lesson that this entire work aims to convey, and which we won't keep repeating throughout these pages like a typical preacher does by reiterating his message at the end of every paragraph.
We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had erred in her opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her opinion; since, I believe, every other young lady would, in her situation, have erred in the same manner. Nay, had she followed her lover at this very time, and had entered this very alehouse the moment he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well acquainted with her name and person as the wench at Upton had appeared to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in the kitchen very openly catechising the other guide who had attended Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose ears were open on all such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted with the tumble of Sophia from her horse, &c., with the mistake concerning Jenny Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in short, with almost everything which had happened at the inn whence we despatched our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our leaves of them.
We are pleased to acknowledge that, despite Sophia having a misguided opinion of Jones, she had good reason for her views. I believe every other young woman in her situation would likely have made the same mistake. In fact, if she had followed her lover at that very moment and walked into the alehouse just after he left, she would have found the landlord just as familiar with her name and face as the girl in Upton seemed to be. While Jones was quietly questioning his boy in another room, Partridge, who had no such reservations, was in the kitchen very openly asking the other guide who had accompanied Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Because of this, the landlord, eager to listen in on all such conversations, learned all about Sophia's fall from her horse, the mix-up with Jenny Cameron, the many effects of the punch, and pretty much everything that had happened at the inn from which we sent our ladies off in a coach and six the last time we said goodbye to them.
Chapter ix. — Containing little more than a few odd observations.
Jones had been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into the kitchen in a hurry, desiring the landlord to let him know that instant what was to pay. And now the concern which Partridge felt at being obliged to quit the warm chimney-corner, and a cup of excellent liquor, was somewhat compensated by hearing that he was to proceed no farther on foot, for Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed with the boy to attend him back to the inn whither he had before conducted Sophia; but to this however the lad consented, upon condition that the other guide would wait for him at the alehouse; because, as the landlord at Upton was an intimate acquaintance of the landlord at Gloucester, it might some time or other come to the ears of the latter that his horses had been let to more than one person; and so the boy might be brought to account for money which he wisely intended to put in his own pocket.
Jones had been gone for a full half-hour when he rushed back into the kitchen and asked the landlord to tell him right away how much he owed. Now, Partridge was a bit relieved about having to leave the warm spot by the fireplace and a great drink, since he learned he wouldn’t have to walk any further. Jones had convinced the boy, using some persuasive arguments, to take him back to the inn where he had previously taken Sophia. However, the boy agreed to this only on the condition that the other guide would wait for him at the pub. This was because the landlord in Upton was a good friend of the landlord in Gloucester, and it could eventually come to the latter's attention that his horses had been rented out to more than one person. If that happened, the boy could be held responsible for money that he was wisely planning to keep for himself.
We were obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may seem, since it retarded Mr Jones a considerable time in his setting out; for the honesty of this latter boy was somewhat high—that is, somewhat high-priced, and would indeed have cost Jones very dear, had not Partridge, who, as we have said, was a very cunning fellow, artfully thrown in half-a-crown to be spent at that very alehouse, while the boy was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the landlord no sooner got scent of, than he opened after it with such vehement and persuasive outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and consented to take half-a-crown more for his stay. Here we cannot help observing, that as there is so much of policy in the lowest life, great men often overvalue themselves on those refinements in imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by some of the lowest of the human species.
We felt it was necessary to mention this situation, trivial as it may seem, because it delayed Mr. Jones quite a bit in starting out. The honesty of this boy was somewhat costly, and it would have been very expensive for Jones if not for Partridge, who, as we noted before, was quite clever. He cleverly slipped in half a crown to be spent at the alehouse while the boy waited for his friend. As soon as the landlord caught wind of that half crown, he went after it with such loud and persuasive shouting that the boy quickly relented and agreed to take another half crown for his wait. Here, we can't help but note that since there’s so much strategy in even the lowest levels of life, powerful people often overestimate themselves in those tricks of deception, which are frequently outdone by some of the lowest members of society.
The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the side-saddle, on which his dear Sophia had rid. The lad, indeed, very civilly offered him the use of his; but he chose the side-saddle, probably because it was softer. Partridge, however, though full as effeminate as Jones, could not bear the thoughts of degrading his manhood; he therefore accepted the boy's offer: and now, Jones being mounted on the side-saddle of his Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs Honour, and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on their journey, and within four hours arrived at the inn where the reader hath already spent so much time. Partridge was in very high spirits during the whole way, and often mentioned to Jones the many good omens of his future success which had lately befriended him; and which the reader, without being the least superstitious, must allow to have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better pleased with the present pursuit of his companion than he had been with his pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured the pedagogue of success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of the amour between Jones and Sophia; to which he had before given very little attention, as he had originally taken a wrong scent concerning the reasons of Jones's departure; and as to what happened at Upton, he was too much frightened just before and after his leaving that place to draw any other conclusions from thence than that poor Jones was a downright madman: a conceit which was not at all disagreeable to the opinion he before had of his extraordinary wildness, of which, he thought, his behaviour on their quitting Gloucester so well justified all the accounts he had formerly received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with his present expedition, and henceforth began to conceive much worthier sentiments of his friend's understanding.
The horses were brought out, and Jones quickly jumped onto the side-saddle that his beloved Sophia had ridden. The boy politely offered him his horse, but Jones opted for the side-saddle, likely because it was more comfortable. Partridge, though just as effeminate as Jones, couldn't stand the idea of diminishing his masculinity; so he took the boy's offer. Now, with Jones on Sophia's side-saddle, the boy on Mrs. Honour's, and Partridge on the third horse, they set off on their journey, arriving at the inn where the reader has already spent a lot of time within four hours. Partridge was in high spirits the whole way, frequently mentioning to Jones the many good signs of his future success that had recently come his way. Even the reader, without being the slightest bit superstitious, must admit these signs were particularly lucky. Partridge was also happier with his friend's current endeavor than he had been with his pursuit of glory. From these very signs, which assured him of success, he began to understand the romance between Jones and Sophia, something he had previously paid little attention to. He had misunderstood the reasons for Jones's departure and, regarding what happened at Upton, he was too frightened just before and after leaving that place to think anything other than that poor Jones was completely mad—a notion that fit well with his earlier views of Jones's extraordinary wildness, which he thought was justified by Jones's behavior when they left Gloucester. However, now he was fairly content with their current adventure and started to have a much better opinion of his friend's intelligence.
The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones immediately bespoke post-horses; but unluckily there was not a horse to be procured in the whole place; which the reader will not wonder at when he considers the hurry in which the whole nation, and especially this part of it, was at this time engaged, when expresses were passing and repassing every hour of the day and night.
The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones quickly ordered post-horses; but unfortunately, there wasn't a horse available anywhere in the whole place. This won't surprise the reader when they consider the rush the entire country, especially this region, was in at that time, with messengers coming and going every hour of day and night.
Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to escorte him to Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing with the boy in the inn-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting him by his name, enquired how all the good family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes upon this person, presently discovered him to be Mr Dowling, the lawyer, with whom he had dined at Gloucester, and with much courtesy returned the salutation.
Jones did everything he could to convince his former guide to take him to Coventry, but the guide was unyielding. While he was debating with the boy in the inn yard, someone approached him, greeted him by name, and asked how the family was doing back in Somersetshire. When Jones looked at the person, he quickly recognized him as Mr. Dowling, the lawyer he had dined with in Gloucester, and he politely returned the greeting.
Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr Jones to go no further that night; and backed his solicitations with many unanswerable arguments, such as, that it was almost dark, that the roads were very dirty, and that he would be able to travel much better by day-light, with many others equally good, some of which Jones had probably suggested to himself before; but as they were then ineffectual, so they were still: and he continued resolute in his design, even though he should be obliged to set out on foot.
Dowling earnestly urged Mr. Jones not to go any further that night and supported his pleas with several strong arguments, like the fact that it was almost dark, the roads were very dirty, and he would be able to travel much better in daylight, along with many other equally valid points, some of which Jones had likely thought of himself before. However, since those arguments had been ineffective then, they remained so now, and he stayed determined to follow through with his plans, even if it meant he had to start out on foot.
When the good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to stay, he as strenuously applied himself to persuade the guide to accompany him. He urged many motives to induce him to undertake this short journey, and at last concluded with saying, “Do you think the gentleman won't very well reward you for your trouble?”
When the lawyer realized he couldn’t convince Jones to stay, he worked hard to persuade the guide to go with him instead. He suggested several reasons to encourage him to take this quick trip, and finally wrapped up by asking, “Do you really think the gentleman won't reward you handsomely for your effort?”
Two to one are odds at every other thing as well as at foot-ball. But the advantage which this united force hath in persuasion or entreaty must have been visible to a curious observer; for he must have often seen, that when a father, a master, a wife, or any other person in authority, have stoutly adhered to a denial against all the reasons which a single man could produce, they have afterwards yielded to the repetition of the same sentiments by a second or third person, who hath undertaken the cause, without attempting to advance anything new in its behalf. And hence, perhaps, proceeds the phrase of seconding an argument or a motion, and the great consequence this is of in all assemblies of public debate. Hence, likewise, probably it is, that in our courts of law we often hear a learned gentleman (generally a serjeant) repeating for an hour together what another learned gentleman, who spoke just before him, had been saying.
Two to one are the odds in everything, not just in football. But the advantage this united force has in persuasion or appeal must be obvious to an observant person; they would have often noticed that when a father, a master, a wife, or anyone else in authority firmly stands by a refusal against all the reasons one person can provide, they often give in later when the same arguments are repeated by a second or third person who supports the cause, without offering anything new. This might be where the phrase "seconding an argument or a motion" comes from, and why it's so important in all public debates. Similarly, that's probably why in our courts, we often hear a learned person (usually a serjeant) repeating for an hour what another learned person just said.
Instead of accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner to exemplify it in the conduct of the lad above mentioned, who submitted to the persuasions of Mr Dowling, and promised once more to admit Jones into his side-saddle; but insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had travelled a great way, and been rid very hard. Indeed this caution of the boy was needless; for Jones, notwithstanding his hurry and impatience, would have ordered this of himself; for he by no means agreed with the opinion of those who consider animals as mere machines, and when they bury their spurs in the belly of their horse, imagine the spur and the horse to have an equal capacity of feeling pain.
Instead of addressing this, we'll continue as we usually do by illustrating it through the actions of the boy mentioned earlier. He gave in to Mr. Dowling's persuasion and agreed once again to let Jones ride his side-saddle but insisted on giving the poor creatures a good meal first, stating they had traveled a long way and had been worked hard. In fact, the boy's concern was unnecessary because Jones, despite his eagerness and impatience, would have made this request himself. He definitely did not share the view of those who see animals as nothing more than machines and think that digging their spurs into a horse's side means the spur and the horse experience pain equally.
While the beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed to eat it (for, as the boy was taking care of himself in the kitchen, the ostler took great care that his corn should not be consumed in the stable), Mr Jones, at the earnest desire of Mr Dowling, accompanied that gentleman into his room, where they sat down together over a bottle of wine.
While the animals were supposed to be eating their corn (because the boy was busy looking after himself in the kitchen, the stablehand made sure that the animals' corn wasn't being eaten in the stable), Mr. Jones, at Mr. Dowling's strong insistence, went into his room, where they sat down together with a bottle of wine.
Chapter x. — In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
Mr Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the good Squire Allworthy; adding, “If you please, sir, we will likewise remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here's Mr Blifil to you, a very pretty young gentleman; and who, I dare swear, will hereafter make a very considerable figure in his country. I have a borough for him myself in my eye.”
Mr. Dowling, pouring a glass of wine, toasted to the good Squire Allworthy's health. He added, “If it’s alright with you, sir, let’s also toast to his nephew and heir, the young squire: Cheers to Mr. Blifil, a very charming young man; and I bet he’ll make quite a name for himself in the future. I have a borough in mind for him myself.”
“Sir,” answered Jones, “I am convinced you don't intend to affront me, so I shall not resent it; but I promise you, you have joined two persons very improperly together; for one is the glory of the human species, and the other is a rascal who dishonours the name of man.”
“Sir,” replied Jones, “I’m sure you don’t mean to offend me, so I won’t take it personally; but I assure you, you’ve incorrectly paired two people together; one is the pride of humanity, while the other is a scoundrel who brings shame to the name of man.”
Dowling stared at this. He said, “He thought both the gentlemen had a very unexceptionable character. As for Squire Allworthy himself,” says he, “I never had the happiness to see him; but all the world talks of his goodness. And, indeed, as to the young gentleman, I never saw him but once, when I carried him the news of the loss of his mother; and then I was so hurried, and drove, and tore with the multiplicity of business, that I had hardly time to converse with him; but he looked so like a very honest gentleman, and behaved himself so prettily, that I protest I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I was born.”
Dowling stared at this. He said, “He thought both gentlemen had a wonderful reputation. As for Squire Allworthy himself,” he added, “I never had the pleasure of meeting him; but everyone talks about his kindness. And, as for the young gentleman, I only saw him once, when I took him the news of his mother’s passing; and I was so rushed and overwhelmed with so much to do that I barely had time to talk to him. But he seemed like a really decent guy and acted so charmingly that I honestly can say I’ve never been more impressed by any gentleman in my life.”
“I don't wonder,” answered Jones, “that he should impose upon you in so short an acquaintance; for he hath the cunning of the devil himself, and you may live with him many years, without discovering him. I was bred up with him from my infancy, and we were hardly ever asunder; but it is very lately only that I have discovered half the villany which is in him. I own I never greatly liked him. I thought he wanted that generosity of spirit, which is the sure foundation of all that is great and noble in human nature. I saw a selfishness in him long ago which I despised; but it is lately, very lately, that I have found him capable of the basest and blackest designs; for, indeed, I have at last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of the openness of my own temper, and hath concerted the deepest project, by a long train of wicked artifice, to work my ruin, which at last he hath effected.”
“I’m not surprised,” replied Jones, “that he’s taken advantage of you after such a short time; he has the cleverness of the devil himself, and you could spend years with him without realizing who he really is. I grew up with him from childhood, and we were almost always together, but it’s only recently that I’ve uncovered even half of the deceit within him. I have to admit I never really liked him. I thought he lacked the generosity of spirit that is the foundation of all that is great and noble in human nature. I noticed a selfishness in him long ago that I despised; but it’s only very recently that I’ve discovered he’s capable of the most despicable and malicious schemes. In fact, I’ve finally figured out that he took advantage of my trusting nature and plotted my downfall through a long series of wicked manipulations, which he has ultimately accomplished.”
“Ay! ay!” cries Dowling; “I protest, then, it is a pity such a person should inherit the great estate of your uncle Allworthy.”
“Ay! ay!” Dowling exclaims; “I honestly think it's a shame that someone like that gets to inherit your uncle Allworthy's massive estate.”
“Alas, sir,” cries Jones, “you do me an honour to which I have no title. It is true, indeed, his goodness once allowed me the liberty of calling him by a much nearer name; but as this was only a voluntary act of goodness, I can complain of no injustice when he thinks proper to deprive me of this honour; since the loss cannot be more unmerited than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir, I am no relation of Mr Allworthy; and if the world, who are incapable of setting a true value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me, he hath dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of men: for I—but I ask your pardon, I shall trouble you with no particulars relating to myself; only as you seemed to think me a relation of Mr Allworthy, I thought proper to set you right in a matter that might draw some censures upon him, which I promise you I would rather lose my life than give occasion to.”
“Honestly, sir,” Jones says, “you give me an honor I don’t deserve. It’s true, he once kindly allowed me to call him something much more familiar; but since that was just an act of kindness, I can’t complain when he decides to take that honor away from me, as the loss can’t be more undeserved than the gift was originally. I assure you, sir, I am not related to Mr. Allworthy; and if people, who can't truly appreciate his goodness, think he has treated me harshly as a relative, they are doing a disservice to the best of men. For I—but I apologize, I won’t burden you with details about myself; I just wanted to clarify that you seemed to think I was related to Mr. Allworthy, and I thought it was important to correct that so it wouldn’t reflect badly on him, which I promise you I would rather die than cause.”
“I protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you talk very much like a man of honour; but instead of giving me any trouble, I protest it would give me great pleasure to know how you came to be thought a relation of Mr Allworthy's, if you are not. Your horses won't be ready this half-hour, and as you have sufficient opportunity, I wish you would tell me how all that happened; for I protest it seems very surprizing that you should pass for a relation of a gentleman, without being so.”
“I protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you sound very much like an honorable man; but instead of putting me through any trouble, I would really love to know how you came to be seen as a relative of Mr. Allworthy, if you aren’t one. Your horses won’t be ready for another half hour, and since you have plenty of time, I wish you would explain how all of this came about; because I must say, it’s quite surprising that you’re considered a relation of a gentleman without actually being one.”
Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his prudence) a little resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily prevailed on to satisfy Mr Dowling's curiosity, by relating the history of his birth and education, which he did, like Othello.
Jones, who in his personality (though not in his judgment) resembled his lovely Sophia a bit, was easily persuaded to satisfy Mr. Dowling's curiosity by sharing the story of his birth and upbringing, which he did, just like Othello.
———Even from his boyish years,
To th' very moment he was bad to tell:
———Even from his childhood,
To the very moment he was difficult to read:
the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;
the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;
He swore 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wonderous pitiful.
He swore it was strange, it was really strange;
It was sad, it was truly sad.
Mr Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for he had not divested himself of humanity by being an attorney. Indeed, nothing is more unjust than to carry our prejudices against a profession into private life, and to borrow our idea of a man from our opinion of his calling. Habit, it is true, lessens the horror of those actions which the profession makes necessary, and consequently habitual; but in all other instances, Nature works in men of all professions alike; nay, perhaps, even more strongly with those who give her, as it were, a holiday, when they are following their ordinary business. A butcher, I make no doubt, would feel compunction at the slaughter of a fine horse; and though a surgeon can feel no pain in cutting off a limb, I have known him compassionate a man in a fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath stretched the necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first operation on a head: and the very professors of human blood-shedding, who, in their trade of war, butcher thousands, not only of their fellow-professors, but often of women and children, without remorse; even these, I say, in times of peace, when drums and trumpets are laid aside, often lay aside all their ferocity, and become very gentle members of civil society. In the same manner an attorney may feel all the miseries and distresses of his fellow-creatures, provided he happens not to be concerned against them.
Mr. Dowling was truly moved by this story; he hadn’t shed his humanity just because he was an attorney. In fact, it’s really unfair to let our biases about a profession bleed into our personal lives and judge a person based on their job. It’s true that getting used to certain actions can dull the horror of what the job requires and makes routine; but in all other cases, human nature works the same way for everyone, no matter their profession. A butcher, without a doubt, would feel guilt about killing a fine horse; and while a surgeon might not feel pain when amputating a limb, I’ve seen them show sympathy for someone suffering from gout. Even the common executioner, who has hanged hundreds, is known to have felt nervous during their first execution. And those who make a living in warfare, slaughtering thousands—including their fellow soldiers, and often women and children—do so without remorse; yet, in peaceful times, when the drums and trumpets go quiet, many of them can set aside their brutality and become kind members of society. Similarly, an attorney can empathize with the suffering and struggles of others, as long as he isn’t personally involved against them.
Jones, as the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black colours in which he had been represented to Mr Allworthy; and as to other matters, he did not shew them in the most disadvantageous light; for though he was unwilling to cast any blame on his former friend and patron; yet he was not very desirous of heaping too much upon himself. Dowling therefore observed, and not without reason, that very ill offices must have been done him by somebody: “For certainly,” cries he, “the squire would never have disinherited you only for a few faults, which any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I cannot properly say disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot claim as heir. That's certain; that nobody need go to counsel for. Yet when a gentleman had in a manner adopted you thus as his own son, you might reasonably have expected some very considerable part, if not the whole; nay, if you had expected the whole, I should not have blamed you: for certainly all men are for getting as much as they can, and they are not to be blamed on that account.”
Jones, as the reader knows, was still unfamiliar with the very negative way he had been portrayed to Mr. Allworthy. Regarding other matters, he didn’t present them in the worst possible light; while he was reluctant to blame his former friend and benefactor, he also wasn’t eager to take too much credit for himself. Dowling therefore pointed out, quite reasonably, that someone must have done him a great disservice: “Because, surely,” he said, “the squire would never have disinherited you just for a few faults that any young man might have made. In fact, I can't quite say you were disinherited: legally, you can’t claim to be his heir. That’s a fact that doesn’t require legal advice. But when a gentleman has more or less adopted you as his own son, you could reasonably expect to inherit a significant portion, if not everything; and if you expected everything, I wouldn’t blame you at all. After all, everyone wants to get as much as they can, and you can’t fault them for that.”
“Indeed you wrong me,” said Jones; “I should have been contented with very little: I never had any view upon Mr Allworthy's fortune; nay, I believe I may truly say, I never once considered what he could or might give me. This I solemnly declare, if he had done a prejudice to his nephew in my favour, I would have undone it again. I had rather enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another man. What is the poor pride arising from a magnificent house, a numerous equipage, a splendid table, and from all the other advantages or appearances of fortune, compared to the warm, solid content, the swelling satisfaction, the thrilling transports, and the exulting triumphs, which a good mind enjoys, in the contemplation of a generous, virtuous, noble, benevolent action? I envy not Blifil in the prospect of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the possession of it. I would not think myself a rascal half an hour, to exchange situations. I believe, indeed, Mr Blifil suspected me of the views you mention; and I suppose these suspicions, as they arose from the baseness of his own heart, so they occasioned his baseness to me. But, I thank Heaven, I know, I feel—I feel my innocence, my friend; and I would not part with that feeling for the world. For as long as I know I have never done, nor even designed, an injury to any being whatever,
“Indeed, you’re mistaken,” said Jones. “I would have been happy with very little: I never had any intention regarding Mr. Allworthy’s wealth; honestly, I can say that I never once thought about what he could or might give me. I solemnly declare, if he had done something unfair to his nephew for my sake, I would have corrected it. I’d rather find joy in my own mind than inherit someone else's fortune. What is the empty pride that comes from a big house, a fancy carriage, a lavish dinner, and all the other trappings of wealth, compared to the deep, genuine contentment, the immense satisfaction, the thrilling joy, and the triumphant happiness that a good heart feels from doing a generous, virtuous, noble, and kind act? I don’t envy Blifil's potential wealth; nor will I envy him once he has it. I wouldn't think of myself as a lowlife even for half an hour just to swap places with him. I believe, in fact, that Mr. Blifil suspected me of the intentions you mentioned, and I suppose his own distrust, stemming from his corrupt heart, led him to treat me poorly. But, thank God, I know and I feel—I feel my innocence, my friend; and I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything. As long as I know I have never caused, nor even intended, harm to any being whatsoever,
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
Quod latus mundi nebulae, malusque
Jupiter urget.
Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis in terra dominibus negata;
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.[*]
[*] Place me where never summer breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year.
Place me beneath the burning ray,
Where rolls the rapid car of day;
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
The nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
MR FRANCIS.
Put me where lazy people lounge,
Where no summer breeze refreshes the fields,
Where the clouds hang low, and cruel
Jupiter is harsh on the year.
Put me under the scorching sun,
Where the swift chariot of day rolls by;
I’ll love the sweet-smiling nymph,
The one who speaks sweetly and smiles sweetly. [*]
[*] Place me where never summer breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year.
Place me beneath the burning ray,
Where rolls the rapid car of day;
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
The nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
MR FRANCIS.
He then filled a bumper of wine, and drunk it off to the health of his dear Lalage; and, filling Dowling's glass likewise up to the brim, insisted on his pledging him. “Why, then, here's Miss Lalage's health with all my heart,” cries Dowling. “I have heard her toasted often, I protest, though I never saw her; but they say she's extremely handsome.”
He then filled a large glass of wine and drank it to the health of his dear Lalage. He filled Dowling's glass to the top and insisted he drink to it as well. “Well then, here's to Miss Lalage's health, with all my heart,” Dowling exclaimed. “I’ve heard her name toasted many times, I swear, even though I’ve never seen her; but they say she's very beautiful.”
Though the Latin was not the only part of this speech which Dowling did not perfectly understand; yet there was somewhat in it that made a very strong impression upon him. And though he endeavoured by winking, nodding, sneering, and grinning, to hide the impression from Jones (for we are as often ashamed of thinking right as of thinking wrong), it is certain he secretly approved as much of his sentiments as he understood, and really felt a very strong impulse of compassion for him. But we may possibly take some other opportunity of commenting upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr Dowling any more in the course of our history. At present we are obliged to take our leave of that gentleman a little abruptly, in imitation of Mr Jones; who was no sooner informed, by Partridge, that his horses were ready, than he deposited his reckoning, wished his companion a good night, mounted, and set forward towards Coventry, though the night was dark, and it just then began to rain very hard.
Although Dowling didn't fully understand the Latin part of the speech, there was something about it that really struck him. He tried to mask his reaction from Jones with winks, nods, sneers, and grins (after all, we often feel embarrassed about thinking correctly as much as we do about thinking incorrectly). However, it's clear he secretly agreed with as much of Jones's sentiments as he grasped and felt a strong sense of compassion for him. We might have the chance to discuss this further, especially if we encounter Mr. Dowling again in our story. For now, though, we have to say goodbye to him fairly abruptly, following Mr. Jones's example; as soon as Partridge informed him that his horses were ready, he settled his bill, wished his companion goodnight, mounted, and headed toward Coventry, even though it was dark and it had just started to rain heavily.
Chapter xi. — The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.
No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to Coventry; and though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the guide, had ever travelled it before, it would have been almost impossible to have missed their way, had it not been for the two reasons mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter.
No route could be clearer than the one from where they were to Coventry, and although neither Jones, Partridge, nor the guide had traveled it before, it would have been nearly impossible to get lost if it weren't for the two reasons mentioned at the end of the last chapter.
These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to intervene, our travellers deviated into a much less frequented track; and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in a very dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a large city.
These two unfortunate events caused our travelers to take a much less popular route; and after riding six full miles, instead of reaching the impressive spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in a very muddy lane, with no signs of getting closer to the suburbs of a large city.
Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but this the guide insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but often what is really very likely, and, sometimes, what hath certainly happened; an hyperbolical violence like that which is so frequently offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former of which it is usual to express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the impossibility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, the case at present; for, notwithstanding all the confident assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no more in the right road to Coventry, than the fraudulent, griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.
Jones now stated that they must have definitely lost their way; but the guide insisted that was impossible—a word that, in everyday conversation, often means not just unlikely, but sometimes what is actually quite probable, and at times what has certainly happened; a dramatic exaggeration similar to the way people often misuse the words infinite and eternal; the first of which is commonly used to refer to a distance of half a yard, and the latter to a duration of five minutes. Thus, it is also common to claim the impossibility of losing what is already clearly lost. This was, in fact, true at the moment; for, despite all the confident claims of the lad to the contrary, it is clear they were no more on the right path to Coventry than a greedy, cruel, hypocritical miser is on the right path to heaven.
It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in those circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness, rain, and wind, fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry cloaths, and other refreshments, to support their minds in struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve sufficiently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged to open.
It’s probably not easy for a reader who has never been in those situations to imagine the terror that darkness, rain, and wind bring to people who have lost their way at night; they don't have the comforting thoughts of warm fires, dry clothes, and other comforts to help them cope with the harshness of the weather. Even a limited understanding of this fear will be enough to explain the thoughts swirling in Partridge's mind, which we will need to address shortly.
Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their road; and the boy himself at last acknowledged he believed they were not in the right road to Coventry; though he affirmed, at the same time, it was impossible they should have mist the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. He said, “When they first set out he imagined some mischief or other would happen.—Did not you observe, sir,” said he to Jones, “that old woman who stood at the door just as you was taking horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for she said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some people may think, I am very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my time: and if ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thought so to myself at that very time; and if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given her some; for to be sure it is always good to be charitable to those sort of people, for fear what may happen; and many a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny.”
Jones became increasingly convinced that they were off their path, and the boy eventually admitted that he believed they weren't on the right road to Coventry; however, he insisted that it was impossible for them to have missed the way. But Partridge had a different view. He said, “When they first started out, I thought something bad might happen. Didn’t you notice that old woman who stood at the door right when you were getting on the horse? I wish you had given her a little something, honestly; because she said you might regret it, and just then it started to rain, and the wind has been getting stronger ever since. Whatever some people might think, I’m quite sure witches can raise the wind whenever they want. I’ve seen it happen many times in my life: and if I ever saw a witch, that old woman was definitely one. I thought that even then; and if I had had any pennies in my pocket, I would have given her some. It’s always smart to be nice to those kinds of people just in case something happens; and many people have lost their livestock by saving a penny.”
Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by which, however, he received no other injury than what the dirt conferred on his cloaths.
Jones, even though he was really annoyed at the delay this mistake was likely to cause in his trip, couldn't help but smile at his friend's superstition, which was now greatly reinforced by an accident. This was a fall from his horse; fortunately, he got no other injury than the dirt that stained his clothes.
Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to his fall, as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones finding he was unhurt, answered with a smile: “This witch of yours, Partridge, is a most ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find, distinguish her friends from others in her resentment. If the old lady had been angry with me for neglecting her, I don't see why she should tumble you from your horse, after all the respect you have expressed for her.”
Partridge had barely gotten back on his feet when he pointed to his fall as proof of everything he had claimed; but Jones, seeing that he was unhurt, replied with a smile: “This witch of yours, Partridge, is a really ungrateful one, and it seems she doesn't know how to tell her friends apart from others in her anger. If the old lady was upset with me for ignoring her, I don’t understand why she would knock you off your horse after all the respect you’ve shown her.”
“It is ill jesting,” cries Partridge, “with people who have power to do these things; for they are often very malicious. I remember a farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her when the time she had bargained with the devil for would be out; and within three months from that very day one of his best cows was drowned. Nor was she satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of best-drink: for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it to make merry with some of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him afterwards; for she worried the poor man so, that he took to drinking; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and his family are now come to the parish.”
“It’s not a good idea,” says Partridge, “to joke around with people who have the power to cause trouble; they can be really vindictive. I remember a farrier who got on one of their bad sides by asking her when the time she made a deal with the devil would be over, and within three months, one of his best cows drowned. That wasn’t enough for her; a little while later, he lost a barrel of his best drink because the old witch pulled out the spigot and let it spill all over the cellar the very first evening he had tapped it to celebrate with his neighbors. In short, nothing went well for him after that; she tormented the poor man so much that he started drinking, and after a year or two, his livestock was taken away, and now he and his family have ended up dependent on the parish.”
The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this discourse, that, either through want of care, or by the malice of the witch, they were now both sprawling in the dirt.
The guide, and maybe his horse as well, were so focused on this conversation that, either due to negligence or the witch's wickedness, they both ended up sprawled in the dirt.
Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the same cause. He told Mr Jones, “It would certainly be his turn next; and earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old woman, and pacify her. We shall very soon,” added he, “reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very certain we are in the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from.”
Partridge completely blamed this fall, just like he had his own, on the same reason. He told Mr. Jones, “It’s definitely going to be your turn next; and I really urge you to go back, find the old woman, and calm her down. We’ll be at the inn very soon,” he added, “because even though it feels like we've been moving forward, I’m pretty sure we’re in the exact spot we were an hour ago; and I bet that if it were daylight, we could see the inn we left from.”
Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was entirely attentive to what had happened to the boy, who received no other hurt than what had before befallen Partridge, and which his cloaths very easily bore, as they had been for many years inured to the like. He soon regained his side-saddle, and by the hearty curses and blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr Jones that no harm was done.
Instead of responding to this wise advice, Jones focused entirely on what happened to the boy, who was hurt only slightly, just like Partridge had been before, and his clothes easily handled it since they had been through similar situations for many years. He quickly got back on his side-saddle, and with the loud curses and hits he directed at his horse, he quickly reassured Mr. Jones that everything was fine.
Chapter xii. — Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who firmly believed himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a Jack-with-a-lantern, or somewhat more mischievous.
They now spotted a light in the distance, much to Jones's delight and Partridge's great fear, who was convinced he was under a spell and that this light was a will-o'-the-wisp or something even more mischievous.
But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard a confused sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together with a strange noise that seemed to proceed from some instruments; but could hardly be allowed the name of music! indeed, to favour a little the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called music bewitched.
But how were these fears heightened when, as they got closer to this light (or lights, as they now looked), they heard a mix of human voices; singing, laughing, and shouting, along with a strange noise that seemed to come from some instruments; but it could hardly be called music! In fact, to support Partridge's view a bit, it might very well be described as music gone wrong.
It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what now seized on Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the post-boy, who had been very attentive to many things that the other had uttered. He now, therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return; saying he firmly believed what Partridge had just before said, that though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a step forwards during at least the last half-hour.
It’s hard to imagine a greater level of horror than what gripped Partridge; the panic spread even to the post-boy, who had paid close attention to everything Partridge had said. So now, he joined in asking Jones to come back, saying he fully believed Partridge’s earlier claim that, even though the horses appeared to be moving, they hadn’t actually gone anywhere in the last half hour.
Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the fears of these poor fellows. “Either we advance,” says he, “towards the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now at a very little distance from them; but how can either of you be afraid of a set of people who appear only to be merry-making?”
Jones couldn't help but smile despite his frustration at the worries of these poor guys. “Either we're moving towards the lights,” he said, “or the lights are coming towards us because we're really close to them now. But how can either of you be scared of a group of people who seem to just be having a good time?”
“Merry-making, sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be merry-making at this time of night, and in such a place, and such weather? They can be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other, that's certain.”
“Merry-making, sir!” Partridge exclaims; “who could be celebrating at this time of night, in a place like this, and in this kind of weather? It must be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some other evil spirits, that’s for sure.”
“Let them be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am resolved to go up to them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches, Partridge, are not such ill-natured hags as that we had the misfortune to meet with last.”
“Let them be whoever they want,” Jones shouts, “I’m determined to approach them and ask for directions to Coventry. Not all witches, Partridge, are as nasty as the one we unfortunate enough to encounter last.”
“O Lord, sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowing what humour they will be in; to be sure it is always best to be civil to them; but what if we should meet with something worse than witches, with evil spirits themselves?——Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir, do. If you had read so many terrible accounts as I have of these matters, you would not be so fool-hardy.——The Lord knows whither we have got already, or whither we are going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other world.”
“O Lord, sir,” Partridge exclaims, “we can’t tell what mood they’ll be in; it’s definitely best to be polite to them. But what if we run into something worse than witches—like actual evil spirits? Please, sir, listen to me; I’m serious. If you had read as many horrifying stories about these things as I have, you wouldn’t be so reckless. The Lord knows where we are now or where we’re headed; I’m sure we’ve never seen darkness like this on earth, and I wonder if it gets even darker in the afterlife.”
Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay behind by himself.
Jones moved as quickly as he could, despite all these hints and warnings, and poor Partridge had to follow; for while he barely dared to move forward, he was even more afraid to be left behind on his own.
At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and different noises had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other than a barn, where a great number of men and women were assembled, and diverting themselves with much apparent jollity.
At last, they reached the spot from which the lights and various sounds were coming. Jones realized it was just a barn, where a large group of men and women were gathered, having a great time and enjoying themselves.
Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which were open, than a masculine and very rough voice from within demanded, who was there?—To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and immediately asked the road to Coventry.
Jones had barely stepped in front of the big open barn doors when a deep, rough voice called out from inside, asking who was there. Jones replied softly that he was a friend and immediately inquired about the road to Coventry.
“If you are a friend,” cries another of the men in the barn, “you had better alight till the storm is over” (for indeed it was now more violent than ever;) “you are very welcome to put up your horse; for there is sufficient room for him at the end of the barn.”
“If you’re a friend,” shouts another guy in the barn, “you should probably stay until the storm passes” (because it was getting worse than ever); “you’re totally welcome to tie up your horse; there’s plenty of space for him at the end of the barn.”
“You are very obliging,” returned Jones; “and I will accept your offer for a few minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here are two more who will be glad of the same favour.” This was accorded with more good-will than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have submitted to the utmost inclemency of the weather than have trusted to the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor post-boy was now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the one because he durst not leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing so much as being left by himself.
“You're very kind,” replied Jones; “and I’ll take you up on that offer for a few minutes while the rain keeps falling; and here are two others who would appreciate the same favor.” This was granted with more enthusiasm than it was accepted: Partridge would have rather faced the worst of the weather than trusted the kindness of those he believed to be goblins; and the poor post-boy had now caught the same fears. But they both had to follow Jones’s lead; one because he didn't dare leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing more than being left alone.
Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have had too much compassion for the reader to have left him so long in suspense, whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in person, with all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at present very unfortunate, and have but few, if any believers, I have not been much aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the whole furniture of the infernal regions hath long been appropriated by the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid them by as rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which few of our readers ever sit.
If this story had been written in superstitious times, I would have felt too much compassion for the reader to keep them in suspense for so long about whether Beelzebub or Satan was actually going to show up in person, along with all his hellish entourage. But since these beliefs are now quite unfortunate and have few, if any, believers, I haven't really thought about creating such fears. To be honest, the entire concept of the infernal regions has long been taken over by theater managers, who lately seem to have discarded it as useless, only capable of affecting the cheap seats, where few of our readers ever sit.
However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this occasion, we have reason to fear some other apprehensions may here arise in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I mean that we are going to take a voyage into fairy-land, and introduce a set of beings into our history, which scarce any one was ever childish enough to believe, though many have been foolish enough to spend their time in writing and reading their adventures.
However, while we don’t expect to cause any major fright this time, we do worry that some other concerns may come up for our readers, which we wouldn’t want to lead them into; I’m talking about the fact that we’re about to embark on a journey to fairy-land and bring in a group of beings into our story that hardly anyone has ever been naive enough to believe in, although many have been silly enough to spend their time writing and reading about their adventures.
To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the credit of an historian, who professes to draw his materials from nature only, we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these people were, whose sudden appearance had struck such terrors into Partridge, had more than half frightened the post-boy, and had a little surprized even Mr Jones himself.
To avoid any suspicions that could harm the credibility of a historian who claims to base his work solely on nature, we will now inform the reader about the people whose unexpected arrival frightened Partridge, scared the post-boy, and even surprised Mr. Jones a bit.
The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and they were now celebrating the wedding of one of their society.
The people gathered in this barn were none other than a group of Egyptians, or as they're commonly known, gypsies, and they were currently celebrating the wedding of one of their members.
It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared here to be met together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in every countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and decorum. Perhaps it had more than a country assembly is sometimes conducted with: for these people are subject to a formal government and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great magistrate, whom they call their king.
It’s hard to imagine a happier group of people than the ones gathered here. There was laughter and joy on every face; their dance wasn’t entirely lacking in order and decorum. In fact, it might have had more structure than is typical at a rural gathering: these people are governed by formal laws and have a system of their own, all of which they follow under one main leader they call their king.
Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen than what flourished in this barn. Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store of bacon, fowls, and mutton, to which every one present provided better sauce himself than the best and dearest French cook can prepare.
There was definitely more abundance in this barn than anywhere else. There was no fancy decor or elegance, and the guests didn't need it. There was plenty of bacon, chicken, and lamb, and everyone present brought their own flavor to the meal that no expensive French chef could match.
Aeneas is not described under more consternation in the temple of Juno,
Aeneas is not depicted with more anxiety in the temple of Juno,
Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno,
He is stunned and stares fixedly at one thing,
than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person approached him with many friendly salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be called courtly. This was no other than the king of the gypsies himself. He was very little distinguished in dress from his subjects, nor had he any regalia of majesty to support his dignity; and yet there seemed (as Mr Jones said) to be somewhat in his air which denoted authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and the truth may be, that such ideas are incident to power, and almost inseparable from it.
than our hero at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking around him in astonishment, an elderly man approached him with many friendly greetings, a bit too warm to be called formal. This was none other than the king of the gypsies himself. He was dressed very similarly to his followers, and he had no royal insignia to assert his authority; yet there seemed (as Mr. Jones said) to be something in his demeanor that conveyed authority and inspired those around him with a sense of awe and respect, though this might have been a figment of Jones's imagination. The truth could be that such feelings are often attached to power and almost inseparable from it.
There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of Jones which, being accompanied with much comeliness of person, greatly recommended him at first sight to every beholder. These were, perhaps, a little heightened in the present instance, by that profound respect which he paid to the king of the gypsies, the moment he was acquainted with his dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian majesty, as he was not used to receive such homage from any but his own subjects.
There was something about Jones's open expression and polite behavior that, combined with his good looks, made him very appealing to everyone who saw him. This was perhaps even more noticeable in this case because of the deep respect he showed to the king of the gypsies as soon as he learned of his status, which was particularly nice for the gypsy king since he wasn't accustomed to receiving such respect from anyone except his own people.
The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their provisions for his accommodation; and, having placed himself at his right hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the following manner:—
The king ordered a table to be set with the finest dishes for his comfort; and, having seated himself at his right side, his majesty began to talk with our hero in the following way:—
“Me doubt not, sir, but you have often seen some of my people, who are what you call de parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but me fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may be you will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly and well govern people as any upon face of de earth.
“I have no doubt, sir, that you have often seen some of my people, who are what you call detachments: they go everywhere; but I think you might not realize we are as significant as we are; and you may be surprised when you hear that the gypsies are as orderly and well-governed as any group on the face of the earth.”
“Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do boast of more dutiful subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me deserve deir good-will, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never design anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat neider: for what can me do oderwise dan consider of de good of dose poor people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey get. Dey love and honour me darefore, because me do love and take care of dem; dat is all, me know no oder reason.
"I’m honored to be their king, and no monarch can claim to have more loyal or affectionate subjects than I do. How much I deserve their goodwill, I won’t say; but I can say this: I’ve never intended anything but to do them good. I won’t boast about that either, because what else can I do but think about the welfare of those poor people who work all day to give me the best of what they have? They love and honor me because I love and care for them; that’s all I know."
“About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year or two, as can neider write nor read, dere was a great what you call—a volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and dese lord did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king of de gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his subject equal vid each oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no tink of being king, and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to do justice; me have often wish to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to punish my dear friend and relation; for dough we never put to death, our punishments be ver severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of demselves, and dat be ver terrible punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy so punish do harm any more.”
“About a thousand or two thousand years ago, I can’t pinpoint the exact year since I can neither read nor write, there was a great what you call— a revolution among the gypsies; because there were lords among the gypsies in those days; and these lords would argue with each other about territory; but the king of the gypsies took them all down and made all his subjects equal to one another; and since that time they have gotten along very well; because they don’t think about being kings, and maybe it’s better for them as they are; because I assure you it’s a very troublesome thing to be a king and always do justice; I have often wished to be a private gypsy when I’ve had to punish my dear friends and relatives; for though we never put anyone to death, our punishments are very severe. They make the gypsies feel ashamed of themselves, and that is a very terrible punishment; I have rarely known the gypsies to suffer such punishments to harm anyone anymore.”
The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such punishment as shame in other governments. Upon which Jones assured him to the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which shame was inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one consequence of all punishment. “Dat be ver strange,” said the king; “for me know and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live among dem; and me have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause too of many of your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments den de same ting?”
The king then expressed some surprise that other governments didn’t have a punishment like shame. To this, Jones assured him otherwise, explaining that there were many crimes under English law that resulted in shame, and that it was actually a common outcome of all punishment. “That’s very strange,” said the king; “because I know and hear a lot about your people, even though I don’t live among them; and I have often heard that shame is both a consequence and a cause of many of your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments then the same thing?”
While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar arose in the barn, and as it seems upon this occasion:—the courtesy of these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of Partridge, and he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by degrees entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead introduced much more agreeable sensations.
While the king was talking with Jones, a sudden commotion erupted in the barn, and it appears that, in this instance, the kindness of these people gradually eased all of Partridge's worries. He was encouraged not only to overindulge in their food but also to try some of their drinks, which eventually completely chased away his fear and replaced it with much more pleasant feelings.
A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had decoyed the honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune. Now, when they were alone together in a remote part of the barn, whether it proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt to inflame inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue; or whether the fair gypsy herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex, and tempted the youth Partridge with express solicitations; but they were discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy, who, from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had dogged her to the place, where he found her in the arms of her gallant.
A young female gypsy, more known for her cleverness than her looks, had lured the honest guy away, pretending to tell his fortune. Now, when they were alone in a remote part of the barn, whether it was the strong drink, which tends to spark unwanted desire after a bit of tiring activity, or if the attractive gypsy herself let go of the modesty and propriety expected of her gender and openly tempted the young man Partridge, they were discovered in a very inappropriate situation by the gypsy's husband. He seemed to have been keeping a jealous watch over his wife and had followed her to the spot where he found her in the arms of her lover.
To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the king; who heard the accusation, and likewise the culprit's defence, which was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by the plain evidence which appeared against him, and had very little to say for himself. His majesty, then turning towards Jones, said, “Sir, you have hear what dey say; what punishment do you tink your man deserve?”
To Jones's surprise, Partridge was quickly brought before the king, who listened to the accusation as well as the accused's defense, which was quite weak. The poor guy was overwhelmed by the clear evidence against him and had very little to say in his own defense. The king then turned to Jones and said, “Sir, you've heard what they say; what punishment do you think your man deserves?”
Jones answered, “He was sorry for what had happened, and that Partridge should make the husband all the amends in his power: he said, he had very little money about him at that time;” and, putting his hand into his pocket, offered the fellow a guinea. To which he immediately answered, “He hoped his honour would not think of giving him less than five.”
Jones replied, “He felt bad about what happened, and that Partridge should do everything he could to make it right with the husband: he said he didn't have much money on him at that moment;” and, reaching into his pocket, he offered the guy a guinea. To this, the guy quickly responded, “He hoped your honor wouldn’t think of giving him less than five.”
This sum, after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones, having stipulated for the full forgiveness of both Partridge and the wife, was going to pay the money; when his majesty, restraining his hand, turned to the witness and asked him, “At what time he had discovered the criminals?” To which he answered, “That he had been desired by the husband to watch the motions of his wife from her first speaking to the stranger, and that he had never lost sight of her afterwards till the crime had been committed.” The king then asked, “if the husband was with him all that time in his lurking-place?” To which he answered in the affirmative. His Egyptian majesty then addressed himself to the husband as follows: “Me be sorry to see any gypsy dat have no more honour dan to sell de honour of his wife for money. If you had de love for your wife, you would have prevented dis matter, and not endeavour to make her de whore dat you might discover her. Me do order dat you have no money given you, for you deserve punishment, not reward; me do order derefore, dat you be de infamous gypsy, and do wear pair of horns upon your forehead for one month, and dat your wife be called de whore, and pointed at all dat time; for you be de infamous gypsy, but she be no less de infamous whore.”
This amount, after some debate, was lowered to two; and Jones, having insisted on completely forgiving both Partridge and the wife, was about to pay the money; when his majesty, stopping him, turned to the witness and asked him, “When did you notice the criminals?” To which he replied, “I was asked by the husband to keep an eye on his wife from the moment she first spoke to the stranger, and I didn’t take my eyes off her until the crime happened.” The king then inquired, “Was the husband with you the whole time you were hiding?” To which he answered yes. The Egyptian king then spoke to the husband like this: “I am sorry to see any gypsy who has no more honor than to sell the honor of his wife for money. If you truly loved your wife, you would have stopped this situation instead of trying to turn her into a whore so you could catch her. I hereby order that you receive no money, as you deserve punishment, not reward; therefore, I decree that you be the infamous gypsy and wear a pair of horns on your forehead for one month, and that your wife be called the whore and pointed at during that time; for you are the infamous gypsy, but she is equally the infamous whore.”
The gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and left Jones and Partridge alone with his majesty.
The gypsies quickly carried out the sentence and left Jones and Partridge alone with his majesty.
Jones greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which the king, turning to him, said, “Me believe you be surprize: for me suppose you have ver bad opinion of my people; me suppose you tink us all de tieves.”
Jones really praised the fairness of the sentence, to which the king turned to him and said, “I believe you are surprised; I thought you had a very low opinion of my people; I thought you think we're all thieves.”
“I must confess, sir,” said Jones, “I have not heard so favourable an account of them as they seem to deserve.”
“I have to admit, sir,” said Jones, “I haven’t heard such a positive account of them as they seem to deserve.”
“Me vil tell you,” said the king, “how the difference is between you and us. My people rob your people, and your people rob one anoder.”
"Let me tell you," said the king, "what the difference is between you and us. My people steal from your people, and your people steal from each other."
Jones afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the happiness of those subjects who live under such a magistrate.
Jones then went on to seriously express the joy of those subjects living under such a magistrate.
Indeed their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are aware lest some advocate for arbitrary power should hereafter quote the case of those people, as an instance of the great advantages which attend that government above all others.
Indeed, their happiness seems to have been so complete that we're aware some supporter of absolute power might later point to those people as an example of the significant benefits that come with that kind of government over all others.
And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have been expected from us, that no limited form of government is capable of rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the same benefits to society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as when the greatest part of the then known world was under the dominion of a single master; and this state of their felicity continued during the reigns of five successive princes.[*] This was the true aera of the golden age, and the only golden age which ever had any existence, unless in the warm imaginations of the poets, from the expulsion from Eden down to this day. [*] Nerva, Trajan, Adrian, and the two Antonini. -- In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute monarchy. The only defect in which excellent constitution seems to be, the difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an absolute monarch: for this indispensably requires three qualities very difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince, to be contented with all the power which is possible for him to have. 2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly, Goodness sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not only compatible with, but instrumental to his own.
And here we will make a surprising concession: no limited form of government can achieve the same level of perfection or bring the same benefits to society as this. People have never been as happy as when most of the known world was under the rule of a single leader, and this happiness lasted throughout the reigns of five consecutive emperors.[*] This was the true era of the golden age, the only real golden age that ever existed, unless it’s just in the vivid imaginations of poets, from the expulsion from Eden to today. [*] Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two Antonines. -- Honestly, the only solid objection I see to absolute monarchy is the challenge of finding someone truly fit for the role of an absolute monarch. This position requires three qualities that, as history shows, are hard to find in royal blood: first, a sufficient amount of moderation in the ruler to be satisfied with all the power he can hold; second, enough wisdom to understand his own happiness; and third, enough goodness to support the happiness of others, which must not only align with but also contribute to his own.
Now if an absolute monarch, with all these great and rare qualifications, should be allowed capable of conferring the greatest good on society; it must be surely granted, on the contrary, that absolute power, vested in the hands of one who is deficient in them all, is likely to be attended with no less a degree of evil.
Now, if an absolute monarch, with all these great and rare qualities, is capable of bringing the greatest good to society, it must also be acknowledged that absolute power in the hands of someone lacking in all these qualities is likely to lead to a significant amount of harm.
In short, our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the blessing, as well as curse, which may attend absolute power. The pictures of heaven and of hell will place a very lively image of both before our eyes; for though the prince of the latter can have no power but what he originally derives from the omnipotent Sovereign in the former, yet it plainly appears from Scripture that absolute power in his infernal dominions is granted to their diabolical ruler. This is indeed the only absolute power which can by Scripture be derived from heaven. If, therefore, the several tyrannies upon earth can prove any title to a Divine authority, it must be derived from this original grant to the prince of darkness; and these subordinate deputations must consequently come immediately from him whose stamp they so expressly bear.
In short, our own beliefs give us a clear understanding of both the blessings and curses that come with absolute power. The images of heaven and hell vividly illustrate both concepts; because even though the ruler of hell has no power except what he gets from the all-powerful Sovereign of heaven, Scripture clearly shows that absolute power is granted to that evil ruler in his dark realm. This is the only kind of absolute power that can be seen in Scripture as coming from heaven. Therefore, if various tyrannies on earth can claim any connection to Divine authority, it must come from this original grant to the prince of darkness; and these lower forms of power must hence come directly from the one whose mark they unmistakably bear.
To conclude, as the examples of all ages shew us that mankind in general desire power only to do harm, and, when they obtain it, use it for no other purpose; it is not consonant with even the least degree of prudence to hazard an alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept in countenance by only two or three exceptions out of a thousand instances to alarm our fears. In this case it will be much wiser to submit to a few inconveniencies arising from the dispassionate deafness of laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate open ears of a tyrant.
To wrap up, the examples from throughout history show that people generally seek power just to cause harm, and when they have it, they use it for nothing else. It lacks even a shred of common sense to risk change when our hopes are barely supported by just a couple of exceptions out of a thousand situations that stir our fears. In this case, it’s much smarter to tolerate a few inconveniences that come from the unfeeling rigidity of laws than to try to fix them by appealing to the emotionally driven ears of a tyrant.
Nor can the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have long been happy under this form of government, be here urged; since we must remember the very material respect in which they differ from all other people, and to which perhaps this their happiness is entirely owing, namely, that they have no false honours among them, and that they look on shame as the most grievous punishment in the world.
Nor can the example of the gypsies, even though they might have been happy for a long time under this form of government, be used here; because we need to remember the significant way they differ from everyone else, which might be the reason for their happiness. Specifically, they have no false honors among them, and they view shame as the most serious punishment in the world.
Chapter xiii. — A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
The honest lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long digression into which we were led at the close of the last chapter, to prevent our history from being applied to the use of the most pernicious doctrine which priestcraft had ever the wickedness or the impudence to preach.
The true lovers of freedom will, we believe, forgive the lengthy digression we took at the end of the last chapter, to ensure our story isn’t misused to promote the most harmful belief that religious leaders have ever had the audacity to preach.
We will now proceed with Mr Jones, who, when the storm was over, took leave of his Egyptian majesty, after many thanks for his courteous behaviour and kind entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which place (for it was still dark) a gypsy was ordered to conduct him.
We will now continue with Mr. Jones, who, after the storm passed, said goodbye to the Egyptian king, thanking him for his hospitality and kind treatment, and set off for Coventry; to which place (since it was still dark) a gypsy was instructed to guide him.
Jones having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles instead of six, and most of those through very execrable roads, where no expedition could have been made in quest of a midwife, did not arrive at Coventry till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get again into the saddle till past two; for post-horses were now not easy to get; nor were the hostler or post-boy in half so great a hurry as himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil disposition of Partridge; who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, took all opportunities to supply its place with every other kind of nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he arrived at an inn, nor ever more dissatisfied than when he was again forced to leave it.
Jones, due to his detour, traveled eleven miles instead of six, most of which were along terrible roads that made it impossible to find a midwife quickly. He didn't reach Coventry until almost noon. He couldn't get back on a horse until after two because post-horses were hard to come by, and neither the stablehand nor the post-boy was in any rush like he was. They preferred to follow the laid-back attitude of Partridge, who, being deprived of sleep, took every chance to make up for it with other kinds of food. Partridge was never happier than when he arrived at an inn and never more dissatisfied than when he had to leave it again.
Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according to our custom, and to the rules of Longinus, in the same manner. From Coventry he arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from Stratford at Dunstable, whither he came the next day a little after noon, and within a few hours after Sophia had left it; and though he was obliged to stay here longer than he wished, while a smith, with great deliberation, shoed the post-horse he was to ride, he doubted not but to overtake his Sophia before she should set out from St Albans; at which place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his lordship would stop and dine.
Jones now traveled by coach; we'll follow him, as usual, and according to the rules of Longinus, in the same way. From Coventry, he arrived at Daventry, from Daventry to Stratford, and from Stratford to Dunstable, where he arrived the next day just after noon, and just a few hours after Sophia had left. Even though he had to wait here longer than he wanted while a blacksmith carefully put shoes on the post-horse he was going to ride, he was confident he would catch up with Sophia before she left St Albans; at that place, he reasonably assumed his lordship would stop for lunch.
And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably would have overtaken his angel at the aforesaid place; but unluckily my lord had appointed a dinner to be prepared for him at his own house in London, and, in order to enable him to reach that place in proper time, he had ordered a relay of horses to meet him at St Albans. When Jones therefore arrived there, he was informed that the coach-and-six had set out two hours before.
And if he had been correct in this guess, he would most likely have caught up with his angel at the mentioned location; however, my lord had unfortunately arranged for dinner to be prepared for him at his house in London, and to ensure he reached there on time, he had ordered a team of horses to be ready for him at St Albans. So, when Jones arrived there, he was told that the coach and six had left two hours earlier.
If fresh post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed so apparently impossible to overtake the coach before it reached London, that Partridge thought he had now a proper opportunity to remind his friend of a matter which he seemed entirely to have forgotten; what this was the reader will guess, when we inform him that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached egg since he had left the alehouse where he had first met the guide returning from Sophia; for with the gypsies he had feasted only his understanding.
If fresh horses had been ready, which they weren't, it seemed nearly impossible to catch up with the coach before it got to London. Partridge thought this was a good time to remind his friend of something he seemed to have completely forgotten. The reader can probably guess what that was when we mention that Jones had eaten nothing more than one poached egg since he left the alehouse where he first met the guide returning from Sophia; with the gypsies, he had only fed his mind.
The landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr Partridge, that he no sooner heard the latter desire his friend to stay and dine, than he very readily put in his word, and retracting his promise before given of furnishing the horses immediately, he assured Mr Jones he would lose no time in bespeaking a dinner, which, he said, could be got ready sooner than it was possible to get the horses up from grass, and to prepare them for their journey by a feed of corn.
The landlord completely agreed with Mr. Partridge's opinion that, as soon as he heard him ask his friend to stay for dinner, he quickly jumped in and took back his earlier promise to get the horses ready right away. He assured Mr. Jones that he would waste no time in ordering dinner, which, he said, could be prepared faster than getting the horses up from the pasture and ready for their journey with a meal of corn.
Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument of the landlord; and now a joint of mutton was put down to the fire. While this was preparing, Partridge, being admitted into the same apartment with his friend or master, began to harangue in the following manner.
Jones was finally convinced, mainly by the landlord's last point; and now a joint of mutton was set down by the fire. While this was cooking, Partridge, having been allowed into the same room as his friend or boss, started to speak in the following manner.
“Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve young Madam Western; for what a vast quantity of love must a man have, to be able to live upon it without any other food, as you do? I am positive I have eat thirty times as much within these last twenty-four hours as your honour, and yet I am almost famished; for nothing makes a man so hungry as travelling, especially in this cold raw weather. And yet I can't tell how it is, but your honour is seemingly in perfect good health, and you never looked better nor fresher in your life. It must be certainly love that you live upon.”
“Of course, sir, if any man deserves a young lady, it’s you with young Madam Western; because think about how much love a guy must have to survive on that alone, like you do? I’m sure I’ve eaten thirty times more in the past twenty-four hours than you have, and yet I’m still starving; nothing makes a guy hungrier than traveling, especially in this cold, damp weather. But I can’t explain it, your honor, you seem to be in perfect health, and you’ve never looked better or more refreshed in your life. It must really be love that you’re living on.”
“And a very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones. “But did not fortune send me an excellent dainty yesterday? Dost thou imagine I cannot live more than twenty-four hours on this dear pocket-book?”
“And a really lavish diet too, Partridge,” replied Jones. “But didn’t luck bring me a delicious treat yesterday? Do you think I can’t survive more than twenty-four hours with this precious wallet?”
“Undoubtedly,” cries Partridge, “there is enough in that pocket-book to purchase many a good meal. Fortune sent it to your honour very opportunely for present use, as your honour's money must be almost out by this time.”
“Definitely,” exclaims Partridge, “there’s enough in that wallet to buy quite a few good meals. Luck brought it to you just in time, since your funds must be running low by now.”
“What do you mean?” answered Jones; “I hope you don't imagine that I should be dishonest enough, even if it belonged to any other person, besides Miss Western——”
“What do you mean?” Jones replied. “I hope you don’t think I’d be dishonest enough, even if it belonged to anyone else, not just Miss Western—”
“Dishonest!” replied Partridge, “heaven forbid I should wrong your honour so much! but where's the dishonesty in borrowing a little for present spending, since you will be so well able to pay the lady hereafter? No, indeed, I would have your honour pay it again, as soon as it is convenient, by all means; but where can be the harm in making use of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a poor body, it would be another thing; but so great a lady, to be sure, can never want it, especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it can't be doubted, will let her have whatever she hath need of. Besides, if she should want a little, she can't want the whole, therefore I would give her a little; but I would be hanged before I mentioned the having found it at first, and before I got some money of my own; for London, I have heard, is the very worst of places to be in without money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom it belonged, I might have thought it was the devil's money, and have been afraid to use it; but as you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it would be an affront to fortune to part with it all again, at the very time when you want it most; you can hardly expect she should ever do you such another good turn; for fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona. You will do as you please, notwithstanding all I say; but for my part, I would be hanged before I mentioned a word of the matter.”
“Dishonest!” replied Partridge, “I would never disrespect you like that! But what's wrong with borrowing a bit for the moment, when you’ll be able to pay the lady back later? No, really, I’d want you to repay it as soon as you can, but what's the harm in using it now that you need it? If it belonged to someone poor, that would be different, but a lady of her status surely doesn’t need it, especially since she’s with a lord who, without a doubt, will provide for her. Besides, if she needs a little, she certainly doesn’t need the whole amount, so I’d give her just a little; but I wouldn’t dream of mentioning where I found it initially or using it until I have some money of my own. I’ve heard that London is one of the worst places to be without money. Honestly, if I hadn’t known who it belonged to, I might have thought it was the devil’s money and been too scared to use it; but since you know otherwise and have it honestly, it would be a slap in the face to fate to give it all back now, right when you need it the most. You can hardly expect such good luck to come your way again; after all, fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona. You’ll do what you want, regardless of what I say; but for my part, I would never bring it up.”
“By what I can see, Partridge,” cries Jones, “hanging is a matter non longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis.” “You should say alienus,” says Partridge,—“I remember the passage; it is an example under communis, alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt.” “If you do remember it,” cries Jones, “I find you don't understand it; but I tell thee, friend, in plain English, that he who finds another's property, and wilfully detains it from the known owner, deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be hanged, no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very identical bill, which is the property of my angel, and was once in her dear possession, I will not deliver it into any hands but her own, upon any consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry as thou art, and had no other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I hope to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge thee, if thou would'st not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare mention of such detestable baseness.”
“From what I can see, Partridge,” Jones shouts, “hanging is a matter non longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis.” “You should say alienus,” Partridge replies, “I remember the passage; it is an example under communis, alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt.” “If you do remember it,” Jones retorts, “I find you don’t understand it; but let me tell you, friend, in plain English, that anyone who finds another person's property and willfully keeps it from the rightful owner deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be hanged, just as if they had stolen it. And as for this very bill, which is the property of my angel and was once in her dear possession, I will not hand it over to anyone but her, no matter the reason, not even if I were as hungry as you are and had no other way to satisfy my craving; I hope to do this before I sleep, but if it should turn out otherwise, I charge you, if you don’t want to incur my displeasure forever, not to shock me again with the mere mention of such despicable behavior.”
“I should not have mentioned it now,” cries Partridge, “if it had appeared so to me; for I'm sure I scorn any wickedness as much as another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined that I should not have lived so many years, and have taught school so long, without being able to distinguish between fas et nefas; but it seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster, who was a prodigious great scholar, used often to say, Polly matete cry town is my daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That a child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have lived to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my grammar at this time of day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if you live to my years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a stripling of one or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught alienus, and my master read it so before me.”
"I shouldn't have brought it up now," Partridge exclaims, "if it seemed that way to me; because I really despise any wrongdoing just like anyone else does. But maybe you know better; still, I never thought I would have lived so many years and taught school for so long without being able to tell the difference between right and wrong. It looks like we all have to learn as we go. I remember my old schoolmaster, who was an incredibly learned man, often used to say, 'Polly matete cry town is my daskalon.' He told us that translated to, ‘A child can sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs.’ What a fine lesson I've learned if I’m here to be taught grammar at my age. Maybe, young man, you'll change your mind if you reach my age: I remember thinking I was just as wise at twenty-one or twenty-two as I am now. I always taught 'alienus,' and my master read it that way before me."
There were not many instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor were there many in which Partridge himself could have been hurried out of his respect. Unluckily, however, they had both hit on one of these. We have already seen Partridge could not bear to have his learning attacked, nor could Jones bear some passage or other in the foregoing speech. And now, looking upon his companion with a contemptuous and disdainful air (a thing not usual with him), he cried, “Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish thou art not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced of the latter as I am of the former, thou should'st travel no farther in my company.”
There weren't many times when Partridge could get a rise out of Jones, and there weren't many times when Partridge could have lost his composure either. Unfortunately, they both found themselves in one of those rare moments. We’ve already noted that Partridge couldn’t stand having his knowledge challenged, and Jones couldn’t tolerate some part of the previous conversation. Now, looking at his companion with a sneering and dismissive attitude (which was unusual for him), he exclaimed, “Partridge, I see you're a conceited old fool, and I really hope you’re not also a dishonest old rogue. Honestly, if I was as sure about the latter as I am about the former, you wouldn’t be traveling with me any longer.”
The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had already given to his indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase is, immediately drew in his horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered anything which might give offence, for that he had never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit.
The wise teacher was satisfied with the way he had expressed his frustration and, as the saying goes, immediately backed off. He said he was sorry for saying anything that could be offensive because he had never meant to. But Nemo omnibus horis sapit.
As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free from those of a cold one; and if his friends must have confest his temper to have been a little too easily ruffled, his enemies must at the same time have confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at all resemble the sea, whose swelling is more violent and dangerous after a storm is over than while the storm itself subsists. He instantly accepted the submission of Partridge, shook him by the hand, and with the most benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind things, and at the same time very severely condemned himself, though not half so severely as he will most probably be condemned by many of our good readers.
As Jones had the flaws of a warm personality, he was completely free from those of a cold one; and while his friends might admit that his temper was a bit too easily agitated, his enemies would have to acknowledge that it quickly calmed down. It didn't resemble the sea, which often becomes more turbulent and dangerous after a storm than during the storm itself. He immediately accepted Partridge's apology, shook his hand, and with the friendliest expression possible, said many kind things, while also harshly criticizing himself, though not nearly as harshly as he will likely be judged by many of our good readers.
Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having offended were at once abolished, and his pride completely satisfied by Jones having owned himself in the wrong, which submission he instantly applied to what had principally nettled him, and repeated in a muttering voice, “To be sure, sir, your knowledge may be superior to mine in some things; but as to the grammar, I think I may challenge any man living. I think, at least, I have that at my finger's end.”
Partridge felt greatly reassured, as his worries about having upset anyone quickly faded away. His pride was fully satisfied when Jones admitted he was wrong. Partridge immediately connected this admission to what had mostly bothered him and muttered to himself, “Of course, sir, you might know more than I do about some things, but when it comes to grammar, I’m pretty confident I can take on anyone. I mean, I’ve got that down pat.”
If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now enjoyed, he received this addition by the arrival of an excellent shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table. On which, having both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their horses, and set forward for London.
If anything could add to the satisfaction that the poor man was feeling, it came with the arrival of a fantastic shoulder of mutton that was just served at the table. After enjoying a hearty meal, they got back on their horses and continued their journey to London.
Chapter xiv. — What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St Albans.
They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London; to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, “I should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company; for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road.” Jones readily complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.
They had traveled about two miles past Barnet, and it was now dusk, when a well-dressed man on a rather shabby horse rode up to Jones and asked if he was heading to London. Jones confirmed that he was. The gentleman said, “I would appreciate it, sir, if you would allow me to accompany you; it’s quite late, and I’m not familiar with the road.” Jones happily agreed, and they continued on their way, engaging in the usual small talk for such encounters.
Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. “Your honour,” said he, “may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it; but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a man can die but once.—That's my comfort, a man can die but once.”
Robbery was definitely the main topic of discussion. The stranger seemed really worried about it, but Jones said he didn’t have much to lose, so he had little to fear. At this point, Partridge couldn’t help but chime in. “Your honor,” he said, “you might think it's nothing, but if I had a hundred-pound banknote in my pocket like you do, I would hate to lose it. Still, honestly, I’ve never been less afraid in my life. There are four of us, and if we stick together, no one in England could rob us. Even if he had a gun, he can only shoot one of us, and a man only dies once. That’s what comforts me; a man can die but once.”
Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge now discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.
Besides relying on superior numbers, a type of bravery that has brought a certain nation among the moderns to great heights of glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage that Partridge now showed; he currently had as much of that quality as alcohol could provide.
Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.
Our company had now arrived within a mile of Highgate when the stranger suddenly turned to Jones and, pulling out a pistol, demanded the small banknote that Partridge had mentioned.
Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand; however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman, all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other answered with an oath, That would not do. Jones answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into his pocket.
Jones was initially taken aback by this sudden demand; however, he soon gathered himself and told the highwayman that all the money he had in his pocket was completely at his disposal. Saying this, he pulled out more than three guineas and offered to hand it over, but the highwayman swore that wasn’t enough. Jones replied calmly that he was very sorry to hear that and put the money back into his pocket.
The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note that moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
The highwayman then threatened that if he didn’t hand over the banknote right then, he would shoot him, while keeping his pistol aimed very close to his chest. Jones quickly grabbed the guy's hand, which was shaking so much he could barely hold the gun, and turned the muzzle away from him. A struggle followed, during which Jones managed to wrest the pistol from his opponent’s grip, and they both fell off their horses onto the ground, with the highwayman on his back and the victorious Jones on top of him.
The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones. “Indeed, sir,” says he, “I could have had no intention to shoot you; for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this.”
The poor guy now started begging for mercy from the conqueror: because, to be honest, he was definitely no match for Jones in strength. “Honestly, sir,” he said, “I had no intention of shooting you; you’ll see that the pistol isn’t loaded. This is the first robbery I’ve ever attempted, and I’ve been pushed to this out of desperation.”
At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who, endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and expecting every minute to be shot.
At that moment, about a hundred and fifty yards away, another person was on the ground, shouting for mercy even louder than the highwayman. This was none other than Partridge himself, who, trying to escape the fight, had been thrown from his horse and lay flat on his face, too scared to look up and expecting to be shot any minute.
In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to him, and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.
In this position he lay, until the guide, who was only worried about his horses, having secured the stumbling animal, came up to him and told him that his master had defeated the highwayman.
Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow; which Partridge no sooner saw than he cried out, “Kill the villain, sir, run him through the body, kill him this instant!”
Partridge jumped up at this news and ran back to where Jones was standing with his sword drawn to protect the poor guy; as soon as Partridge saw this, he shouted, “Kill the villain, sir, stab him in the body, kill him right now!”
Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before Partridge came up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife lying in of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince Mr Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which was not above two miles off; saying, “That he desired no favour, but upon condition of proving all he had all alledged.”
Fortunately for the poor guy, he had fallen into more merciful hands. Jones examined the pistol and found it was actually unloaded, which led him to start believing everything the man had told him before Partridge arrived. The man claimed he was a rookie in the game, driven to this out of desperation, facing the
Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word, and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, “he wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been mentioned was not his own.”
Jones initially pretended that he would trust the guy and go along with him, saying that his fate would entirely depend on the truth of his story. Upon hearing this, the poor guy showed so much eagerness that Jones was completely convinced of his honesty and started to feel compassion for him. He returned the guy's empty pistol, advised him to think of more honest ways to address his troubles, and gave him a couple of guineas to help support his wife and family right away, adding, “I wish I had more for you, because the hundred pounds that was mentioned isn’t mine.”
Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a want of regard to that justice which every man owes his country. Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they reached London.
Our readers will likely have mixed feelings about this action; some might praise it as an incredibly humane act, while those with a more gloomy outlook may see it as a lack of respect for the justice that every person owes to their country. Partridge definitely viewed it that way; he expressed a lot of dissatisfaction about it, quoted an old saying, and mentioned that he wouldn't be surprised if the scoundrel attacked them again before they got to London.
The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude. He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit such a transgression: whether he kept his word or no, perhaps may appear hereafter.
The highwayman was full of thanks and appreciation. He even shed tears, or at least pretended to. He promised he would go home right away and would never do something like that again: whether he kept his promise or not might be revealed later.
Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without encountering any new mishap. On the road much pleasant discourse passed between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their last adventure: in which Jones exprest a great compassion for those highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven, as it were, to such illegal courses, as generally bring them to a shameful death: “I mean,” said he, “those only whose highest guilt extends no farther than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any person, which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our country, distinguishes the robbers of England from those of all other nations; for murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to robbery.”
Once the travelers got back on their horses, they reached town without any new problems. During the ride, Jones and Partridge had a nice conversation about their last adventure. Jones expressed a lot of sympathy for the highwaymen who, due to unavoidable circumstances, are pushed into such illegal activities that usually lead to a shameful end. “I mean,” he said, “only those whose worst crime is robbery, and who are never cruel or insulting to anyone. This, I must say, is a point of pride for our country, setting English robbers apart from those in other nations, where murder almost always goes hand in hand with robbery.”
“No doubt,” answered Partridge, “it is better to take away one's money than one's life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men, that they can't travel about their business without being in danger of these villains. And to be sure it would be better that all rogues were hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer. For my own part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of them on my own hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang them all. What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it him? Is there any honesty in such a man?”
“No doubt,” replied Partridge, “it's better to lose your money than your life; but it's really unfair to honest people that they can’t go about their business without being at risk from these criminals. Honestly, it would be better if all the crooks were hanged rather than let even one honest person suffer. As for me, I wouldn’t want to have any of their blood on my hands; but it’s absolutely right for the law to execute them all. What right does any man have to take sixpence from me unless I choose to give it to him? Is there any honesty in a person like that?”
“No, surely,” cries Jones, “no more than there is in him who takes the horses out of another man's stable, or who applies to his own use the money which he finds, when he knows the right owner.”
“No, surely,” Jones exclaims, “not any more than in someone who takes another person's horses or who uses money he finds when he knows who it belongs to.”
These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again till Jones, having thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice, he offered to excuse himself on the inequality of fire-arms, saying, “A thousand naked men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell but that one may be himself?”
These comments shut Partridge up completely; he didn’t say anything until Jones threw out some sarcastic jokes about his cowardice. He then tried to excuse himself by saying, “A thousand unarmed men are no match for a single pistol; because while it's true the pistol can only kill one person at a time, who’s to say that one person isn’t going to be me?”
BOOK XIII. — CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
Chapter i. — An Invocation.
Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I will call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but thee, fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nymph, first on the banks of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud metropolis of Britain, sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia, she reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future praise. Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box, I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me, and whom I shall neither know nor see.
Come, bright love of fame, inspire my passionate heart: I won't call on you, who, over waves of blood and tears, brings the hero to glory, while the sighs of millions fill his sails; but you, fair, gentle maiden, whom Mnesis, the happy nymph, first brought forth on the banks of the Hebrus. You, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua enchanted, and who, on that beautiful hill overlooking the proud capital of Britain, sat with your Milton, sweetly tuning the heroic lyre; fill my captivated imagination with the hopes of enchanting ages to come. Foretell me that some tender maiden, whose grandmother is yet unborn, will someday, when she reads under the fictitious name of Sophia, discover the true value that once existed in my Charlotte, and from her sympathetic heart let out a heartfelt sigh. Teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, and even to indulge in future praise. Comfort me with a solemn promise that when the small parlor I'm sitting in now is reduced to a poorly furnished space, I will be read with honor by those who never knew or saw me, and whom I will neither know nor see.
And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte, in some Dutch canal, the fat ufrow gelt, impregnated by a jolly merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou suck in the elements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer age, taught poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air; while tragedy storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its thunders. To soothe thy wearied limbs in slumber, Alderman History tells his tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed bookseller obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy, unread, folio lump, which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into numbers, runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some books, like quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while others turn beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy inspiration, but hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy quickly convertible bank-bill, big with unseen riches; thy often-varying stock; the warm, the comfortable house; and, lastly, a fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield redundant sustenance for all her numerous offspring, did not some too greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat. Come thou, and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm my heart with the transporting thought of conveying them to others. Tell me, that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent play hath often been interrupted by my labours, may one time be amply rewarded for them.
And you, much fuller lady, whom no airy forms or fantasies can dress; whom well-cooked beef and rich, plum-filled pudding delight: I call you forth; of whom, in a canal boat in some Dutch waterway, the fat woman, influenced by a cheerful Amsterdam merchant, was delivered: in Grub Street school you absorbed the basics of your education. Here in your mature years, you’ve taught poetry to appeal not just to the imagination, but to the pride of the patron. Comedy learns a serious tone from you; while tragedy roars loudly and shakes the frightened theaters with its thunder. To soothe your weary limbs into sleep, Alderman History tells his long, dull stories; and to wake you up again, Monsieur Romance shows off his surprising tricks. Your well-fed bookseller also follows your lead. On your advice, the heavy, unread folio, which had long slept on the dusty shelf, is broken up into volumes and swiftly circulates through the country. Guided by you, some books, like charlatans, fool the world by promising miracles; while others put on airs and rely entirely on their shiny covers. Come, you jolly essence, with your gleaming face, withhold your inspiration, but offer your enticing rewards; your shining, jingling pile; your easily convertible banknotes, full of hidden wealth; your ever-changing stock; the warm, cozy house; and, finally, a generous portion of that bounteous mother, whose abundant breast nourishes all her many children, unless some too greedily and carelessly push their siblings away from the teat. Come, and if I seem ungrateful for your valuable gifts, warm my heart with the uplifting thought of sharing them with others. Tell me that through your generosity, the babbling children, whose innocent play has often been interrupted by my work, may one day be truly rewarded for it.
And now, this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance, have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I invoke to direct my pen?
And now, this mismatched duo, this thin shadow and this heavy figure, have inspired me to write; whose help should I ask to guide my pen?
First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we struggle against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the generous seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly take me by the hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries which profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult task, to know mankind better than they know themselves. Remove that mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them to adore men for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in deceiving others, when they are, in reality, the objects only of ridicule, for deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of wisdom from self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from ambition. Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility to grieve at their own.
First, Genius; you gift from Heaven; without your help, we struggle in vain against the flow of nature. You who sow the generous seeds that art nurtures and brings to perfection. Please take my hand and guide me through all the twists and turns, the winding labyrinths of nature. Show me all those mysteries that ordinary eyes have never seen. Teach me, which is no hard task for you, to understand humanity better than they understand themselves. Clear away the fog that clouds human minds and leads them to worship some for their skills or to resent others for their trickery, when they are really just laughingstocks for deceiving themselves. Strip away the thin veil of wisdom from self-importance, of abundance from greed, and of fame from ambition. Come, you who have inspired your Aristophanes, your Lucian, your Cervantes, your Rabelais, your Molière, your Shakespeare, your Swift, your Marivaux, fill my pages with humor; until humanity learns the kindness to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility to mourn their own.
And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity, bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while from their bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft compassion, the candid opinion; and all those strong energies of a good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing cheeks with blood, and swell the heart with tides of grief, joy, and benevolence.
And you, almost always present with true genius, Humanity, bring all your tender feelings. If you’ve already given them all to your Allen and your Lyttleton, just borrow them for a little while from their hearts. Without these, the delicate scene isn’t complete. From these feelings alone come noble, selfless friendship, deep love, generous sentiment, heartfelt gratitude, gentle compassion, and honest opinions; along with all those strong forces of a good mind that fill our eyes with tears, our cheeks with color, and swell our hearts with waves of grief, joy, and kindness.
And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure, nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy favourite fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy Etonian banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood. Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity piled up, pour forth the rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous chests: give me a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton thou hast entrusted.
And you, O Learning! (because without your help, genius can produce nothing pure or correct) guide my pen. In your favorite areas, where the clear, gently-flowing Thames runs by your Etonian banks, I have worshipped you since my early youth. At your birch altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have given my blood as a sacrifice. So come, and from your vast, rich stores, piled high through the ages, let the abundance flow. Open your Maeonian and Mantuan treasures, along with anything else holding your philosophical, poetic, and historical riches, whether you’ve chosen to write on the heavy chests in Greek or Roman letters: grant me that key to all your treasures, which you’ve entrusted to your Warburton for a while.
Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind of character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to which the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning may be, hath ever been a stranger.
Lastly, come Experience, well-acquainted with the wise, the good, the educated, and the polite. Not just with them, but with every kind of character, from the minister at his gathering to the bailiff in his debtors' prison; from the duchess at her social event to the landlady behind her bar. Only you can reveal the manners of humanity, which the isolated scholar, no matter how talented or knowledgeable he might be, has always been unfamiliar with.
Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be too heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours I hope still to bring them to a happy conclusion.
Come one, come all, and even more if you can; because the task I’ve taken on is tough, and without all of your help, it feels like too much for me to handle. But if you all encourage my efforts, I’m hopeful I can wrap them up successfully.
Chapter ii. — What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
The learned Dr Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him was To Dr Misaubin, in the World; intimating that there were few people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps, upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of grandeur.
The knowledgeable Dr. Misaubin often said that the correct address for him was To Dr Misaubin, in the World; suggesting that there were few people who didn’t recognize his great reputation. And, maybe, if we look closely into it, we’ll find that this fact is an important aspect among the many advantages of being prominent.
The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of which we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our names, as Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift beyond the power of title and wealth; and is scarce to be purchased, unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous imputation, while we yet live, of being one whom nobody knows (a scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer[*]) will always be the envied portion of those, who have a legal title either to honour or estate.
The great joy of being remembered by future generations, which we were so excited about in the previous chapter, is something few people experience. Having the parts that make up our names, as Sydenham puts it, repeated a thousand years from now is a gift greater than any title or wealth; it can hardly be bought, except through acts of bravery or through writing. However, to avoid the shameful label of being someone nobody knows (a shame, by the way, as ancient as the days of Homer[*]) will always be the envy of those who have a recognized claim to either honor or property.
[*] See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.
[*] See the 2nd Odyssey, ver. 175.
From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia to town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude, doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his house in London without knowing the particular street or square which he inhabited, since he must have been one whom everybody knows. To say the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the great are generally no less easy to find than it is difficult to get entrance into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire stranger in London; and as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of the town, the inhabitants of which have very little intercourse with the householders of Hanover or Grosvenor-square (for he entered through Gray's-inn-lane), so he rambled about some time before he could even find his way to those happy mansions where fortune segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous heroes, the descendants of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose ancestors, being born in better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have entailed riches and honour on their posterity.
From that description, it’s clear that the Irish nobleman who brought Sophia to the city must have been someone well-known. The reader can easily assume that finding his house in London wouldn’t be difficult for anyone familiar with the city, even without knowing exactly which street or square he lived on, since he was someone whom everybody knows. In fact, it would have been easy for any of the tradespeople used to dealing with the wealthy, because the homes of the elite are usually as easy to spot as they are hard to get into. However, Jones, like Partridge, was a complete stranger to London. When he arrived, he ended up in a part of town that doesn’t have much interaction with the residents of Hanover or Grosvenor Square (he had entered through Gray’s Inn Lane), so he wandered around for a while before he could even find his way to those esteemed homes where fortune separates the noble heroes, descendants of ancient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose ancestors, born in better times, have passed down wealth and honour to their descendants through various merits.
Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields, would now soon have discovered his lordship's mansion; but the peer unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he was just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a successless enquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn, that being the inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his circumstances.
Jones, after finally arriving at those earthly paradise fields, was about to spot his lordship's mansion; however, the peer had unfortunately left his previous house when he went to Ireland, and since he had just moved into a new one, the news of his arrival hadn’t spread much in the neighborhood. So, after a fruitless search until the clock struck eleven, Jones finally took Partridge's advice and headed back to the Bull and Gate in Holborn, which was the inn where he had first stayed, and where he went to find the kind of rest that usually comes to people in his situation.
Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last, whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in her power to disappoint him, he came into the very street which was honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being directed to the house, he gave one gentle rap at the door.
Early in the morning, he set out again to find Sophia, taking many tiring steps with no better result than before. Finally, whether it was because luck was on his side or because it was no longer possible for her to let him down, he ended up on the very street where his lordship lived; after being directed to the house, he gave a light knock on the door.
The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high idea of the person approaching, conceived but little better from the appearance of Mr Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by his side the weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which, though the blade might be composed of well-tempered steel, the handle was composed only of brass, and that none of the brightest. When Jones, therefore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town with his lordship, this fellow answered surlily, “That there were no ladies there.” Jones then desired to see the master of the house; but was informed that his lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon growing more pressing the porter said, “he had positive orders to let no person in; but if you think proper,” said he, “to leave your name, I will acquaint his lordship; and if you call another time you shall know when he will see you.”
The porter, who, judging by the gentle knock, didn't expect much of the person approaching, thought even less of Mr. Jones, who was dressed in a rough suit and had the weapon he'd bought from the sergeant by his side; while the blade might be made of well-tempered steel, the handle was just brass, and not the shiny kind. When Jones asked about the young lady who had come to town with his lordship, the porter replied gruffly, “There are no ladies here.” Jones then asked to see the master of the house, but was told that his lordship wouldn’t see anyone that morning. When Jones pressed further, the porter said, “I have strict orders not to let anyone in; but if you’d like,” he added, “to leave your name, I’ll let his lordship know, and if you come back another time, you’ll find out when he’ll see you.”
Jones now declared, “that he had very particular business with the young lady, and could not depart without seeing her.” Upon which the porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, “that there was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;” adding, “sure you are the strangest man I ever met with, for you will not take an answer.”
Jones now stated, “that he had some important business with the young lady and couldn’t leave without seeing her.” To this, the porter, with a rather unpleasant tone and expression, replied, “that there was no young lady in this house, so you can’t see her;” adding, “you really are the strangest person I’ve ever encountered, because you won’t accept an answer.”
I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus, the porter of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might possibly intend to satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at least, resembles those who have the honour to attend at the doors of our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be gained to his master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light, and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to procure an entrance for Aeneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus, which a footman, overhearing, instantly advanced, and declared, “if Mr Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would conduct him to the lady.” Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith conducted to the lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had attended the ladies thither the day before.
I’ve often thought that, based on the description of Cerberus, the gatekeeper of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might have intended to poke fun at the porters of powerful people in his time; the depiction certainly resembles those who serve at the doors of our prominent figures. The gatekeeper in his lodge is just like Cerberus in his den and, like him, needs to be bribed before anyone can see his master. Perhaps Jones saw it that way too, remembering the part where the Sibyl offers a bribe to the keeper of the Stygian passage to gain access for Aeneas. Similarly, Jones began to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus, which a footman overheard and immediately stepped forward, saying that if Mr. Jones would give him the proposed amount, he would take him to the lady. Jones quickly agreed and was led to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s place by the same guy who had brought the ladies there the day before.
Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good. The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point, laments his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect of the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to that which wins the great prize are apt to account themselves much more unfortunate than their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of hairbreadth missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune, who may be considered as thus playing tricks with us, and wantonly diverting herself at our expense.
Nothing is more frustrating than coming close to success. A gambler who loses at piquet by just one point complains about his bad luck ten times more than someone who never had a chance at the game. Similarly, in a lottery, those who have tickets just one number away from the winning ticket often feel more unfortunate than those who lost in a different way. In short, these near-misses with happiness seem like cruel jokes from Fate, who appears to be toying with us and having fun at our expense.
Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now addressed himself to the waiting-woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick; who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was gone, but could not tell him whither; and the same answer he afterwards received from Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but that Mr Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, in pursuit of his daughter, so she was too generous to betray her.
Jones, who had already encountered the playful nature of the pagan goddess more than once, was once again destined to be teased in the same way. He arrived at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's door about ten minutes after Sophia had left. He spoke to the maid who worked for Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and she delivered the unpleasant news that the lady was gone but couldn't say where. He received the same answer later from Mrs. Fitzpatrick herself. Since that lady was confident that Mr. Jones was someone separate from her uncle Western, in search of his daughter, she was too kind to reveal her whereabouts.
Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This, however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his memory; but when the footman, who had conducted him from his lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy between the ladies, and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the story of the marriage which he had formerly heard; and as he was presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became more surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she as positively refused him that honour.
Though Jones had never seen Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he had heard that a cousin of Sophia was married to a guy with that name. However, in the current chaos of his thoughts, he didn’t remember this at all. But when the footman, who had brought him from his lordship’s, informed him about how close the ladies were and that they called each other cousins, he then recalled the story of the marriage he had once heard. Convinced that this was the same woman, he became even more surprised by the response he had gotten and strongly wished to meet the lady herself; however, she firmly declined that honor.
Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he retired for the present, saying to the waiting-woman, “That if this was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her.” The civility with which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness of his person, made an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could not help answering; “Perhaps, sir, you may;” and, indeed, she afterwards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young gentleman; for so she called him.
Jones, who had never been to court but was better-mannered than most who went there, couldn't be rude or abrupt with a lady. After receiving a firm no, he stepped back for the time being and told the waiting woman, “If this isn't a good time to see her lady, I'll come back in the afternoon; I hope to have the pleasure of seeing her then.” The politeness with which he said this, combined with his good looks, impressed the waiting woman, and she couldn't help but respond, “Maybe, sir, you will.” In fact, she later told her mistress everything she thought would convince her to let the handsome young gentleman visit, as she referred to him.
Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to procure him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the door where he thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did he see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he returned to pay his visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady at last condescended to admit.
Jones cleverly suspected that Sophia was now with her cousin and was being kept from him, which he believed was due to her anger over what had happened at Upton. So, he sent Partridge to find him a place to stay and spent the whole day in the street, watching the door where he thought his angel was hiding. However, the only person he saw come out was a servant from the house. In the evening, he went to visit Mrs. Fitzpatrick, which she finally agreed to.
There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr Jones, as hath been before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met, therefore, with a reception from the lady somewhat different from what his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his proper respects, was desired to sit down.
There is a certain sense of natural elegance that clothing can neither provide nor hide. Mr. Jones, as mentioned earlier, had this quality in a very noticeable way. Because of this, he received a response from the lady that was somewhat different from what his outfit might have suggested; after he showed her the appropriate respect, he was invited to sit down.
The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the particulars of this conversation, which ended very little to the satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick soon discovered the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous friend of the lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the very Mr Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown; and all the answers which she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr Allworthy's family, confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia was gone; nor could Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next evening.
I don’t think the reader will want to know all the details of this conversation, which didn’t really satisfy poor Jones. Although Mrs. Fitzpatrick quickly figured out who the lover was (as all women seem to have a hawk’s eye for that), she still believed it was the kind of lover who a generous friend of the lady shouldn’t betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the very Mr. Blifil that Sophia had run away from, and all the answers she cleverly got out of Jones about Mr. Allworthy's family confirmed her suspicion. Therefore, she firmly denied having any knowledge of where Sophia had gone; nor could Jones get more than a promise to visit her again the following evening.
When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; who answered, “Sure, madam, he is too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run away from. I had rather fancy it is Mr Jones.”—“Mr Jones!” said the lady, “what Jones?” For Sophia had not given the least hint of any such person in all their conversation; but Mrs Honour had been much more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her mistress.
When Jones left, Mrs. Fitzpatrick shared her suspicions about Mr. Blifil with her maid, who replied, “Well, ma’am, I think he’s too good-looking for any woman to want to escape from. I’d guess it’s Mr. Jones.” — “Mr. Jones!” the lady exclaimed, “Which Jones?” Because Sophia hadn’t mentioned anyone like that during their conversation; but Mrs. Honour had been much more talkative and had told her sister Abigail all about Jones, which she now repeated to her mistress.
Mrs Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she immediately agreed with the opinion of her maid; and, what is very unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had overlooked in the slighted squire. “Betty,” says she, “you are certainly in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don't wonder that my cousin's maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I am sorry now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if he be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should ever see him any more; for what but her ruin can happen from marrying a rake and a beggar against her father's consent? I protest, if he be such a man as the wench described him to you, it is but an office of charity to keep her from him; and I am sure it would be unpardonable in me to do otherwise, who have tasted so bitterly of the misfortunes attending such marriages.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick quickly took this information to heart and agreed with her maid's opinion. Strangely enough, she began to notice qualities in the charming, happy lover that she had previously ignored in the overlooked squire. “Betty,” she said, “you’re absolutely right: he is a very attractive guy, and it doesn't surprise me that my cousin's maid mentioned that so many women are into him. I regret not telling him where my cousin is; but then again, if he really is as much of a rake as you say, it would be a shame for her to see him again. What could come of marrying a rake and a beggar against her father's wishes except for her ruin? Honestly, if he is the kind of man that girl described, it’s really a kind thing to keep her away from him; and I would be doing something unforgivable if I didn’t, especially since I've experienced the harsh consequences of such marriages.”
Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no other than his lordship; and as nothing passed at this visit either new or extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall here put an end to this chapter.
Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, none other than his lordship; and since nothing noteworthy or significant happened during this visit that adds to the story, we will conclude this chapter here.
Chapter iii. — A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady Bellaston.
When Mrs Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely taken up by her cousin Sophia and Mr Jones. She was, indeed, a little offended with the former, for the disingenuity which she now discovered. In which meditation she had not long exercised her imagination before the following conceit suggested itself; that could she possibly become the means of preserving Sophia from this man, and of restoring her to her father, she should, in all human probability, by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself both her uncle and her aunt Western.
When Mrs. Fitzpatrick went to bed, her mind was completely occupied with thoughts of her cousin Sophia and Mr. Jones. She felt a bit hurt by Sophia for the insincerity she had just realized. While she was lost in thought, an idea came to her: if she could somehow save Sophia from this man and bring her back to her father, she would likely win back the favor of both her uncle and her aunt Western by doing such a huge service for the family.
As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success seemed so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of proper methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case with Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty had reported from Mrs Honour, that Sophia had a violent inclination to Jones, she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an endeavour of the same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly to entreat a moth not to fly into a candle.
Since this was one of her favorite wishes, the hope for success seemed totally reasonable, so all that was left was to think about the right ways to make her plan happen. Trying to reason with Sophia didn’t seem like a good idea to her because Betty had reported from Mrs. Honour that Sophia was really into Jones. She figured that trying to talk her out of the relationship was just as pointless as seriously begging a moth not to fly into a candle.
If the reader will please to remember that the acquaintance which Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the house of Mrs Western, and must have grown at the very time when Mrs Fitzpatrick lived with this latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted with her likewise. They were, besides, both equally her distant relations.
If the reader will remember that Sophia's friendship with Lady Bellaston began at Mrs. Western's house, and that it must have developed right around the time Mrs. Fitzpatrick was living with Mrs. Western, then it's clear that Mrs. Fitzpatrick must have known her too. Additionally, they were both equally her distant relatives.
After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and to acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least doubt, but that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic love, and indiscreet marriages, in her conversation, would very readily concur in her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend her utmost assistance to prevent it.
After thinking it over a lot, she decided to go early in the morning to see that woman and try to talk to her without Sophia knowing. She was sure that the sensible lady, who had often made fun of romantic love and reckless marriages in her discussions, would completely agree with her views on this relationship and would do everything she could to stop it.
This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning before the sun, she huddled on her cloaths, and at a very unfashionable, unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to whom she got access, without the least knowledge or suspicion of Sophia, who, though not asleep, lay at that time awake in her bed, with Honour snoring by her side.
This is what she decided to do; so the next morning before sunrise, she quickly got dressed and, at a very unusual hour, went to see Lady Bellaston. She managed to get in without Sophia having any idea or suspicion. Sophia, although not asleep, was lying awake in her bed, with Honour snoring next to her.
Mrs Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early, abrupt visit, at an hour when, she said, “she should not have thought of disturbing her ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence.” She then opened the whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did not forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the preceding evening.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick apologized multiple times for showing up unexpectedly at a time when, as she put it, “she definitely shouldn’t have thought of bothering her ladyship, but it was about something really important.” She then explained everything, shared all the information she got from Betty, and made sure to mention the visit that Jones had made to her the night before.
Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, “Then you have seen this terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as he is represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with him. The wench I believe is in love with him by reputation.” Here the reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs Etoff, who had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received compleat information concerning the said Mr Jones, and had faithfully conveyed the same to her lady last night (or rather that morning) while she was undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in her office above the space of an hour and a half.
Lady Bellaston smiled and said, “So, you’ve met this terrible man, madam; tell me, is he really as handsome as they say? Etoff kept me entertained for almost two hours last night talking about him. I believe the girl is in love with him based on his reputation.” Here, the reader might be curious, but the truth is, Mrs. Etoff, who had the honor of dressing and undressing Lady Bellaston, had received complete information about Mr. Jones and had faithfully shared it with her lady the previous night (or rather that morning) while she was getting ready for bed; that’s why she had stayed in her role for over an hour and a half.
The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the narratives of Mrs Etoff at those seasons, gave an extraordinary attention to her account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a very handsome fellow, and Mrs Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to the beauty of his person to her report, that Lady Bellaston began to conceive him to be a kind of miracle in nature.
The lady, although typically satisfied with Mrs. Etoff's stories during those times, paid exceptional attention to her account of Jones; because Honour had described him as a really good-looking guy, and in her rush, Mrs. Etoff exaggerated his looks in her retelling, causing Lady Bellaston to imagine him as something of a natural wonder.
The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased by Mrs Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in favour of the person of Jones as she had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character, and fortune.
The curiosity that her woman had sparked was now significantly heightened by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who praised Jones as much as she had previously criticized his background, character, and wealth.
When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely, “Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great consequence. Nothing can certainly be more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be very glad to have my share in the preservation of a young lady of so much merit, and for whom I have so much esteem.”
When Lady Bellaston heard everything, she replied seriously, “Truly, madam, this is a matter of great importance. Nothing is more admirable than the role you’re playing; I would be very happy to contribute to the preservation of a young lady of such merit, for whom I have such high regard.”
“Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly, “that it would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and acquaint him where my cousin is?”
“Don’t you think,” says Mrs. Fitzpatrick eagerly, “that it would be best to write to my uncle right away and let him know where my cousin is?”
The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered—“Why, no, madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to be such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power who hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to his own wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the cause of my sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under their power.—The business, dear cousin, will be only to keep Miss Western from seeing this young fellow, till the good company, which she will have an opportunity of meeting here, give her a properer turn.”
The lady thought about this for a moment and replied, “Well, no, madam, I really don’t think so. Di Western has described her brother to me as such a brute that I can't agree to put any woman who has escaped from him under his control. I've heard he treated his own wife like a monster, as he is one of those awful people who believe they have the right to bully us. I will always consider it my duty to rescue any woman unfortunate enough to be under their control. The plan, dear cousin, is simply to keep Miss Western from seeing this young man until the good company she’ll meet here can give her a better perspective.”
“If he should find her out, madam,” answered the other, “your ladyship may be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to come at her.”
“If he finds out about her, madam,” the other replied, “you can be sure he will do everything he can to get to her.”
“But, madam,” replied the lady, “it is impossible he should come here—though indeed it is possible he may get some intelligence where she is, and then may lurk about the house—I wish therefore I knew his person.
“But, ma'am,” replied the lady, “there’s no way he could come here—though it’s possible he might find out where she is and then might hang around the house—I just wish I knew what he looked like.”
“Is there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of him? for, otherwise, you know, cousin, she may contrive to see him here without my knowledge.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, “That he had threatened her with another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail of seeing him between six and seven; and if he came earlier she would, by some means or other, detain him till her ladyship's arrival.”—Lady Bellaston replied, “She would come the moment she could get from dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that it was absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his person. Upon my word, madam,” says she, “it was very good to take this care of Miss Western; but common humanity, as well as regard to our family, requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match indeed.”
“Is there any way, ma'am, that I could see him? Because, you know, cousin, she might arrange to see him here without my knowing.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick replied, “He threatened to visit her again that afternoon, and if you would do her the honor of calling on her then, she would definitely see him between six and seven; and if he arrives earlier, she would somehow keep him there until you arrive.” Lady Bellaston responded, “I’ll come as soon as I can get away from dinner, which I expect will be by seven at the latest; it’s absolutely necessary for me to know what he looks like. Honestly, madam,” she said, “it was very thoughtful of you to look after Miss Western; but basic humanity, as well as respect for our family, demands it from both of us; because it would be a terrible match indeed.”
Mrs Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the compliment which Lady Bellaston had bestowed on her cousin, and, after some little immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she could into her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick didn’t miss the chance to respond to the compliment that Lady Bellaston had given her cousin. After a bit of casual conversation, she left the room and quickly got into her chair without being noticed by Sophia or Honour, making her way home.
Chapter iv. — Which consists of visiting.
Mr Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole day, which, though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of the longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck five, he returned to Mrs Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full hour earlier than the decent time of visiting, received him very civilly; but still persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia.
Mr. Jones had stayed close to a specific door all day, which, even though it was one of the shortest days, felt like one of the longest of the entire year to him. Finally, when the clock struck five, he went back to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who, despite it being an hour earlier than the usual visiting time, welcomed him kindly; however, she still acted like she didn’t know anything about Sophia.
Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon which Mrs Fitzpatrick said, “Then, sir, you know we are related: and, as we are, you will permit me the right of enquiring into the particulars of your business with my cousin.” Here Jones hesitated a good while, and at last answered, “He had a considerable sum of money of hers in his hands, which he desired to deliver to her.” He then produced the pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs Fitzpatrick with the contents, and with the method in which they came into his hands. He had scarce finished his story, when a most violent noise shook the whole house. To attempt to describe this noise to those who have heard it would be in vain; and to aim at giving any idea of it to those who have never heard the like, would be still more vain: for it may be truly said—
Jones, when asking for his angel, had let slip the word cousin, to which Mrs. Fitzpatrick responded, “Then, sir, you know we're related: and since we are, you will allow me the right to inquire about the details of your business with my cousin.” Here, Jones hesitated for quite some time and finally replied, “He had a considerable amount of her money in his possession that he wanted to return to her.” He then took out the wallet and informed Mrs. Fitzpatrick about its contents and how they ended up in his hands. He had hardly finished his story when a tremendous noise shook the entire house. Trying to describe this noise to those who have heard it would be pointless, and attempting to convey any idea of it to those who have never heard anything like it would be even more futile; for it may truly be said—
—Non acuta
Sic geminant Corybantes aera.
The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.
—Non acuta
Sic geminant Corybantes aera.
The priests of Cybele don't clatter their brass instruments like that.
In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones was a little surprized at the sound, having never heard it before; but Mrs Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were coming, she could not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to stay till they were gone, she intimated she had something to say to him.
In short, a footman knocked, or rather banged, at the door. Jones was a bit surprised by the noise since he had never heard it before; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick very calmly said that, since some guests were arriving, she couldn’t respond to him right now. However, if he wanted to wait until they left, she hinted that she had something to discuss with him.
The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop sideways before her, entered Lady Bellaston, who having first made a very low courtesy to Mrs Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr Jones, was ushered to the upper end of the room.
The door to the room swung open, and after sliding her hoop in sideways, Lady Bellaston walked in. She first took a deep bow to Mrs. Fitzpatrick and then offered a similar bow to Mr. Jones before being shown to the front of the room.
We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country ladies of our acquaintance, who think it contrary to the rules of modesty to bend their knees to a man.
We bring up these small details for the sake of some country ladies we know, who believe it's against the rules of modesty to kneel before a man.
The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a repetition of ceremonials.
The company barely got settled when the arrival of the mentioned peer caused another disruption and a repeat of the formalities.
These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is) extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself, I shall omit the relation; the rather, as I have known some very fine polite conversation grow extremely dull, when transcribed into books, or repeated on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a dainty, of which those who are excluded from polite assemblies must be contented to remain as ignorant as they must of the several dainties of French cookery, which are served only at the tables of the great. To say the truth, as neither of these are adapted to every taste, they might both be often thrown away on the vulgar.
Once that was done, the conversation became, as they say, really lively. However, since nothing in it is crucial to this story, or even particularly significant on its own, I will skip the details; especially since I have witnessed some truly elegant conversations become incredibly boring when written down or acted out. In fact, this kind of intellectual feast is a treat that those who are left out of social gatherings can only remain unaware of, much like the various delicacies of French cuisine that are only served at the tables of the privileged. To be honest, since neither of these experiences suits everyone's preferences, they could often be wasted on the average person.
Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an actor in it; for though, in the short interval before the peer's arrival, Lady Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs Fitzpatrick, had addressed some of their discourse to him; yet no sooner was the noble lord entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of the two ladies to himself; and as he took no more notice of Jones than if no such person had been present, unless by now and then staring at him, the ladies followed his example.
Poor Jones was more of a spectator in this elegant scene than an active participant; although, in the brief time before the peer arrived, Lady Bellaston first, and then Mrs. Fitzpatrick, had directed some of their conversation toward him. However, as soon as the noble lord entered, he captivated the full attention of the two ladies, and since he ignored Jones as if he weren't even there—except for occasionally glancing at him—the ladies followed his lead.
The company had now staid so long, that Mrs Fitzpatrick plainly perceived they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she thought the least ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of a cessation of chat, she addressed herself gravely to him, and said, “Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an answer to-night as to that business; but if you please to leave word where I may send to you to-morrow—-”
The company had now stayed so long that Mrs. Fitzpatrick clearly saw they all intended to avoid each other. So, she decided to get rid of Jones, as he was the guest she felt deserved the least formality. When there was a break in the conversation, she turned to him seriously and said, “Sir, I won’t be able to give you an answer about that business tonight; but if you let me know where I can reach you tomorrow—”
Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead therefore of communicating the secret of his lodgings to a servant, he acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and soon after very ceremoniously withdrew.
Jones had natural, but not fake good manners. So instead of telling a servant the secret of his accommodations, he personally informed the lady about it and then very formally excused himself.
He was no sooner gone than the great personages, who had taken no notice of him present, began to take much notice of him in his absence; but if the reader hath already excused us from relating the more brilliant part of this conversation, he will surely be very ready to excuse the repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse; though, perhaps, it may be material to our history to mention an observation of Lady Bellaston, who took her leave in a few minutes after him, and then said to Mrs Fitzpatrick, at her departure, “I am satisfied on the account of my cousin; she can be in no danger from this fellow.”
As soon as he left, the important people who had ignored him while he was there started to notice him in his absence. However, if the reader has already let us skip the more entertaining part of this conversation, they'll likely be fine with overlooking the repeated insults; although it might be relevant to our story to mention something Lady Bellaston said. She left just a few minutes after him and told Mrs. Fitzpatrick as she was leaving, “I feel reassured about my cousin; she’s in no danger from this guy.”
Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take leave of the present company, which was now reduced to two persons; between whom, as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our reader, we shall not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from matters which must seem of more consequence to all those who are at all interested in the affairs of our heroe.
Our story will take a cue from Lady Bellaston and move on from the current company, which has now shrunk to just two people; since nothing significant is happening between them that concerns us or our reader, we won’t let ourselves be distracted from the more important matters that are relevant to anyone interested in our hero's affairs.
Chapter v. — An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his lodgings, with some account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the mistress of the house, and her two daughters.
The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs Fitzpatrick's door, where he was answered that the lady was not at home; an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked backwards and forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had gone out, he must have seen her. This answer, however, he was obliged to receive, and not only now, but to five several visits which he made her that day.
The next morning, as early as it was reasonable, Jones showed up at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's door, where he was told that she wasn't home. This surprised him even more since he had been pacing back and forth in the street since dawn, and if she had left, he would have seen her. He had to accept this response, not just now, but for five separate visits he made to her that day.
To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason or other, perhaps from a regard for the lady's honour, insisted that she should not see Mr Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any more; and the lady had complied in making that promise to which we now see her so strictly adhere.
To be straightforward with the reader, the noble peer had, for some reason, perhaps out of respect for the lady's honor, insisted that she should not see Mr. Jones, whom he considered a nobody, anymore; and the lady had agreed to that promise, which we now see her following so closely.
But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the young gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have some concern, should it be apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from Sophia, he took up his residence either at an inn, or in the street; we shall now give an account of his lodging, which was indeed in a very reputable house, and in a very good part of the town.
But since our kind reader might have a better opinion of the young man than her ladyship does, and may even be concerned that, during this unfortunate separation from Sophia, he ended up staying at an inn or sleeping on the street, we will now describe his lodging, which was actually in a very respectable place and a nice part of town.
Mr Jones, then, had often heard Mr Allworthy mention the gentlewoman at whose house he used to lodge when he was in town. This person, who, as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was the widow of a clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in possession of two daughters, and of a compleat set of manuscript sermons.
Mr. Jones had often heard Mr. Allworthy talk about the woman whose house he used to stay at when he was in town. This woman, as Jones also knew, lived on Bond Street. She was the widow of a clergyman and, upon his death, was left with two daughters and a complete set of handwritten sermons.
Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that of ten.
Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now seventeen, and Betty, the younger, was ten.
Hither Jones had despatched Partridge, and in this house he was provided with a room for himself in the second floor, and with one for Partridge in the fourth.
Jones had sent Partridge ahead, and in this house, he was given a room for himself on the second floor, and one for Partridge on the fourth.
The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen, who, in the last age, were called men of wit and pleasure about town, and properly enough; for as men are usually denominated from their business or profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the only business or profession of those gentlemen to whom fortune had made all useful occupations unnecessary. Playhouses, coffeehouses, and taverns were the scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were the entertainment of their looser hours, and love was the business of their more serious moments. Wine and the muses conspired to kindle the brightest flames in their breasts; nor did they only admire, but some were able to celebrate the beauty they admired, and all to judge of the merit of such compositions.
The first floor was home to one of those young men who, in the past, were known as the charming and entertaining types around town, and rightly so; because just as men are often referred to by their jobs or careers, pleasure seemed to be the only job or career for those gentlemen whom fortune had made all practical work unnecessary. Theaters, coffee shops, and bars were where they met. Wit and humor filled their free time, while love occupied their more serious moments. Wine and inspiration fueled the strongest passions in their hearts; and not only did they admire beauty, but some could actually celebrate the beauty they appreciated, and all could evaluate the quality of such works.
Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure; but I question whether the same appellation may, with the same propriety, be given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have the same ambition to be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they have nothing to do with. To give them their due, they soar a step higher than their predecessors, and may be called men of wisdom and vertù (take heed you do not read virtue). Thus at an age when the gentlemen above mentioned employ their time in toasting the charms of a woman, or in making sonnets in her praise; in giving their opinion of a play at the theatre, or of a poem at Will's or Button's; these gentlemen are considering the methods to bribe a corporation, or meditating speeches for the House of Commons, or rather for the magazines. But the science of gaming is that which above all others employs their thoughts. These are the studies of their graver hours, while for their amusements they have the vast circle of connoisseurship, painting, music, statuary, and natural philosophy, or rather unnatural, which deals in the wonderful, and knows nothing of Nature, except her monsters and imperfections.
So, these were rightly called the men of wit and pleasure; but I wonder if the same label can justifiably be applied to the young gentlemen of today who share the same desire to stand out for their talents. Wit is definitely not their strong suit. To give them credit, they do aim a bit higher than their predecessors and can be referred to as men of wisdom and taste (make sure you don’t confuse this with virtue). While the gentlemen mentioned above spent their time praising a woman's beauty, writing sonnets in her honor, or discussing plays at the theater or poems at Will's or Button's, today’s gentlemen are focused on finding ways to bribe a corporation, drafting speeches for the House of Commons, or more likely, for magazines. But the art of gaming is what occupies their minds the most. These are the topics they ponder during more serious moments, while for entertainment, they explore the vast world of connoisseurship, painting, music, sculpture, and natural philosophy, or rather unnatural, which delves into the extraordinary and knows little about Nature itself, except for her monsters and flaws.
When Jones had spent the whole day in vain enquiries after Mrs Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment. Here, while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar below-stairs; and soon after a female voice begged him for heaven's sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never backward on any occasion to help the distressed, immediately ran down-stairs; when stepping into the dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld the young gentleman of wisdom and vertù just before mentioned, pinned close to the wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by, wringing her hands, and crying out, “He will be murdered! he will be murdered!” and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some danger of being choaked, when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued him, just as he was breathing his last, from the unmerciful clutches of the enemy.
After spending the whole day searching in vain for Mrs. Fitzpatrick, Jones returned to his apartment feeling defeated. While he was grieving alone, he heard a loud commotion downstairs. Soon after, a woman's voice pleaded with him to come and stop a murder. Jones, never one to turn away from someone in distress, immediately ran downstairs. When he entered the dining room where all the noise was coming from, he saw the young gentleman known for his wisdom and virtues being pinned against the wall by his footman. A young woman was nearby, wringing her hands and crying out, “He will be murdered! He will be murdered!” Indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in real danger of being choked when Jones rushed to his aid and saved him just as he was about to take his last breath from the merciless grip of his attacker.
Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it a kind of scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have contented himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such respect; he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly handled by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the guts which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphitheatre have such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey but very little pleasure in the feeling.
Even though the guy had taken several hits and slaps from the little man, who had more spirit than actual strength, he felt it was wrong to hit his master and would have just been satisfied with choking him. But he didn't feel the same way about Jones; as soon as he found himself getting handled a bit roughly by his new opponent, he threw a punch to the gut, which, while the spectators at Broughton's amphitheater might find it incredibly entertaining to watch, doesn’t feel great at all.
The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he meditated a most grateful return; and now ensued a combat between Jones and the footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more able to contend with Jones than his master had before been to contend with him.
The eager young man had barely taken this hit when he thought about a very grateful retaliation; and then a fight broke out between Jones and the footman, which was intense but brief; because this guy was no more capable of going up against Jones than his master had been against him before.
And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr Jones for his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of the young woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss Nancy, the eldest daughter of the house.
And now, as usual, Fortune changed the situation. The previous winner lay gasping on the ground, while the defeated man had caught his breath enough to thank Mr. Jones for his timely help; he also received heartfelt thanks from the young woman there, who was actually Miss Nancy, the oldest daughter of the household.
The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones, and, with a sagacious look, cried—“O d—n me, I'll have nothing more to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm d—nably mistaken.” And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such was the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was, perhaps, a match for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have beaten all the muffled[*] graduates of Mr Broughton's school.
The footman, now back on his feet, shook his head at Jones and, with a knowing look, exclaimed, “Oh damn, I want nothing more to do with you; you’ve been on stage, or I’m really mistaken.” And we can understand his suspicion; our hero was so agile and strong that he could probably hold his own against one of the top boxers and easily beat all the masked graduates of Mr. Broughton’s school.
[*] Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper to explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. 1, 1747. N.B.—Mr Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c., incident to combatants, will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and distinction may not be deterred from entering into A course of those lectures, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and regard to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil, for which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody noses.
[*] To avoid confusing future generations with this term, I think it's important to explain it through an advertisement published on February 1, 1747. N.B.—Mr. Broughton plans to open an academy at his house in the Haymarket, with proper assistance, for those who want to learn the art of boxing. The entire theory and practice of this truly British sport, including all the various techniques, punches, grappling, etc., will be thoroughly taught and explained. And to ensure that individuals of quality and distinction feel comfortable joining A course of those lectures, they will be conducted with the utmost care and respect for the pupil's physical well-being. For this reason, protective gear will be provided to prevent the risks of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody noses.
The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip, to which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of receiving his wages. This condition was presently complied with, and the fellow was discharged.
The master, fuming with anger, told his man to strip right away, to which the man quickly agreed, as long as he got paid first. This condition was soon met, and the guy was let go.
And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle of wine with him; to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented, though more out of complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of his mind fitted him very little for conversation at this time. Miss Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma and sister being both gone to the play, condescended to favour them with her company.
And now the young man, whose name was Nightingale, strongly insisted that his rescuer join him for a drink of wine; after a lot of persuasion, Jones agreed, though he did so more to be polite than because he wanted to, as he was too troubled to enjoy a conversation at that moment. Miss Nancy, who was the only woman in the house since her mom and sister had gone to the theater, also agreed to keep them company.
When the bottle and glasses were on the table the gentleman began to relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance.
When the bottle and glasses were on the table, the man started to explain what caused the earlier disturbance.
“I hope, sir,” said he to Jones, “you will not from this accident conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I assure you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance, and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath happened this evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come home several hours before my usual time, when I found four gentlemen of the cloth at whist by my fire;—and my Hoyle, sir—my best Hoyle, which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a quantity of porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole book. This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the rest of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a pert answer, `That servants must have their diversions as well as other people; that he was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but that several of his acquaintance had bought the same for a shilling, and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.' I now gave him a severer reprimand than before, when the rascal had the insolence to—-In short, he imputed my early coming home to——In short, he cast a reflection——He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner—in such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience, and, in my passion, I struck him.”
“I hope, sir,” he said to Jones, “you won’t think that I regularly hit my servants because of this incident. I assure you, this is the first time I’ve done anything like that in my memory, and I’ve overlooked many annoying mistakes by this very fellow before he finally pushed me to it. But when you hear what happened this evening, I believe you’ll understand why I reacted. I came home several hours earlier than usual and found four gentlemen playing whist by my fire; and my best Hoyle, sir—the one that cost me a guinea—was lying open on the table, with a lot of porter spilled on one of the most important pages of the whole book. You have to agree, that was infuriating. I didn’t say anything until the rest of the good company left, and then I gave the fellow a mild scolding. Instead of showing any remorse, he responded cheekily that servants need their fun just like everyone else, that he felt sorry about the book, but several of his friends had bought the same one for a shilling, and that I could deduct from his pay if I wanted. I then gave him a harsher reprimand, but the rascal had the audacity to—In short, he blamed my early return on——In short, he made a dig at——He brought up the name of a young lady in a way that—well, it made me furious, and in my anger, I hit him.”
Jones answered, “That he believed no person living would blame him; for my part,” said he, “I confess I should, on the last-mentioned provocation, have done the same thing.”
Jones replied, “I don’t think anyone would blame me; as for me,” he said, “I admit that, under the same circumstances, I would have done the same thing.”
Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent a very chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and even he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper, was sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding the heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the present occasion, that, at their breaking up, the young gentleman earnestly desired his further acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well pleased with him; and the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the other, next morning to breakfast.
Our company hadn’t been sitting long before the mother and daughter returned from the play and joined them. They spent a really cheerful evening together; everyone except Jones was genuinely happy, and even he forced a smile as much as he could. In fact, half of his natural liveliness, along with his sweet nature, made him a really pleasant companion. Despite the heaviness in his heart, he managed to be so agreeable that, when they were about to part ways, the young gentleman eagerly wanted to get to know him better. Miss Nancy was pleased with him, and the widow, completely taken with her new lodger, invited him and the others to breakfast the next morning.
Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the most innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most chearful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest of all desires in this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her power was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She had been a most affectionate wife, and was a most fond and tender mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history.
Jones was just as satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, even though she was very small, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all the charm that can accentuate a woman close to fifty. She was one of the most innocent people in the world, and she was also one of the most cheerful. She never thought, spoke, or wished any harm, and she had a constant desire to please, which can be considered the happiest of all desires because it rarely fails to achieve its goals when it's sincere. In short, although her influence was limited, she was, at heart, one of the warmest friends. She had been a loving wife and was an affectionate and caring mother. Since our story doesn’t, like a newspaper, spotlight important characters who have never been mentioned before and won’t be mentioned again, the reader can conclude that this remarkable woman will play a significant role in our story moving forward.
Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself, whose wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much good sense, though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but what recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity, which occasionally dropt from him; and particularly many expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On which subject the young gentleman delivered himself in a language which might have very well become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a modern fine gentleman; but he was only one by imitation, and meant by nature for a much better character.
Jones was quite pleased with the young man whose wine he had been enjoying. He thought he saw a lot of good sense in him, though it was somewhat mixed with a bit of town arrogance; but what impressed Jones the most were his moments of great generosity and kindness that he occasionally expressed. In particular, the young man spoke about love with a level of selflessness that was truly remarkable. His language on the subject could have easily fit an Arcadian shepherd from ancient times, which seemed especially surprising coming from a modern gentleman. However, he was just a gentleman by imitation and was meant by nature for a much better character.
Chapter vi. — What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with some hints concerning the government of daughters.
Our company brought together in the morning the same good inclinations towards each other, with which they had separated the evening before; but poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he had just received information from Partridge, that Mrs Fitzpatrick had left her lodging, and that he could not learn whither she was gone. This news highly afflicted him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in defiance of all his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed manifest indications of a disordered mind.
Our company gathered in the morning with the same positive feelings towards each other that they had when they parted the evening before. However, poor Jones was very upset; he had just learned from Partridge that Mrs. Fitzpatrick had left her place and he couldn’t find out where she had gone. This news really distressed him, and despite his efforts to hide it, his face and behavior clearly showed signs of a troubled mind.
The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr Nightingale again expressed many of those warm, generous, and disinterested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men call romantic, but which wise and sober women generally regard in a better light. Mrs Miller (for so the mistress of the house was called) greatly approved these sentiments; but when the young gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only, “That she believed the gentleman who had spoke the least was capable of feeling most.”
The conversation shifted back to love, just like before; and Mr. Nightingale once again shared many of those warm, generous, and selfless thoughts on the topic that sensible men consider romantic, but that sensible women usually see in a more positive way. Mrs. Miller (that’s what the lady of the house was called) wholeheartedly supported these views; however, when the young man turned to Miss Nancy for her opinion, she simply replied, "I believe the gentleman who has said the least is capable of feeling the most."
This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should have been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her indeed a very polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint, that her own silence subjected her to a suspicion of the same kind: for indeed she had scarce opened her lips either now or the last evening.
This compliment was clearly aimed at Jones, so we would have felt bad if he had ignored it. He responded to her quite politely and finished with a subtle suggestion that her own silence made her vulnerable to similar assumptions, since she had hardly said anything either now or the previous evening.
“I am glad, Nanny,” says Mrs Miller, “the gentleman hath made the observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. What can be the matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become of all your gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little prattler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week.”
“I’m glad, Nanny,” says Mrs. Miller, “the gentleman has made that observation; I really almost agree with him. What’s wrong with you, dear? I’ve never seen such a change. Where has all your joy gone? Would you believe, sir, I used to call her my little chatterbox? She hasn’t said twenty words this week.”
Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a maid-servant, who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she said, “was delivered by a porter for Mr Jones.” She added, “That the man immediately went away, saying, it required no answer.”
Here, their conversation was interrupted by a maid who came in holding a package, which she said, “was delivered by a delivery person for Mr. Jones.” She added, “The guy just left right away, saying it didn't need a response.”
Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must be some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was certain of the name, all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately opened; which operation was at length performed by little Betsy, with the consent of Mr Jones: and the contents were found to be a domino, a mask, and a masquerade ticket.
Jones expressed some surprise on this occasion and stated it must be a mistake; however, the maid insisted she was sure of the name. All the women were eager to have the bundle opened immediately, which was finally done by little Betsy, with Mr. Jones's approval. The contents turned out to be a domino, a mask, and a masquerade ticket.
Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these things must have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs Miller herself expressed some doubt, and said, “She knew not what to think.” But when Mr Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. “All I can conclude from it, sir,” said he, “is, that you are a very happy man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady whom you will have the happiness of meeting at the masquerade.”
Jones was now more certain than ever in claiming that these things must have been sent by mistake; and Mrs. Miller herself expressed some doubt, saying, “I don’t know what to think.” But when Mr. Nightingale was asked, he gave a very different view. “All I can conclude from this, sir,” he said, “is that you are a very lucky man; because I have no doubt that these were sent to you by some lady who you will have the pleasure of meeting at the masquerade.”
Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such flattering imagination; nor did Mrs Miller herself give much assent to what Mr Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the domino, a card dropt from the sleeve, in which was written as follows:—
Jones didn't have enough vanity to entertain any flattering thoughts; nor did Mrs. Miller fully agree with what Mr. Nightingale had said, until Miss Nancy lifted the domino and a card slipped from her sleeve, which read as follows:—
To MR JONES.
The queen of the fairies sends you this;
Use her favours not amiss.
To MR JONES.
The fairy queen sends you this;
Don’t waste her gifts, make sure you use them right.
Mrs Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr Nightingale; nay, Jones himself was almost persuaded to be of the same opinion. And as no other lady but Mrs Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he began to flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her, and that he might possibly see his Sophia. These hopes had surely very little foundation; but as the conduct of Mrs Fitzpatrick, in not seeing him according to her promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had been very odd and unaccountable, he conceived some faint hopes, that she (of whom he had formerly heard a very whimsical character) might possibly intend to do him that service in a strange manner, which she declined doing by more ordinary methods. To say the truth, as nothing certain could be concluded from so odd and uncommon an incident, he had the greater latitude to draw what imaginary conclusions from it he pleased. As his temper therefore was naturally sanguine, he indulged it on this occasion, and his imagination worked up a thousand conceits, to favour and support his expectations of meeting his dear Sophia in the evening.
Mrs. Miller and Miss Nancy both agreed with Mr. Nightingale; in fact, even Jones was almost convinced to feel the same way. And since he thought that only Mrs. Fitzpatrick knew where he was staying, he started to think that maybe it was her who had arranged something and that he might actually see his Sophia. These hopes didn’t have much solid ground; however, the way Mrs. Fitzpatrick had acted—by not visiting him as she promised and leaving her place—was very strange and hard to understand. He started to entertain some faint hopes that she, who had a rather quirky reputation, might try to help him in an unusual way instead of the more typical methods. Honestly, since nothing certain could be figured out from such an odd incident, he had the freedom to imagine whatever conclusions he wanted. Given that he was naturally optimistic, he let himself get carried away this time, and his imagination created all sorts of ideas to support his hopes of meeting his beloved Sophia later that evening.
Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully repay them by wishing thee to be possessed of this sanguine disposition of mind; since, after having read much and considered long on that subject of happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I am almost inclined to fix it in the possession of this temper; which puts us, in a manner, out of the reach of Fortune, and makes us happy without her assistance. Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it gives are much more constant as well as much keener, than those which that blind lady bestows; nature having wisely contrived, that some satiety and languor should be annexed to all our real enjoyments, lest we should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt from further pursuits. I make no manner of doubt but that, in this light, we may see the imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the archbishop in crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an opposition, more truly happy than those who are invested with all the power and profit of those respective offices.
Reader, if you have any good wishes for me, I will repay them by wishing you to have this positive mindset; because after reading a lot and thinking deeply about happiness, the topic that has occupied so many great writers, I’m almost convinced that true happiness lies in this attitude. It keeps us somewhat out of Fortune’s reach and makes us happy without her help. In fact, the joy it provides is not only more consistent but also sharper than what that blind goddess offers; nature has wisely ensured that all our true pleasures come with some level of satiety and fatigue, so we aren’t so absorbed in them that we forget to pursue more. I have no doubt that, in this sense, we can see the imagined future chancellor just starting out, the archbishop in mourning, and the prime minister facing opposition, as genuinely happier than those who hold all the power and benefits of those roles.
Mr Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that evening, Mr Nightingale offered to conduct him thither. The young gentleman, at the same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the good woman would not accept them. She said, “she did not conceive the harm which some people imagined in a masquerade; but that such extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of quality and fortune, and not for young women who were to get their living, and could, at best, hope to be married to a good tradesman.”——“A tradesman!” cries Nightingale, “you shan't undervalue my Nancy. There is not a nobleman upon earth above her merit.” “O fie! Mr Nightingale,” answered Mrs Miller, “you must not fill the girl's head with such fancies: but if it was her good luck” (says the mother with a simper) “to find a gentleman of your generous way of thinking, I hope she would make a better return to his generosity than to give her mind up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young ladies bring great fortunes themselves, they have some right to insist on spending what is their own; and on that account I have heard the gentlemen say, a man has sometimes a better bargain with a poor wife, than with a rich one.——But let my daughters marry whom they will, I shall endeavour to make them blessings to their husbands:——I beg, therefore, I may hear of no more masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain, too good a girl to desire to go; for she must remember when you carried her thither last year, it almost turned her head; and she did not return to herself, or to her needle, in a month afterwards.”
Mr. Jones had now decided to go to the masquerade that evening, and Mr. Nightingale offered to take him there. At the same time, he offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother, but the good woman refused them. She said, “I don’t understand the harm that some people think comes from a masquerade; but such extravagant entertainments are only suitable for those of high status and wealth, not for young women who need to earn a living and can only hope to marry a decent tradesman.” “A tradesman!” exclaimed Nightingale, “You shouldn’t underestimate my Nancy. There’s not a nobleman on earth who deserves her more.” “Oh, come on! Mr. Nightingale,” replied Mrs. Miller, “You mustn't fill the girl’s head with such ideas. But if by some stroke of luck” (she said with a smile) “she were to find a gentleman with your generous outlook, I hope she would respond to his kindness by not getting lost in extravagant pleasures. In fact, when young ladies have large fortunes, they have some right to dictate how they spend their money; I’ve heard gentlemen say that a man sometimes gets a better deal with a poor wife than with a rich one. But let my daughters marry whoever they want; I will try to raise them to be blessings to their husbands. So, I insist that I don’t want to hear about any more masquerades. I’m sure Nancy is too good of a girl to want to go; she must remember how when you took her last year, it nearly overwhelmed her, and she didn’t get back to herself or her sewing for a month afterward.”
Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to argue some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, she did not dare openly to oppose them. For as this good woman had all the tenderness, so she had preserved all the authority of a parent; and as her indulgence to the desires of her children was restrained only by her fears for their safety and future welfare, so she never suffered those commands which proceeded from such fears to be either disobeyed or disputed. And this the young gentleman, who had lodged two years in the house, knew so well, that he presently acquiesced in the refusal.
Though a gentle sigh escaped Nancy, hinting at some secret disagreement with these thoughts, she didn’t dare to openly oppose them. This good woman had all the tenderness of a mother, but she also held the authority of one; her willingness to indulge her children's wishes was only limited by her worries for their safety and future well-being. Because of this, she never allowed commands born from those concerns to be disobeyed or questioned. The young gentleman, who had been living in the house for two years, understood this so well that he quickly accepted the refusal.
Mr Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very desirous of his company that day to dinner at the tavern, where he offered to introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged to be excused, “as his cloaths,” he said, “were not yet come to town.”
Mr. Nightingale, who grew fonder of Jones with each passing minute, really wanted him to join him for dinner at the tavern that day, where he offered to introduce him to some of his friends. However, Jones politely declined, saying, “I can’t, as my clothes haven’t arrived in town yet.”
To confess the truth, Mr Jones was now in a situation, which sometimes happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much better figure than himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a situation in much greater credit among the antient philosophers than among the modern wise men who live in Lombard-street, or those who frequent White's chocolate-house. And, perhaps, the great honours which those philosophers have ascribed to an empty pocket may be one of the reasons of that high contempt in which they are held in the aforesaid street and chocolate-house.
To be honest, Mr. Jones was in a situation that sometimes happens to younger guys who are better looking than he is. In short, he didn’t have a single penny in his pocket; a situation that the ancient philosophers viewed as more respectable than modern financiers who hang out on Lombard Street or those who frequent White's chocolate-house. And maybe the high regard those philosophers had for having an empty pocket is part of the reason why they’re looked down upon in those same places.
Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably on virtue only, be, as the modern wise men just above-mentioned pretend to have discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I apprehend, that position of some writers of romance, that a man can live altogether on love; for however delicious repasts this may afford to some of our senses or appetites, it is most certain it can afford none to others. Those, therefore, who have placed too great a confidence in such writers, have experienced their error when it was too late; and have found that love was no more capable of allaying hunger, than a rose is capable of delighting the ear, or a violin of gratifying the smell.
Now, if the old belief that people could live comfortably on virtue alone is, as the modern thinkers mentioned earlier claim to have discovered, a clear mistake; no less incorrect is the idea held by some romance writers that a person can live entirely on love. For while love may provide some pleasure to certain senses or desires, it definitely cannot satisfy others. Those who have put too much faith in such writers have realized their mistake when it was too late; and they have discovered that love is no more able to satisfy hunger than a rose can please the ear or a violin can satisfy the sense of smell.
Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set before him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the masquerade; on which, however ill-founded his imagination might be, he had voluptuously feasted during the whole day, the evening no sooner came than Mr Jones began to languish for some food of a grosser kind. Partridge discovered this by intuition, and took the occasion to give some oblique hints concerning the bank-bill; and, when these were rejected with disdain, he collected courage enough once more to mention a return to Mr Allworthy.
Despite all the treats that love had laid out for him, like the hope of seeing Sophia at the masquerade—on which he had indulged in fantasies throughout the day, however unrealistic—they were gone as soon as the evening arrived. Mr. Jones quickly started craving something more substantial. Partridge sensed this and decided to drop some subtle hints about the bank bill, but when his hints were met with scorn, he gathered enough courage to bring up the idea of returning to Mr. Allworthy again.
“Partridge,” cries Jones, “you cannot see my fortune in a more desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin heartily to repent that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to follow me. However, I insist now on your returning home; and for the expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to on my account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would take as your own. I am sorry I can make you no other acknowledgment.”
“Partridge,” Jones shouts, “you can’t see my situation in a worse way than I do; and I really regret letting you leave a stable place to come after me. Still, I insist that you go back home; and for the expenses and trouble you've kindly taken on for me, please take all the clothes I left behind in your care as your own. I’m sorry I can’t offer you any other way to thank you.”
He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge, among whose vices ill-nature or hardness of heart were not numbered, burst into tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his distress, he began with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return home. “For heaven's sake, sir,” says he, “do but consider; what can your honour do?—how is it possible you can live in this town without money? Do what you will, sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved not to desert you. But pray, sir, consider—do pray, sir, for your own sake, take it into your consideration; and I'm sure,” says he, “that your own good sense will bid you return home.”
He spoke these words with such a sad tone that Partridge, who wasn't known for being unkind or hard-hearted, started to cry. After promising he wouldn’t leave him in this tough situation, he earnestly urged him to go back home. “For heaven's sake, sir,” he said, “please think about it; what can you do?—how can you possibly survive in this town without any money? Do whatever you want, sir, or go wherever you like, but I’m determined not to abandon you. But please, sir, just think—really think, for your own sake; I’m sure your common sense will tell you to return home.”
“How often shall I tell thee,” answered Jones, “that I have no home to return to? Had I any hopes that Mr Allworthy's doors would be open to receive me, I want no distress to urge me—nay, there is no other cause upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying to his presence; but, alas! that I am for ever banished from. His last words were—O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears—his last words were, when he gave me a sum of money—what it was I know not, but considerable I'm sure it was—his last words were—`I am resolved from this day forward, on no account to converse with you any more.'”
“How many times do I have to tell you,” Jones replied, “that I have no home to go back to? If I had any hope that Mr. Allworthy would welcome me back, I wouldn’t need any distress to push me—actually, there’s nothing else on Earth that could keep me from rushing to see him; but, sadly! I am forever banished from that. His last words—oh, Partridge, they still echo in my ears—his last words were, when he gave me some money—I don’t know how much, but I’m sure it was a lot—his last words were, ‘From this day on, I’ve decided not to speak with you again, no matter what.’”
Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment did that of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of speech, and after a short preface, in which he declared he had no inquisitiveness in his temper, enquired what Jones meant by a considerable sum—he knew not how much—and what was become of the money.
Here, passion left Jones speechless, just as surprise briefly stunned Partridge. However, Partridge quickly regained his ability to speak and, after a brief introduction where he insisted he wasn't particularly curious by nature, asked what Jones meant by a significant amount—he had no idea how much—and what had happened to the money.
In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which he was proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a message from Mr Nightingale, who desired his master's company in his apartment.
In both of these matters, he was now completely satisfied; as he was about to share his thoughts, he was interrupted by a message from Mr. Nightingale, who requested his master's presence in his room.
When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be sent for, a circumstance of distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to many of my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such readers will reflect a little on what they have themselves felt from the want of a thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to execute a favourite scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what Mr Jones felt on this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied to Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance, and was the last he intended that poor fellow should advance in his service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer of this kind. Whether it was that he desired to see the bank-bill broke in upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to return home, or from what other motive it proceeded, I will not determine.
When the two gentlemen were dressed for the masquerade and Mr. Nightingale had ordered chairs to be brought in, Jones encountered a situation that might seem quite silly to many of my readers. He needed to find a shilling. However, if those readers take a moment to think about how they've felt when wanting a thousand pounds, or even ten or twenty, to pursue a cherished project, they'll understand exactly what Mr. Jones was going through. So, he asked Partridge for a shilling, which was the first time he’d allowed him to lend money, and it was the last time he intended for that poor guy to help him out. To be honest, Partridge hadn't recently offered any assistance like that. I'm not sure if it was because he wanted to see Jones go through his savings quickly or if he hoped that distress would push Jones to go back home, or if there were other reasons at play.
Chapter vii. — Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides; and, like other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended presence of the deity, when in reality no such deity is there.
Our friends now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great Arbiter of Delights, the high priest of pleasure, is in charge; and, like other pagan priests, he tricks his followers with the fake presence of a deity, when in truth, no such deity is there.
Mr Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon left him, and walked off with a female, saying, “Now you are here, sir, you must beat about for your own game.”
Mr. Nightingale, after chatting a bit with his companion, quickly left him and walked off with a woman, saying, “Now that you’re here, you need to look for your own opportunity.”
Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, the music, and the company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen. He now accosted every woman he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore any resemblance to his angel. To all of whom he endeavoured to say something smart, in order to engage an answer, by which he might discover that voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake. Some of these answered by a question, in a squeaking voice, Do you know me? Much the greater number said, I don't know you, sir, and nothing more. Some called him an impertinent fellow; some made him no answer at all; some said, Indeed I don't know your voice, and I shall have nothing to say to you; and many gave him as kind answers as he could wish, but not in the voice he desired to hear.
Jones started to feel hopeful that his Sophia was there, and this hope lifted his spirits more than the lights, music, and company did, even though those are pretty good mood boosters. He now approached every woman he saw whose height, figure, or demeanor reminded him of his angel. To all of them, he tried to say something clever to prompt a response, hoping to recognize that voice he believed he couldn't possibly mistake. Some replied with a question in a high-pitched voice, "Do you know me?" The majority just said, "I don't know you, sir," and nothing more. Some called him rude; others ignored him completely; some said, "I really don't know your voice, and I won't say anything to you," while many gave him as friendly responses as he could want, but not in the voice he was hoping to hear.
Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping him on the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear, “If you talk any longer with that trollop, I will acquaint Miss Western.”
While he was chatting with one of the recent arrivals (who dressed like a shepherdess), a woman in a mask approached him, gave him a playful slap on the shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “If you keep talking to that floozy, I’ll tell Miss Western.”
Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former companion, he applied to the domino, begging and entreating her to show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.
Jones barely heard that name before he quickly left his previous companion and approached the domino, pleading with her to show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was in the room.
The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment before she spoke; and then, instead of answering him, sat down, and declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still persisted in his entreaties; at last the lady coldly answered, “I imagined Mr Jones had been a more discerning lover, than to suffer any disguise to conceal his mistress from him.” “Is she here, then, madam?” replied Jones, with some vehemence. Upon which the lady cried—“Hush, sir, you will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not here.”
The mask hurried to the far end of the innermost room before she spoke; then, instead of answering him, she sat down and said she was tired. Jones sat beside her and continued to plead his case; finally, the lady coldly replied, “I thought Mr. Jones would have been a more perceptive lover, not letting any disguise hide his mistress from him.” “Is she here, then, ma’am?” Jones responded, somewhat forcefully. To this, the lady exclaimed, “Hush, sir, you’ll be noticed. I assure you, on my honor, Miss Western is not here.”
Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the most earnest manner, to acquaint him where he might find Sophia; and when he could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her gently for having disappointed him the day before; and concluded, saying, “Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your majesty very well, notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs Fitzpatrick, it is a little cruel to divert yourself at the expense of my torments.”
Jones, now holding the mask in his hand, earnestly begged her to tell him where he could find Sophia. When he didn’t get a clear answer, he gently reproached her for having disappointed him the day before. He ended by saying, “Honestly, my good fairy queen, I know who you are, despite your pretended disguise. Really, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, it’s a bit cruel to enjoy yourself at my expense.”
The mask answered, “Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I must still speak in the same voice, lest I should be known by others. And do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard for my cousin, than to assist in carrying on an affair between you two, which must end in her ruin, as well as your own? Besides, I promise you, my cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own destruction, if you are so much her enemy as to tempt her to it.”
The mask replied, “Even though you’ve cleverly figured me out, I still have to speak in the same voice, so others won’t recognize me. And do you really think, good sir, that I care so little for my cousin that I would help you carry on an affair that will lead to her ruin, and yours as well? Besides, I assure you, my cousin isn’t foolish enough to agree to her own downfall, especially if you’re really such an enemy as to tempt her into it.”
“Alas, madam!” said Jones, “you little know my heart, when you call me an enemy of Sophia.”
“Unfortunately, ma'am!” said Jones, “you have no idea how I feel, when you refer to me as an enemy of Sophia.”
“And yet to ruin any one,” cries the other, “you will allow, is the act of an enemy; and when by the same act you must knowingly and certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as well as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very little more than her father will please to give her; very little for one of her fashion—you know him, and you know your own situation.”
“And yet to destroy someone,” the other person exclaims, “you have to agree, is the act of an enemy; and when, by the same action, you knowingly and surely bring destruction upon yourself, isn’t it foolish or insane, as well as wrong? Now, sir, my cousin has very little more than her father is willing to give her; very little for someone of her standing—you know him, and you know your own circumstances.”
Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, “That he would rather suffer the most violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his desires.” He said, “he knew how unworthy he was of her, every way, that he had long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts, but that some strange accidents had made him desirous to see her once more, when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No, madam,” concluded he, “my love is not of that base kind which seeks its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its object. I would sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia, but Sophia herself.”
Jones insisted he had no such intentions towards Sophia, saying, “I would rather endure the worst kind of death than jeopardize her well-being for my own desires.” He stated, “I know I’m not worthy of her in any way; I decided long ago to abandon any such ambitions, but some strange occurrences have made me want to see her one last time, and I promised that would be my farewell. No, madam,” he concluded, “my love isn't the selfish kind that seeks its own pleasure at the cost of what’s most precious to its beloved. I would give up everything for the chance to be with my Sophia, except for Sophia herself.”
Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of the virtue of the lady in the mask; and though possibly she may hereafter appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her sex; yet, it is certain, these generous sentiments made a strong impression upon her, and greatly added to the affection she had before conceived for our young heroe.
Though the reader may not have a particularly high opinion of the virtue of the lady in the mask, and she might not seem to deserve to be among the finest of her sex, it's clear that these noble feelings had a strong impact on her and significantly increased the affection she previously felt for our young hero.
The lady now, after silence of a few moments, said, “She did not see his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of presumption, as of imprudence. Young fellows,” says she, “can never have too aspiring thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have you cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed with those who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced there are women——but don't you think me a strange creature, Mr Jones, to be thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little acquainted, and one with whose behaviour to me I have so little reason to be pleased?”
The lady, after a brief silence, said, “She didn’t view his hopes for Sophia as arrogance, but rather as unwise. Young men,” she said, “can never aim too high. I admire ambition in a young man, and I encourage you to nurture it as much as you can. You might even impress those who are vastly wealthier; in fact, I’m convinced there are women— but don’t you think it’s odd, Mr. Jones, that I’m giving advice to someone I barely know, especially considering I have little reason to be happy with how you’ve treated me?”
Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in anything he had said of her cousin.—To which the mask answered, “And are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a lady more than by entertaining her with your passion for another woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion of your gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the masquerade.”
Here, Jones started to apologize and hoped he hadn't offended her cousin in anything he said. To this, the masked figure replied, “Are you really so clueless about women that you think you can offend a lady more than by showing her how much you’re into another woman? If the fairy queen thought any less of your charm, she wouldn’t have chosen you to meet her at the masquerade.”
Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made it necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he made no doubt but she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the other.
Jones had never felt less inclined toward romance than he did now; however, being courteous to women was one of his principles of honor. He believed it was just as important to accept a challenge to love as it would be to accept a challenge to fight. In fact, his love for Sophia made it essential for him to maintain a good relationship with her, as he was confident she could introduce him to the other.
He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when a mask, in the character of an old woman, joined them. This mask was one of those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent ill-nature, by telling people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the phrase is, to spoil as much sport as they are able. This good lady, therefore, having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well knew, in close consultation together in a corner of the room, concluded she could nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by interrupting them. She attacked them, therefore, and soon drove them from their retirement; nor was she contented with this, but pursued them to every place which they shifted to avoid her; till Mr Nightingale, seeing the distress of his friend, at last relieved him, and engaged the old woman in another pursuit.
He started to respond strongly to her last comment when a masked figure, dressed as an old woman, approached them. This masked woman was one of those ladies who attend masquerades just to express their bad moods by telling people harsh truths and, as the saying goes, trying to ruin as much fun as possible. Noticing Jones and his friend, whom she recognized well, having a private conversation in a corner of the room, she figured there was no better way to vent her frustration than to interrupt them. She confronted them and quickly drove them from their quiet spot; but she didn’t stop there—she followed them everywhere they moved to escape her. Eventually, Mr. Nightingale, noticing his friend's distress, stepped in to help and distracted the old woman with a different pursuit.
While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid themselves of the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several masks, with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced. He could not help expressing his surprize at this; saying, “Sure, madam, you must have infinite discernment, to know people in all disguises.” To which the lady answered, “You cannot conceive anything more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the people of fashion, who in general know one another as well here as when they meet in an assembly or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of condition converse with a person with whom she is not acquainted. In short, the generality of persons whom you see here may more properly be said to kill time in this place than in any other; and generally retire from hence more tired than from the longest sermon. To say the truth, I begin to be in that situation myself; and if I have any faculty at guessing, you are not much better pleased. I protest it would be almost charity in me to go home for your sake.” “I know but one charity equal to it,” cries Jones, “and that is to suffer me to wait on you home.” “Sure,” answered the lady, “you have a strange opinion of me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I would let you into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you impute the friendship I have shown my cousin to some other motive. Confess honestly; don't you consider this contrived interview as little better than a downright assignation? Are you used, Mr Jones, to make these sudden conquests?” “I am not used, madam,” said Jones, “to submit to such sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by surprize, the rest of my body hath a right to follow; so you must pardon me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go.” He accompanied these words with some proper actions; upon which the lady, after a gentle rebuke, and saying their familiarity would be observed, told him, “She was going to sup with an acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not follow her; for if you should,” said she, “I shall be thought an unaccountable creature, though my friend indeed is not censorious: yet I hope you won't follow me; I protest I shall not know what to say if you do.”
While Jones and his masked companion were walking around the room to escape the annoying people, he noticed his lady chatting with several other masked guests as if they were all unmasked. He couldn’t help but express his surprise, saying, “Surely, madam, you must have incredible insight to recognize people in all disguises.” The lady replied, “You can’t imagine anything more dull and silly than a masquerade to fashionable people, who generally know each other here just as well as in an assembly or a drawing-room. Plus, no woman of distinction would talk to someone she doesn't know. In short, most of the people you see here are really just passing the time more than anywhere else, and they often leave feeling more exhausted than after the longest sermon. Honestly, I’m starting to feel that way myself, and if I’m any good at guessing, you’re not exactly thrilled either. I swear it would be almost kind of me to go home for your sake.” “I know only one act of kindness that matches it,” Jones replied, “and that is to let me escort you home.” “Sure,” the lady said, “you have a strange opinion of me if you think I’d let you into my home at this hour based on such an acquaintance. I suspect you think the friendship I’ve shown my cousin has some other motive. Be honest; don’t you see this arranged meeting as almost like a secret date? Are you, Mr. Jones, used to making these sudden conquests?” “I’m not used, madam,” Jones said, “to accepting such sudden conquests; but since you’ve caught my heart off guard, I believe the rest of me has the right to follow; so please forgive me for deciding to accompany you wherever you go.” He emphasized his words with appropriate gestures, after which the lady gently scolded him, saying that their familiarity would be noticed. She told him, “I’m going to dinner with a friend, and I hope you won’t follow me; because if you do,” she said, “I’ll be seen as an inexplicable person, though my friend isn’t judgmental. Still, I hope you won’t come after me; I seriously won’t know what to say if you do.”
The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones, notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had received, presumed to attend her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned before, namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on after the chair in which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen present, who wisely take the best care they can to discountenance all walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who attend at the Opera-house were too busy to quit their stations, and as the lateness of the hour prevented him from meeting many of their brethren in the street, he proceeded without molestation, in a dress, which, at another season, would have certainly raised a mob at his heels.
The lady soon left the masquerade, and Jones, despite the strict warning he had received, decided to follow her. He now found himself in the same tricky situation we mentioned before—he didn't have a shilling and couldn’t borrow like he had before. So, he confidently walked after the chair in which the lady was riding, cheered on by a loud shout from all the chairmen present, who were keen to discourage any walking by those of a higher status. Fortunately, the gentry at the Opera House were too occupied to leave their posts, and since it was late, he didn’t encounter many of their fellow chairmen on the street, allowing him to proceed without being bothered, even though he was dressed in a way that would have definitely caused a crowd to follow him at another time.
The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where the door being presently opened, she was carried in, and the gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after her.
The lady was dropped off on a street not far from Hanover Square, and as the door was soon opened, she was brought inside, with the gentleman casually following her in.
Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her masquerade voice, said she was surprized at her friend, who must absolutely have forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she suddenly exprest some apprehension from Jones, and asked him what the world would think of their having been alone together in a house at that time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important a question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady to unmask; and at length having prevailed, there appeared not Mrs Fitzpatrick, but the Lady Bellaston herself.
Jones and his companion were now in a well-furnished, warm room together. The woman, still using her masquerade voice, expressed surprise at her friend, who must have completely forgotten their appointment. After showing a lot of irritation, she suddenly seemed worried about what people would think of them being alone in a house at that hour. Instead of directly answering such an important question, Jones urged her to take off her mask. Eventually, after some persuasion, it turned out to be not Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but Lady Bellaston herself.
It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention all of it that is anywise material to this history. And this was a promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in a few days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he would then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and a second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they separated; the lady returned to her house, and Jones to his lodgings.
It would be tedious to detail the specific conversation, which included very common and ordinary events, and lasted from two to six o'clock in the morning. It's enough to mention everything that is relevant to this story. This included the promise that the lady would try to find Sophia and, in a few days, bring him in for a meeting with her, on the condition that he would then say goodbye to her. Once this was fully agreed upon, and a second meeting that evening at the same place was set, they parted ways; the lady went back to her house, and Jones returned to his lodgings.
Chapter viii. — Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary to most of our readers.
Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of his master: to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly imagine any other.
After Jones had recharged with a few hours of sleep, he called Partridge to come see him and handed him a fifty-pound banknote, instructing him to go and cash it. Partridge accepted this with excited eyes, but as he thought it over, it raised some suspicions that didn’t reflect well on his master. The terrifying idea he had about the masquerade, the disguise his master had worn out and back, and the fact that he had been out all night added to his concerns. In simple terms, the only way he could justify how his master came into possession of this note was through robbery: and to be truthful, unless the reader suspects it was due to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, it's hard to imagine any other explanation.
To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her, who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no improper object of this virtue.
To clarify the honor of Mr. Jones and to acknowledge the generosity of the lady, he truly received this gift from her. Although she didn’t contribute much to the common charitable causes of the time, like building hospitals, she was not completely lacking in that Christian virtue. She believed—and I think rightly so—that a deserving young man with no money at all was a fitting recipient of this virtue.
Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen, with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the following account.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale had been invited to dinner today with Mrs. Miller. So, at the planned time, the two young men and the two girls gathered in the living room, where they waited from three until almost five before the kind woman finally showed up. She had been out of town visiting a family member, and upon her return, she shared the following story.
“I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if you knew the occasion—I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six miles off, who now lies in.—It should be a warning to all persons (says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly. There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more; for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and, what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I saw her—I saw the poor child, Mr Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.” Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and there was not, I believe, a person present who did not accompany her in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus: “In all this distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her, and yet she endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her husband's account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the better of all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy, and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,' cried the child, `I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away; let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve with you and my papa than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection in a child.—And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed, to supply the want of blankets.—When he rose up at my entrance, I scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to eat.—He told me himself in a whisper—he told me—I can't repeat it—he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.—The means of procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask a single question.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for making you wait, gentlemen; I’m sure if you knew why—I’ve just been to see a cousin of mine, about six miles away, who is currently in a difficult situation. It serves as a warning to everyone (she says, looking at her daughters) about the perils of marrying without discretion. There’s no happiness in this world without some financial stability. Oh, Nancy! How can I describe the terrible state in which I found your poor cousin? She has hardly been out of the hospital for a week, and there she was, in this dreadful weather, in a cold room, with no curtains on her bed, and not even a bushel of coal in the house to keep warm; her second son, that sweet little boy, is ill with a throat infection in the same bed as his mother since there’s no other bed available. Poor little Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you may never see your favorite again; he is truly very ill. The rest of the kids are doing pretty well, but I’m afraid Molly might be pushing herself too hard: she’s only thirteen, Mr. Nightingale, yet I’ve never seen a better nurse. She takes care of both her mother and her brother; and, astonishingly for one so young, she is completely cheerful around her mother; and yet I saw her—I witnessed the poor child, Mr. Nightingale, turn away and secretly wipe the tears from her eyes.” At this point, Mrs. Miller was overwhelmed by her own tears and couldn’t continue, and I believe everyone present shared in her sorrow. After a moment, she somewhat regained her composure and continued: “In the midst of all this distress, the mother manages to keep her spirits up in a surprising way. The danger of her son weighs heavily on her, yet she tries as hard as possible to hide even that concern for her husband’s sake. However, her grief sometimes overwhelms her efforts; she has always been extremely fond of this boy, who is a most sensitive and sweet-tempered child. I swear I’ve never been more moved in my life than when I heard that little one, who isn’t even seven yet, begging his mother for comfort as she cried over him. ‘Honestly, mum,’ the child cried, ‘I won’t die; God Almighty wouldn’t take Tommy away; even if heaven is a wonderful place, I’d rather stay here and starve with you and Dad than go there.’ Please forgive me, gentlemen, I can’t help it” (she says, wiping her eyes), “such sensitivity and affection in a child.—And yet, perhaps, he is the least deserving of pity; for in a day or two, he will likely be spared from all human miseries. The father is truly the one worthy of compassion. Poor man, his face is the very picture of horror, and he looks more dead than alive. Oh heavens! What a scene I witnessed when I first entered the room! The poor man was lying behind the cushion, supporting both his child and his wife. He was wearing nothing but a thin vest; his coat was spread over the bed to make do for blankets.—When he got up as I entered, I barely recognized him. Just two weeks ago, Mr. Jones, you would have seen him as a handsome man; Mr. Nightingale has seen him too. His eyes sunken, his face pale, with a long beard. His body shaking with cold, and worn down by hunger as well; for my cousin says she can hardly persuade him to eat.—He whispered to me—he told me—I can’t really repeat it—he said he couldn’t bear to eat the food his children needed. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? In all this suffering, his wife has the best broth as if she was surrounded by great wealth; I tasted it, and I’ve hardly had better. He said he believed the means to provide her this was sent to him by an angel from heaven. I don’t know what he meant, as I was too low-spirited to ask a single question.
“This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on my cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the happiest of women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is much otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery at her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you now tell me.”—“O child,” answered the mother, “she hath always endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.—What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
“This was a love match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two beggars. I must say, I’ve never seen a more affectionate couple; but what is their affection good for, except to torment each other?” “Indeed, Mom,” exclaims Nancy, “I’ve always thought of my cousin Anderson” (that was her name) “as one of the happiest women.” “I’m sure,” says Mrs. Miller, “the situation now is quite the opposite; anyone could see that their deep concern for each other's suffering makes their misfortune even more unbearable, both for the husband and wife. Compared to that, hunger and cold, which only affect them personally, are minor issues. Even the children, except for the youngest who isn't two years old, feel it the same way; they're a truly loving family, and if they only had enough to get by, they'd be the happiest people in the world.” “I’ve never seen any signs of misery at her house,” replied Nancy; “my heart aches for what you’re telling me.” —“Oh, dear,” replied the mother, “she has always tried to make the best of things. They've always been in serious trouble, but this complete downfall has been caused by others. The poor man was a guarantor for his scoundrel brother; and about a week ago, the very day before she gave birth, all their belongings were taken away and sold by a court order. He sent me a letter about it with one of the bailiffs, but that scoundrel never delivered it. What must he think of my suffering an entire week before he heard from me?”
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and, delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people. The look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed out—“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”—But recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there be another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures, can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;” adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found them.”
Jones didn’t listen to this story with dry eyes; when it was over, he took Mrs. Miller aside into another room and handed her his purse, which held £50, asking her to send whatever amount she thought was appropriate to those poor people. The look Mrs. Miller gave Jones at that moment is hard to describe. She broke down in a mix of excitement and disbelief, exclaiming, “Good heavens! Is there really such a man in the world?” Then, regaining her composure, she said, “Well, I do know one such person; but can there truly be another?” “I hope, madam,” Jones responded, “that there are many who possess basic humanity; helping to ease the suffering of our fellow beings should be seen as something essential.” Mrs. Miller then took ten guineas, which was the maximum he could convince her to accept, and said, “She would find a way to send them off early the next morning,” adding, “that she had done a little for the poor folks herself and had not left them in as much misery as she found them.”
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's. He inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against the brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a guinea with all my heart.”
They then went back to the living room, where Nightingale expressed a lot of concern for the terrible situation of these poor people, whom he actually knew; he had seen them more than once at Mrs. Miller's. He criticized the foolishness of taking on someone else's debts; unleashed several harsh curses against the brother; and wrapped up by wishing something could be done for the unfortunate family. “What if you recommended them to Mr. Allworthy, madam?” he said. “Or how about organizing a fundraiser? I would gladly give them a guinea.”
Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his pocket.
Mrs. Miller didn't respond, and Nancy, who her mother had told about Jones's generosity, turned pale at that moment. However, if either of them was upset with Nightingale, it was clearly without justification. Jones's generosity, had he realized it, was not something he was required to imitate; and there are countless people who wouldn't have given a single penny—just like he didn't, because he never offered anything. So, since the others chose not to ask, he kept his money in his pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
I've noticed, and there's no better time than now to share my observation, that people generally have two completely opposite views about charity. One group believes that all acts of charity should be seen as voluntary gifts, and no matter how little you give (even just your good wishes), you earn a significant amount of merit for it. On the other hand, there are those who firmly believe that being charitable is a positive obligation, and whenever the wealthy don’t do enough to help the poor, their meager contributions are far from commendable; instead, they have only fulfilled their duty partially and are in some ways more contemptible than those who have completely ignored it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
To settle these differing opinions is not within my ability. I will just add that the givers usually share the first viewpoint, while the receivers are almost universally leaning towards the latter.
Chapter ix. — Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the preceding chapter.
In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us here under the name of translations.
In the evening, Jones met up with his lady again, and they had another long conversation. However, since it was just about the same everyday events as before, we’ll skip over the details, which we doubt would be enjoyable for the reader—unless they are someone whose admiration for women, like that of the Catholics for their saints, needs to be inspired by visual portrayals. But I’m not at all interested in showing such images to the public; in fact, I’d prefer to cover up those that have recently been presented in some French novels, which have been poorly adapted for us here under the label of translations.
Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding, after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
Jones grew more and more impatient to see Sophia. After several meetings with Lady Bellaston, he realized there was no chance of getting to her through her (in fact, Lady Bellaston began to react negatively even to the mention of Sophia's name), so he decided to try a different approach. He was sure Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he figured that some of her servants might also be in on the secret. Partridge was therefore tasked with getting to know those servants to uncover this secret.
Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to combat which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had no hopes of ever obtaining.
Few situations can be imagined that are more uncomfortable than what his poor master was currently facing. He was struggling to find Sophia, worrying that he might have upset her, and dealing with Lady Bellaston’s claims that Sophia had made up her mind against him and was intentionally hiding from him, which he had good reason to believe might be true. On top of that, he had to deal with a problem that his mistress couldn't fix, no matter how much she might want to help. This was the risk of her being disinherited from her father's estate, which would almost certainly happen if they came together without consent—a consent that he had no hope of ever obtaining.
Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence beyond what he had ever known.
Add to all this the many obligations that Lady Bellaston, whose intense affection we can no longer hide, had piled onto him; so that through her, he had now become one of the best-dressed men in town; and not only was he free from those embarrassing troubles we mentioned earlier, but he was actually lifted to a level of wealth beyond anything he had ever experienced.
Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only; especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady, who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers, though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable to the breath of love.
Now, even though many gentlemen easily justify taking the entire fortune of a woman without giving her anything in return, for someone with a conscience that doesn't deserve to be hanged, nothing is more frustrating than to support love with nothing but gratitude, especially when their heart is pulled in a different direction. Such was the unfortunate situation for Jones; because even if the virtuous love he felt for Sophia, which left him little affection for anyone else, was completely set aside, he still wouldn’t have been able to adequately reciprocate the generous feelings of this lady. She had once been a desirable figure, but had now entered at least the autumn of her life, even though she still dressed and acted with the vibrancy of youth. In fact, she managed to keep a rosy complexion, but these looked like flowers forced to bloom out of season by artifice, lacking the lively freshness that Nature gives at the right time. Additionally, she had a certain flaw that makes some flowers, while very beautiful, rather unsuitable for a garden of delights, and what is most unappealing to the scent of love.
Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the slave of his creditor.
Although Jones recognized all the discouragements on one side, he felt his obligations just as strongly on the other. He also clearly understood the intense passion behind those obligations, knowing that if he didn’t match its extreme intensity, the lady would view him as ungrateful; and, even worse, he would feel that way himself. He was aware of the unspoken expectation attached to all her kindnesses; and while he was compelled by necessity to accept them, he concluded that his honor forced him to pay the price. Therefore, he decided to do so, no matter how much misery it brought him, dedicating himself to her based on that fundamental principle of justice, which in some countries requires a debtor, who cannot otherwise settle their debt, to become the slave of their creditor.
While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following note from the lady:—
While he was thinking about these things, he got the following note from the lady:—
“A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.”
“A very foolish, but very strange accident has happened since our last meeting, which means it’s not appropriate for me to see you at our usual place anymore. I will, if I can, find another place by tomorrow. In the meantime, goodbye.”
This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which contained as follows:—
This disappointment, the reader might think, wasn't that significant; but if it was, he got over it quickly; because less than an hour later, he received another note from the same person, which said:—
“I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad, but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined. “If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them show you into the drawing-room.”
“I’ve changed my mind since I wrote; a change that, if you’re familiar with the deepest of all emotions, you won’t find surprising. I’m now determined to see you this evening at my house, no matter what happens. Come over at seven sharp; I’ll be dining out, but I’ll be home by then. I realize that for those who truly love, a day feels longer than I thought. “If you happen to arrive a few minutes before me, just ask them to show you into the drawing room.”
To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his company to a new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a friend to one of Mr Nightingale's acquaintance. And this sort of fun, our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred to the above kind appointment; but his honour got the better of his inclination.
To be honest, Jones was less happy about this last letter than he had been with the previous one, as it prevented him from fulfilling the sincere requests of Mr. Nightingale, with whom he had become quite close and friendly. These requests were to join that young man and his group to see a new play that was being performed that evening, which a large crowd had decided to criticize because they had developed a dislike for the author, a friend of one of Mr. Nightingale's acquaintances. And this kind of fun, our hero, we're embarrassed to admit, would have preferred over the other commitment; however, his sense of honor won out over his desire.
Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was lodged.
Before we take him to this interview with the lady, we should explain the previous notes, as the reader might be quite surprised by Lady Bellaston's carelessness in bringing her lover to the same house where her rival was staying.
First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had positively declared that she would, on no account, be instrumental in carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
First, the lady of the house where these lovers had been meeting, and who had been supported by that lady for several years, had now become a Methodist. That very morning, she visited her and, after chastising her quite harshly for her past behavior, firmly stated that she would, under no circumstances, help her with any of her affairs moving forward.
The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her companion. Mrs Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the safe reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation after her return from the place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.
The rush of emotions this incident caused made the lady doubt she would find any other chance to meet Jones that evening. But as she began to calm down from her disappointment, she thought of a great idea: she suggested to Sophia that they go to the play, which Sophia immediately agreed to, and a suitable lady was arranged to be her companion. Mrs. Honour was also sent out with Mrs. Etoff on the same enjoyable mission. This left her own house available for Mr. Jones to arrive, with whom she hoped to enjoy two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation after she returned from dining at a friend's house in a part of town that was quite far away, near her old meeting spot, where she had committed to before she fully understood the changes that had taken place in the feelings and character of her former confidante.
Chapter x. — A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.
Mr Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.
Mr. Jones was just getting ready to meet Lady Bellaston when Mrs. Miller knocked on his door. Once he let her in, she urgently asked him to join her downstairs for tea in the parlor.
Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to him, saying, “This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his sincerest thanks.”
As he entered the room, she quickly introduced someone to him, saying, “This, sir, is my cousin, who has been very grateful for your kindness, and he wants to express his sincere thanks to you.”
The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, “It is so, I am convinced it is so!”
The man had barely started the speech that Mrs. Miller had kindly introduced when both he and Jones, staring intently at each other, suddenly showed the greatest signs of surprise. The man's voice quickly started to shake, and instead of finishing what he was saying, he sank down into a chair, crying, “It’s true, I’m sure it’s true!”
“Bless me! what's the meaning of this?” cries Mrs Miller; “you are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant.”
“Bless me! What’s going on here?” exclaims Mrs. Miller; “I hope you’re not sick, cousin? Get some water and a drink right now.”
“Be not frighted, madam,” cries Jones, “I have almost as much need of a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller.”
“Don’t be scared, ma’am,” Jones says, “I need a drink almost as much as your cousin does. We’re both surprised by this unexpected meeting. Your cousin is a friend of mine, Mrs. Miller.”
“An acquaintance!” cries the man.—“Oh, heaven!”
“An acquaintance!” the man exclaims. — “Oh, my goodness!”
“Ay, an acquaintance,” repeated Jones, “and an honoured acquaintance too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction, may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!”
“Yeah, an acquaintance,” Jones repeated, “and a respected acquaintance too. If I can’t love and respect the man who risks everything to protect his wife and kids from immediate danger, then I deserve to have a friend who would turn their back on me in tough times!”
“Oh, you are an excellent young man,” cries Mrs Miller:—“Yes, indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured everything.—If he had not had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him.”
“Oh, you are a wonderful young man,” Mrs. Miller exclaims. “Yes, truly, poor thing! He has risked everything. If he hadn’t had such a strong constitution, it would have finished him.”
“Cousin,” cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself, “this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest; of all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of such a nature!”
“Cousin,” shouts the man, who had now mostly regained his composure, “this is the angel from heaven I was talking about. This is the one who, before I met you, I owed the safety of my Peggy to. It was his generosity that provided every comfort and support I’ve been able to give her. He is, without a doubt, the most worthy, brave, and noble of all people. Oh cousin, I have such significant obligations to this gentleman!”
“Mention nothing of obligations,” cries Jones eagerly; “not a word, I insist upon it, not a word” (meaning, I suppose, that he would not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). “If, by the trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap.”
“Don’t mention anything about obligations,” Jones exclaims excitedly; “not a word, I’m insisting on it, not a word” (which I assume means he doesn’t want him to spill the beans about the robbery to anyone). “If, with the little you’ve gotten from me, I’ve saved an entire family, then pleasure has never come at such a low price.”
“Oh, sir!” cries the man, “I wish you could this instant see my house. If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed, and chiefly by your goodness.——My children have now a bed to lie on——and they have——they have——eternal blessings reward you for it!——they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at my house.—Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.—My children too must express their gratitude.——Indeed, sir, they are not without a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling when I reflect to whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their gratitude.——Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now been cold as ice without your assistance.”
“Oh, sir!” the man exclaims, “I wish you could see my house right now. If anyone deserves the happiness you talk about, it's you. My cousin mentioned the struggles we were facing. Thankfully, that's all behind us now, and it's mostly thanks to your kindness. My children now have a bed to sleep on—and they have— they have—eternal blessings coming your way for it!—they have food to eat. My little boy is better; my wife is safe, and I’m happy. All of this is because of you, sir, and my cousin here, who is one of the best people I know. Honestly, sir, I need you to come to my house. My wife wants to thank you—my children want to show their appreciation too. They understand how much we owe you, but I can’t help but feel overwhelmed when I think about who made it possible for them to express their thanks. Oh, sir, those little hearts you’ve warmed would have been as cold as ice without your help.”
Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped his words. And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin, and concluded with saying, “She doubted not but such goodness would meet a glorious reward.”
Here, Jones tried to stop the poor man from going on, but honestly, the emotions he felt in his heart would have silenced him anyway. Now Mrs. Miller also started expressing her gratitude, both on her own behalf and for her cousin, and ended by saying, “I have no doubt that such kindness will be rewarded in a wonderful way.”
Jones answered, “He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your cousin's account, madam,” said he, “hath given me a sensation more pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them, as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the ambitious, the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain.”
Jones replied, “He’s already been rewarded enough. Your cousin's story, ma'am,” he said, “has given me a feeling more satisfying than I’ve ever experienced. He must be a miserable person who isn't touched by such a tale; just imagine how wonderful it is to have played a part in this scene! If there are people who can’t appreciate the joy of bringing happiness to others, I genuinely feel sorry for them, because they can't experience what I believe is a greater honor, a deeper interest, and a sweeter pleasure than what the ambitious, the greedy, or the pleasure-seeking person can ever achieve.”
The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror, on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he listened rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy, when he was attacked on the high road.
The time for their meeting had come, and Jones had to leave quickly, but not before giving his friend a warm handshake and expressing his desire to see him again soon; he promised to take the first chance to visit him at his home. He then got into his carriage and headed to Lady Bellaston's, feeling very pleased about the happiness he had brought to this struggling family; he couldn't help but shudder at the terrible outcomes that would have followed if he had chosen to heed the voice of strict justice instead of mercy when he was confronted on the road.
Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening, in which Mr Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the greater, as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.
Mrs. Miller sang the praises of Jones all evening, while Mr. Anderson, during his stay, passionately joined in so much that he nearly mentioned the robbery. Fortunately, he caught himself just in time and avoided a major blunder, knowing that Mrs. Miller was very strict and precise in her principles. He was also fully aware of her tendency to talk a lot; yet his gratitude was so overwhelming that it almost overrode his sense of discretion and shame, leading him to reveal things that could harm his own reputation rather than leave out anything that would honor his benefactor.
Chapter xi. — In which the reader will be surprized.
Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the door opened, and in came——no other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who safely conveyed her to her chair.
Mr. Jones arrived a bit earlier than planned, even earlier than the lady, whose arrival was delayed not just by the distance of the restaurant where she had dinner, but by some other annoying incidents that were frustrating for someone in her state of mind. He was then shown into the drawing-room, where he hadn’t been for long before the door opened, and in walked—none other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the first act ended; as we mentioned earlier, this was a new play, attended by two rival groups—one there to criticize and the other to cheer. The loud commotion and conflict between the two sides had scared our heroine so much that she was relieved to find a young man who escorted her to her seat safely.
As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless.—-In this glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms.
As Lady Bellaston had informed her that she wouldn't be home until late, Sophia rushed in, expecting to find the room empty. She went straight to a mirror that faced her, without glancing towards the far end of the room, where Jones’ statue stood still. While looking in the mirror at her beautiful face, she first noticed the statue; immediately turning around, she realized it was real. Startled, she let out a loud scream and barely managed to stay conscious until Jones could reach her and hold her up in his arms.
To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts what past at this time in theirs.
To describe the feelings or thoughts of either of these lovers is beyond my ability. Given their mutual silence, it's clear their emotions were too intense for words, so it's unlikely that I could capture them. The unfortunate part is that not many of my readers have experienced enough love to understand what was happening in their hearts at that moment.
After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said—“I see, madam, you are surprized.”—“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens! Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you seem.”—“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune, after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit.”—“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.—“Can you be so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important business with me?”—“To some, madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an important business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her thus:—“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”—“My pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect, after what I have heard.”—“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones. “By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia! henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”
After a brief pause, Jones, with shaky words, said, “I see, madam, you’re surprised.” “Surprised!” she replied, “Oh heavens! Yes, I am surprised. I almost doubt whether you are who you seem.” “Indeed,” he exclaimed, “my Sophia, forgive me, madam, for once calling you that. I am that very unfortunate Jones, whom fate, after so many disappointments, has finally brought to you. Oh! my Sophia, if you only knew the thousand torments I've endured in this long, fruitless chase.” “Chase for whom?” Sophia said, regaining her composure and adopting a reserved demeanor. “Can you be so cruel as to ask that?” Jones responded. “Do I need to say, you?” “Me!” Sophia replied. “Does Mr. Jones have any important matters with me?” “To some, madam,” Jones said, “this might seem important” (handing her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you find it as valuable as when it was lost.” Sophia took the pocket-book and was about to speak when he interrupted her, saying, “Let us not, I beg you, waste a single one of these precious moments that fortune has so kindly given us. O, my Sophia! I have matters of much greater importance. So, on my knees, let me ask your forgiveness.” “My forgiveness!” she exclaimed. “Surely, sir, after what’s happened, you can’t expect that after what I’ve heard.” “I hardly know what I’m saying,” Jones replied. “By heaven! I hardly want you to forgive me. O my Sophia! From now on, never waste a thought on someone as wretched as I am. If any memory of me ever intrudes to cause a moment's discomfort to that tender heart, think of my unworthiness; and let the memory of what happened at Upton erase me from your mind forever.”
Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature indeed.”—“What is it, for heaven's sake?” answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,” said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and everything base be lodged together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!”
Sophia stood there shaking the whole time. Her face was paler than snow, and her heart was racing. But when Upton was mentioned, a blush appeared on her cheeks, and her eyes, which she had barely lifted, glanced at Jones with disdain. He understood this unspoken accusation and responded, “Oh my Sophia! my only love! You can't hate or look down on me more for what happened there than I do myself; but please, do me the justice of believing that my heart was never unfaithful to you. It had nothing to do with my foolishness; it was, even then, completely yours. Though I lost hope of being with you, or even seeing you again, I still cherished your beautiful image and couldn't truly love any other woman. But if my heart hadn't been engaged, the woman I accidentally fell in with at that terrible place wasn't someone I could seriously love. Believe me, my angel, I've never seen her since that day, and I never intend or want to see her again.” Sophia felt relieved to hear this, but she forced a colder expression than she'd shown before and said, “Why, Mr. Jones, do you bother defending yourself when you aren’t being accused? If I thought it was worth my time to accuse you, I have a truly unforgivable charge, indeed.” “What is it, for heaven's sake?” Jones replied, trembling and pale, fearing she was about to mention his affair with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,” she said, “how is it possible! Can everything noble and everything base coexist in the same heart?” The thought of Lady Bellaston and the humiliating situation of being kept came rushing back to him, leaving him speechless. “Could I have ever expected,” Sophia continued, “such treatment from you? From any gentleman, from any man of honor? To have my name dragged through the mud; in inns, among the lowest of the low! To have any small favors that my careless heart may have too easily granted, flaunted there! And to even hear that you had to run away from my love!”
Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am dead”—He would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance; but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and, to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.
Nothing could match Jones's surprise at Sophia's words; however, since he wasn’t guilty, he felt much less awkward about defending himself than he would have if she had brought up that sensitive issue that weighed on his conscience. After a little digging, he realized that her assuming he was guilty of such a horrific act against his love and her reputation was entirely due to Partridge's chatter at the inns in front of the landlords and staff; Sophia admitted to him that it was from them that she got her information. He had no trouble convincing her that he was completely innocent of an offense so contrary to his character. However, she had a lot to say to keep him from heading straight home to confront Partridge, which he swore he would do more than once. Once this issue was cleared up, they soon found themselves enjoying each other's company so much that Jones completely forgot he had started the conversation by begging her to forget about him; and she was in a mood to have entertained a very different kind of request. Before they knew it, they had both come so far that he let slip some words that sounded like a marriage proposal. To which she replied, “If my duty to my father didn’t prevent me from following my own desires, I would prefer ruin with him over the most comfortable life with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he flinched, dropped her hand, which he had been holding for some time, and struck his chest, exclaiming, “Oh, Sophia! Can I really ruin you? No; by heavens, no! I will never act so base. Dearest Sophia, no matter what it costs me, I will let you go; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my heart that conflict with your true happiness. My love I will always keep, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land, where no voice, no sigh of my despair shall ever reach you to disturb your peace. And when I am dead”—He would have continued, but he was interrupted by a torrent of tears that Sophia let fall into his chest, where she leaned, unable to say a word. He kissed them away, which she allowed for a few moments without resisting; but then recalling herself, she gently stepped out of his arms. To shift the discussion from a topic too emotional, which she found she couldn’t handle, she thought to ask him a question she hadn't had the chance to ask before, “How did you get into that room?” He started to stammer and would likely have raised her suspicions with the answer he was about to give when suddenly, the door opened, and in walked Lady Bellaston.
Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting herself with admirable presence of mind, she said—though with sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance—“I thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”
Having walked a few steps and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopped. After a moment’s pause, she gathered herself with impressive composure and, though clearly surprised both in her voice and expression, said, “I thought, Miss Western, you were at the play?”
Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the cause of her hasty return.
Though Sophia had no way of knowing how Jones found out about her, since she had no suspicion of the real truth or that Jones and Lady Bellaston knew each other, she wasn’t very confused. This was especially true since the lady had always sided with her against her father in all their conversations about it. With hardly any hesitation, she shared the entire story of what happened at the theater and why she had to return so quickly.
The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had company.”
The length of this story gave Lady Bellaston a chance to gather her thoughts and decide how to proceed. Since Sophia’s behavior suggested that Jones hadn’t let her down, she put on a cheerful demeanor and said, “I wouldn’t have interrupted you so suddenly, Miss Western, if I had known you had company.”
Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company——” “I hope, at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt no business.”—“No, madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”
Lady Bellaston looked intently at Sophia as she spoke. The poor young lady, her face flushed with embarrassment and confusion, replied in a shaky voice, “I’m sure, ma’am, I will always think of the honor of your ladyship’s company—” “I hope, at least,” Lady Bellaston interrupted, “I’m not interrupting anything important.” “No, ma’am,” Sophia replied, “our business was finished. Your ladyship may recall that I've often mentioned the loss of my wallet, which this gentleman, having very fortunately found, was kind enough to return to me along with the receipt inside it.”
Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part. He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”
Jones, ever since Lady Bellaston showed up, had been overwhelmed with fear. He sat there kicking his heels, fidgeting with his fingers, and looking more like an idiot than a clueless young squire just introduced to a fancy gathering. However, he began to pull himself together; noticing that Lady Bellaston didn’t plan to acknowledge him, he decided to completely act like a stranger himself. He said, “Ever since I got this pocketbook, I've been diligently searching for the lady whose name is written in it, but until today, I was never lucky enough to find her.”
Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
Sophia had mentioned to Lady Bellaston that her wallet was missing; however, since Jones had never hinted to her that he had it, she didn't believe a word of what Sophia was saying and was really impressed by how quickly the young lady came up with an excuse. The reason for Sophia leaving the theater was no more believable, and even though she couldn't explain why these two lovers met, she was certain it wasn't by chance.
With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it advertised.—It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged.”
With a forced smile, she said, “Honestly, Miss Western, you’ve been really lucky to get your money back. Not only did it end up in the hands of an honorable gentleman, but he also happened to find out who it belonged to. I doubt you'd agree to have it advertised. It was really fortunate, sir, that you figured out to whom the note belonged.”
“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which the young lady's name was written.”
“Oh, ma'am,” cries Jones, “it was in a wallet that had the young lady's name written in it.”
“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:—“And it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very little known.”
“That was really lucky, indeed,” the lady exclaims:—“And it was equally fortunate that you heard Miss Western was at my house; she’s very little known.”
Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would inform me, I went according to her appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the play.”
Jones had finally regained his spirits, and since he thought he now had a chance to answer Sophia's question from just before Lady Bellaston arrived, he said, “Well, madam,” he began, “I found out by the luckiest chance possible. I was talking about what I discovered and the owner's name to a lady at the masquerade the other night, and she mentioned that she thought she knew where I could find Miss Western. She invited me to her house the next morning to fill me in, but when I went, she wasn’t home. I couldn’t run into her again until this morning, when she sent me to your ladyship’s house. So I came over and had the honor of asking for your ladyship. When I mentioned I had some important business, a servant led me into this room; I hadn’t been here long before the young lady came back from the play.”
Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these occasions;—I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;—it is, madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit here.”
When he mentioned the masquerade, he gave Lady Bellaston a sly look, not worried about Sophia noticing because she was too confused to say anything. This made Lady Bellaston a bit uneasy, and she fell silent. Seeing how troubled Sophia was, Jones decided the best way to help her was to leave; but before he did, he said, “I think it’s customary to offer some sort of reward on occasions like this; I must insist on a very generous one for my honesty; it is, madam, nothing less than the honor of being allowed to visit you again.”
“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”
“Sir,” the lady replied, “I have no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are always open to fashionable people.”
Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.
Jones then, after the appropriate formalities, left, feeling very pleased with himself, and Sophia felt the same way; she was really worried that Lady Bellaston would find out what she already knew all too well.
Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who, notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted.
Upon the stairs, Jones ran into his old friend, Mrs. Honour, who, despite everything she had said about him, was now polite enough to act incredibly civil. This meeting turned out to be quite fortunate, as he told her the address of his lodgings, which Sophia didn't know about.
Chapter xii. — In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie is not only excusable but commendable.
The refined Lord Shaftesbury once argued against sharing too much truth, which suggests that, in some situations, lying isn’t just acceptable but praiseworthy.
And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all, the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from owning them.
And there are definitely no people who can more justly question the right to this admirable departure from the truth than young women when it comes to love. They can argue for it based on lessons learned, education, and especially the approval, or rather the necessity, of social norms, which limit them not from giving in to their natural feelings (because that would be a silly restriction), but from admitting to them.
We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little fibbing.
We are not ashamed to say that our heroine now followed the advice of the aforementioned honorable philosopher. Since she was completely sure that Lady Bellaston did not know who Jones was, she decided to keep her in the dark, even if it meant telling a little white lie.
Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, “Upon my word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't remember ever to have seen his face before.”
Jones hadn't been gone long when Lady Bellaston exclaimed, “I swear, what a good-looking young man; I wonder who he is; I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face before.”
“Nor I neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “I must say he behaved very handsomely in relation to my note.”
“Me neither, ma’am,” Sophia exclaimed. “I have to say he was very gracious about my note.”
“Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady: “don't you think so?”
“Yes; and he is a really good-looking guy,” said the lady: “don't you agree?”
“I did not take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but I thought he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise.”
“I didn’t pay much attention to him,” Sophia replied, “but I thought he seemed kind of awkward and less refined overall.”
“You are extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston: “you may see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question whether he is a gentleman.——I have always observed there is a something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.——I think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”
“You're absolutely right,” Lady Bellaston exclaims. “You can tell by his behavior that he hasn’t been around good company. In fact, even though he sent your note back and turned down the reward, I almost wonder if he’s really a gentleman. I’ve always noticed that there’s something about well-born people that others can never really obtain. I think I’ll make sure I’m not home when he comes by.”
“Nay, sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can't suspect after what he hath done;—besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression that, that——”
“Nah, of course not, ma'am,” replied Sophia, “you can't doubt him after what he's done; besides, if you noticed him, there was an elegance in the way he talked, a delicacy, a charming way of expressing himself that, that——”
“I confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words——And indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.”
“I admit,” said Lady Bellaston, “the guy has a way with words——And honestly, Sophia, you have to forgive me, really you do.”
“I forgive your ladyship!” said Sophia.
“I forgive you, my lady!” said Sophia.
“Yes, indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the room——I vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones himself.”
“Yes, you definitely need to,” she replied with a laugh; “because I had a terrible suspicion when I first walked into the room—I swear you have to forgive me, but I thought it was Mr. Jones himself.”
“Did your ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a laugh.
“Did you really, my lady?” Sophia exclaims, blushing and forcing a laugh.
“Yes, I vow I did,” answered she. “I can't imagine what put it into my head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend.”
“Yes, I swear I did,” she replied. “I can't understand what made me think that: because, to be fair, he was dressed nicely; which, I believe, dear Sophy, isn’t usually true for your friend.”
“This raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my promise to your ladyship.”
“This teasing,” Sophia exclaims, “is a bit harsh, Lady Bellaston, after I promised you.”
“Not at all, child,” said the lady;——“It would have been cruel before; but after you have promised me never to marry without your father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have dealt ingenuously with me.”
“Not at all, dear,” said the lady; “It would have been cruel before; but now that you’ve promised me you won’t marry without your father’s consent, which means you’re giving up on Jones, you should be able to handle a little teasing about a crush that was understandable for a young girl in the countryside, and you’ve told me you’ve completely gotten over. What should I think, my dear Sophy, if you can’t even take a bit of mockery about his clothes? I’m starting to worry that you’re still very much attached, and I’m almost beginning to wonder if you’ve been completely honest with me.”
“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any concern on his account.”
“Actually, ma'am,” Sophia replies, “you’re misunderstanding me if you think I have any concern for him.”
“On his account!” answered the lady: “You must have mistaken me; I went no farther than his dress;——for I would not injure your taste by any other comparison—I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr Jones had been such a fellow as this—”
“On his account!” replied the lady. “You must have misunderstood me; I only meant to comment on his outfit—because I wouldn’t want to offend your taste with any other comparison. I can’t imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr. Jones had been someone like this—”
“I thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him to be handsome”——
“I thought,” says Sophia, “you had agreed to let him be good-looking.”
“Whom, pray?” cried the lady hastily.
"Who, please?" the lady exclaimed hurriedly.
“Mr Jones,” answered Sophia;—and immediately recollecting herself, “Mr Jones!—no, no; I ask your pardon;—I mean the gentleman who was just now here.”
“Mr. Jones,” Sophia replied;—and as soon as she caught herself, “Mr. Jones!—no, no; I apologize;—I meant the gentleman who was just here.”
“O Sophy! Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your head.”
“O Sophy! Sophy!” the lady exclaims; “I’m afraid this Mr. Jones is still on your mind.”
“Then, upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones is as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”
“Then, I swear, ma'am,” said Sophia, “Mr. Jones is as completely indifferent to me as the guy who just left us.”
“Upon my honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his name any more.”
“On my honor,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. So please forgive me for a bit of harmless teasing; but I promise you I will never bring up his name again.”
And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.
And now the two ladies parted ways, much to Sophia's delight, while Lady Bellaston would have preferred to tease her rival a bit longer if she hadn't been called away by more pressing matters. As for Sophia, she didn't feel completely at ease with her first experience of deception; when she retired to her room, she was filled with deep uneasiness and shame. The unique difficulty of her situation and the necessity of her actions didn’t ease her mind about what she'd done, as her sensitive nature couldn't tolerate the thought of having told a lie, no matter the circumstances. This thought kept her awake the entire night that followed.
BOOK XIV. — CONTAINING TWO DAYS.
Chapter i. — An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having some knowledge of the subject on which he writes.
As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps, without being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise it would be able to reach.
As several men today, purely through their remarkable talent and without much help from formal education—possibly even without being able to read well—have made a significant impact in the world of literature; I've heard that modern critics have recently started claiming that any form of education is completely unnecessary for a writer. In fact, they argue that it can be more of a constraint on the natural energy and creativity of the imagination, which ends up being held back and unable to achieve those lofty heights it could otherwise attain.
This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far: for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The nimbleness of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if instead of being masters of all the learning of their times, they had been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could have produced those orations that have made the senate of England, in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their spirit, their knowledge too.
I'm afraid this idea is taken way too far right now: why should writing be so different from other arts? A dance instructor's agility isn't harmed by learning to move, nor do I think any tradesperson does a worse job with their tools just because they've learned to use them. Personally, I can't imagine that Homer or Virgil would have written with any more passion if they had been as ignorant as most writers today. I also don't believe that all the creativity, passion, and judgment of Pitt could have produced those speeches that have made the English Senate a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome today, if he hadn’t studied Demosthenes and Cicero so thoroughly that he infused their entire spirit into his own speeches, along with their knowledge as well.
I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection of political journals.
I don’t mean to suggest that my peers need the same level of knowledge that Cicero claims is essential for becoming a great orator. In fact, I believe that the poet needs very little reading, even less is required for the critic, and the least for the politician. For the poet, Byshe's Art of Poetry and a few modern poets might be enough; for the critic, a decent selection of plays; and for the politician, a casual assortment of political journals.
To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the old maxim of law, Quam quisque nôrit artem in eâ se exerceat. With this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed, without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in little stead.
To be honest, I only need a person to have a basic understanding of the topic they're discussing, in line with the old legal saying, Quam quisque nôrit artem in eâ se exerceat. Just with this, a writer can sometimes do quite well; and honestly, without it, all the other knowledge in the world won't help much.
For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have equalled the excellent treatise which Mr Essex hath given us on that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And, indeed, should the excellent Mr Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.
For example, let’s imagine if Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero, Thucydides and Livy could all meet up and pool their talents to write a book on the art of dancing. I believe most would agree they couldn’t match the brilliant guide that Mr. Essex has provided on this topic, called The Rudiments of Genteel Education. Furthermore, if the great Mr. Broughton were convinced to put pen to paper and complete the aforementioned guide by sharing the true principles of athletics, I doubt anyone would complain that none of the great writers, either ancient or modern, have ever discussed that noble and useful art.
To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of it.
To avoid giving too many examples in such a straightforward situation and get right to my point, I think one reason many English writers have completely failed at describing the lifestyle of the upper class is that, in reality, they know very little about it.
This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.
This is a piece of knowledge that unfortunately isn't something many authors can truly grasp. Books can only give us a very incomplete understanding of it; the theater doesn’t do much better. A polished gentleman shaped by reading books will usually end up being a know-it-all, while one shaped by the stage will often become a fool.
Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported. Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout or a drum in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be after Nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by conversation, and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to be known.
Nor are the characters based on these models better represented. Vanbrugh and Congreve depicted nature; but those who imitate them create characters that are as out of touch with the present age as Hogarth would be if he painted a party or a drum in the styles of Titian and Vandyke. In short, imitation won't cut it here. The depiction must be true to Nature herself. Real understanding of the world comes only through conversation, and you have to observe the behaviors of all social classes to really know them.
Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen, like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the streets, shops, and coffee-houses; nor are they shown, like the upper rank of animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to which no persons are admitted without one or other of these qualifications, viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a gamester. And, very unluckily for the world, persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon themselves the bad trade of writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many think requires no kind of stock to set up with.
Now, it turns out that this higher class of people is not visible, like the rest of the human race, in the streets, shops, and coffeehouses; nor are they displayed, like the upper tier of animals, for a price. In short, this is something that no one gets to see without one of these qualifications: either birth or wealth, or, what amounts to the same, the respectable profession of a gambler. Unfortunately for the world, people who fit these criteria rarely want to take on the questionable profession of writing; it's usually pursued by those who are less affluent, as many believe it doesn't require any investment to get started.
Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life than the centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels which, like this I am writing, is of the comic class.
So those bizarre characters in lace and embroidery, in silks and brocades, with huge wigs and wide skirts; who, under the title of lords and ladies, strut around on stage, to the great amusement of attorneys and their clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the galleries; and who are as nonexistent in real life as the centaur, the chimera, or any other fictional creature. But to let you in on a secret, this understanding of high society, while quite important to avoid misunderstandings, isn’t much help to a writer whose focus is comedy, or that type of novel which, like the one I’m writing, belongs to the comic genre.
What Mr Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this station, who are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation, that they have no character at all, at least none which appears. I will venture to say the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very little humour or entertainment. The various callings in lower spheres produce the great variety of humorous characters; whereas here, except among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is vanity and servile imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking, bowing and courtesying, make up the business of their lives.
What Mr. Pope says about women applies to most in this social class, who are so completely made up of appearance and pretense that they have no real character at all, or at least none that shows. I would dare to say that the highest society is often the dullest and offers very little humor or fun. The different jobs in lower circles create a wide range of funny characters; whereas here, except among the few who are chasing ambition, and the even fewer who enjoy pleasure, everything is just vanity and mindless imitation. Fashion, playing cards, eating and drinking, bowing and curtseying make up the entirety of their lives.
Some there are, however, of this rank upon whom passion exercises its tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum prescribes; of these the ladies are as much distinguished by their noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is by the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of a yeoman and shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character; but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them as such. They might as well suppose that every clergyman was represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.
Some people in this social rank, however, let their passions take over, pushing them far beyond what is considered proper; among them, the ladies stand out with their boldness and a certain disregard for reputation, just as an upstanding woman of high status is distinguished by her refined and delicate feelings from the respectable wife of a farmer or shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was one of these daring women; but my country readers shouldn't assume from her that this is typical behavior for fashionable women, nor should they think we aim to portray them this way. It would be just as misguided to think that every clergyman is represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by Ensign Northerton.
There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love intrigue carried on among persons of condition than now. Our present women have been taught by their mothers to fix their thoughts only on ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures of love as unworthy their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of such mothers, married without having husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in the justness of those sentiments; whence they content themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more innocent, but I am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention of which would ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble opinion, the true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather folly than vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of frivolous.
There really isn't a bigger mistake than the one commonly believed by the masses, who, taking their views from some clueless satirists, have labeled this era as morally corrupt. In reality, I believe there has never been less romantic intrigue among high society than now. Today's women have been raised by their mothers to focus solely on ambition and vanity, dismissing the joys of love as beneath their notice; and after being married off by these same mothers without experiencing true companionship, they seem to firmly believe in these values. As a result, they settle for a dull existence filled with more innocent but, I fear, more childish pastimes, the mere mention of which would be unworthy of this history. In my view, the defining trait of today's elite is more foolishness than immorality, and the only label they truly merit is that of frivolous.
Chapter ii. — Containing letters and other matters which attend amours.
Jones had not been long at home before he received the following letter:—
Jones had not been home long before he received the following letter:—
“I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When you left the room I little imagined you intended to have left the house without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the assurance, the——what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she knows you, or ever saw you before.——Was this a scheme laid between you, and have you been base enough to betray me?——O how I despise her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for——I dare not write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can detest as violently as I have loved.”
“I was never more surprised than when I found out you were gone. When you left the room, I never imagined you actually meant to leave the house without seeing me again. Your behavior is all the same and shows me how much I should despise a heart that can fall for an idiot; though I’m not sure if I should admire her cleverness more than her naivety: both are remarkable! For even though she didn’t understand a word of what happened between us, she had the skill, the confidence, the—what should I call it?—to deny to my face that she knows you or has ever seen you before. Was this a plan you both made, and have you been cruel enough to betray me? Oh how I despise her, you, and the whole world, but mostly myself! Because—I dare not write what I’d later go crazy reading; but remember, I can hate just as fiercely as I have loved.”
Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before a second was brought him from the same hand; and this, likewise, we shall set down in the precise words.
Jones had barely any time to think about this letter before a second one from the same person was delivered to him; and this, too, we will write down in the exact words.
“When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ, you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.—Yet, perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would, if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my appointment.——How easy is it to think well of those we love!——Perhaps you desire I should think so. I have resolved to see you to-night; so come to me immediately. “P.S.—I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself. “P.S.—Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence; for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to impose on myself. “P.S.—Come immediately.”
“When you think about the rush of emotions I must have been feeling when I wrote, you can’t be surprised by anything I said in my last note. Still, on second thought, maybe I was a bit too intense. I’d like to think it was all thanks to that terrible theater and the annoyance of a fool who made me late for our meeting. Isn’t it easy to have a good opinion of those we care about? Maybe you want me to feel that way. I’ve decided to see you tonight, so please come to me right away. P.S.—I’ve only made plans to be home for you. P.S.—Mr. Jones might think I’ll help him with his defense because I don’t think he wants to take advantage of me any more than I want to take advantage of myself. P.S.—Come right away.”
To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones. Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening, unless to one single person. However, he thought his honour engaged, and had not this been motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some discontented walks therefore about the room, he was preparing to depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by another letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw herself into a chair, where, having recovered her breath, she said—“You see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none. If any person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have believed it of myself.” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe anything against one who is so sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred upon him.” “Indeed!” says she, “sensible of obligations! Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr Jones?” “Pardon me, my dear angel,” said he, “if, after the letters I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how I have deserved it.”—“And have I then,” says she, with a smile, “so angry a countenance?—Have I really brought a chiding face with me?”—“If there be honour in man,” said he, “I have done nothing to merit your anger.—You remember the appointment you sent me; I went in pursuance.”—“I beseech you,” cried she, “do not run through the odious recital.—Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy. Have you not betrayed my honour to her?”—Jones fell upon his knees, and began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk with joy, crying out, “She's found! she's found!—Here, sir, here, she's here—Mrs Honour is upon the stairs.” “Stop her a moment,” cries Jones—“Here, madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor closet, nor place on earth to hide you in; sure never was so damned an accident.”—“D—n'd indeed!” said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour. “Hey-day!” says she, “Mr Jones, what's the matter?—That impudent rascal your servant would scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath not the same reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton.—I suppose you hardly expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear young lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her a good husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you.” Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the next room. “A lady!” cries she; “ay, I suppose one of your ladies.—O Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I believe we are got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston I darst to say is no better than she should be.”—“Hush! hush!” cries Jones, “every word is overheard in the next room.” “I don't care a farthing,” cries Honour, “I speaks no scandal of any one; but to be sure the servants make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets men at another place—where the house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing besides, they say, she hath of her.”—Here Jones, after expressing the utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:—“Hey-day! why sure, Mr Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says what I heard from others—and thinks I to myself, much good may it do the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest.” “The servants are villains,” cries Jones, “and abuse their lady unjustly.”—“Ay, to be sure, servants are always villains, and so my lady says, and won't hear a word of it.”—“No, I am convinced,” says Jones, “my Sophia is above listening to such base scandal.” “Nay, I believe it is no scandal, neither,” cries Honour, “for why should she meet men at another house?—It can never be for any good: for if she had a lawful design of being courted, as to be sure any lady may lawfully give her company to men upon that account: why, where can be the sense?”—“I protest,” cries Jones, “I can't hear all this of a lady of such honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will distract the poor lady in the next room.—Let me entreat you to walk with me down stairs.”—“Nay, sir, if you won't let me speak, I have done.—Here, sir, is a letter from my young lady—what would some men give to have this? But, Mr Jones, I think you are not over and above generous, and yet I have heard some servants say——but I am sure you will do me the justice to own I never saw the colour of your money.” Here Jones hastily took the letter, and presently after slipped five pieces into her hand. He then returned a thousand thanks to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her to leave him to read her letter: she presently departed, not without expressing much grateful sense of his generosity.
To the schemers, I leave it up to you to decide whether it was the angry or the sweet letter that upset Jones the most. What’s certain is that he didn’t really want to visit anyone else that evening, except for one specific person. Still, his sense of honor felt compelled, and had that not been a strong enough motivation, he wouldn’t have dared to provoke Lady Bellaston’s temper, which he thought was quite volatile, and he feared it might lead to Sophia finding out something he absolutely dreaded. After pacing the room in frustration, he was getting ready to leave when the lady herself stopped him, not with another letter, but by simply walking in. She came in looking very disheveled and flustered, throwing herself into a chair, and after catching her breath, she said, “You see, sir, when women go too far, they won’t stop at anything. If anyone had told me this a week ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “that my enchanting Lady Bellaston will find it hard to believe anything negative about someone who feels so grateful for everything she has done for him.” “Really!” she replied, “grateful for what? Did I expect to hear such cold words from Mr. Jones?” “Forgive me, my dear angel,” he said, “but after the letters I’ve received and the fear of your anger, though I still don’t know what I did to deserve it...” “And have I, then,” she said with a smile, “a truly angry look? Have I really come with a scolding expression?” “If there is honor in a man,” he replied, “I have done nothing to deserve your anger. You remember the appointment you gave me; I came as you asked.” “Please,” she pleaded, “don’t go through that awful story again. Just answer me one question, and then I’ll be at ease. Have you betrayed my honor to her?” Jones dropped to his knees, about to make the most intense promises, when Partridge came bursting into the room, dancing around like he was tipsy with joy, shouting, “She’s found! She’s found!—Look, sir, she’s here—Mrs. Honour is on the stairs.” “Stop her for a moment,” Jones said, “Here, madam, hide behind the bed; I have no other place to hide you—what a terrible situation!” “Terrible, indeed!” the lady said as she went to hide, and shortly after, Mrs. Honour entered. “Well, well!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Jones, what’s going on? That cheeky rascal of your servant almost wouldn’t let me come upstairs. I hope he doesn’t have the same reason to keep me from you as he did at Upton. I guess you didn’t expect to see me, but you’ve certainly enchanted my lady. Poor dear young lady! I love her as much as if she were my own sister. God help you if you don’t treat her well! And if you don’t, nothing could be bad enough for you.” Jones asked her to keep her voice down because there was a lady dying in the next room. “A lady!” she exclaimed; “Oh, I guess it’s one of your ladies—Mr. Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I think we’ve stumbled into one’s house, since I dare say my Lady Bellaston is no better than she should be.” “Hush! Hush!” Jones said, “everything is overheard in the next room.” “I don’t care,” Honour replied, “I’m not spreading any rumors; I’m just saying what I heard from others—and I think to myself, much good may it do the lady with her riches if she gets them in such a wrong way. It’s certainly better to be poor and honest.” “The servants are the real villains,” Jones said, “and they slander their lady unfairly.” “Yeah, that’s for sure, servants are always villains, and my lady agrees and won’t hear a word about it.” “No, I’m convinced,” said Jones, “that my Sophia is above listening to such malicious gossip.” “Well, I honestly don’t think it’s gossip, either,” Honour said, “because why would she meet men at another house? It must not be good: if she had a proper intention of being courted, as any lady is free to associate with men for that reason—where’s the logic in that?” “I swear,” Jones exclaimed, “I can’t believe all this about a lady of such honor, and a relative of Sophia’s; besides, you’re going to upset the poor lady in the next room. Let me ask you to come downstairs with me.” “Well, sir, if you won’t let me speak, I’m done. Here, sir, is a letter from my young lady—what would some men give to have this? But, Mr. Jones, I think you’re not very generous, and yet I’ve heard some servants say—but I’m sure you’ll do me the justice of admitting I’ve never seen a single penny of your money.” At that, Jones quickly took the letter and then slipped five coins into her hand. He then whispered a thousand thanks to his beloved Sophia and asked her to let him read her letter; she quickly left, expressing much gratitude for his generosity.
Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her heart was all in a flame. And now as soon as her voice found way, instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her own servants, she began to attack poor Jones. “You see,” said she, “what I have sacrificed to you; my reputation, my honour—gone for ever! And what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a country girl, for an idiot.”—“What neglect, madam, or what slight,” cries Jones, “have I been guilty of?”—“Mr Jones,” said she, “it is in vain to dissemble; if you will make me easy, you must entirely give her up; and as a proof of your intention, show me the letter.”—“What letter, madam?” said Jones. “Nay, surely,” said she, “you cannot have the confidence to deny your having received a letter by the hands of that trollop.”—“And can your ladyship,” cries he, “ask of me what I must part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner by your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent girl to you, what security could you have that I should not act the same part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be the most contemptible of wretches.”—“Very well,” said she—“I need not insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own opinion; for the inside of the letter could inform me of nothing more than I know already. I see the footing you are upon.”—Here ensued a long conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious, will thank me for not inserting at length. It shall suffice, therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more pacified, and at length believed, or affected to believe, his protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that evening was merely accidental, and every other matter which the reader already knows, and which, as Jones set before her in the strongest light, it is plain that she had in reality no reason to be angry with him.
Lady Bellaston stepped out from behind the curtain. How do I even describe her rage? At first, she couldn't find the words; her eyes were blazing with anger, and rightly so, since her heart was on fire. Once she found her voice, instead of directing her anger at Honour or her own staff, she turned it on poor Jones. “Look,” she said, “see what I've sacrificed for you—my reputation, my honor—gone forever! And what do I get in return? Ignored, dismissed for some country girl, for a fool.” “What neglect or slight have I caused, madam?” Jones replied. “Mr. Jones,” she shot back, “there’s no point in pretending; if you want to make this right, you must completely give her up, and to show me you're serious, show me the letter.” “What letter, madam?” he asked. “Surely, you can't be so bold as to deny you got a letter from that trollop,” she said. “And can you, my lady,” he exclaimed, “ask me to give up my honor before I comply? Have I treated you so poorly? If I would betray this innocent girl to you, what guarantee do you have that I wouldn't do the same to you? A moment’s thought will convince you that a man who can't keep a lady's secrets is the most despicable of creatures.” “Very well,” she said. “I don’t need to pressure you into becoming that despicable person in your own eyes; the contents of the letter wouldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. I see where you stand.” This led to a long conversation, which I won’t bore the reader with. It’s enough to say that Lady Bellaston became more calm and eventually believed, or pretended to believe, his claims that seeing Sophia that evening was purely accidental, along with all the other things the reader already knows, and as Jones clearly pointed out to her, she really had no reason to be angry with him.
She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason, when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed, well convinced that Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's affections; and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she submitted at last to bear the second place; or, to express it more properly in a legal phrase, was contented with the possession of that of which another woman had the reversion.
She wasn't completely okay with his refusal to show her the letter; we often ignore the clearest reasons when they contradict our strongest feelings. She was definitely sure that Sophia was at the top of Jones's affections, and yet, as proud and passionate as she was, she eventually accepted that she would come in second. To put it more precisely in legal terms, she was fine with having what another woman was set to inherit.
It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at the house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would place these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself would be considered as the person imposed upon.
It was finally decided that Jones would visit the house from now on: Sophia, her maid, and all the servants would attribute these visits to Sophia; and she herself would be seen as the one being taken advantage of.
This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones, who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could not possibly discover to her for his own sake.
This plan was created by the lady and was greatly enjoyed by Jones, who was truly happy to have a chance to see his Sophia at all; the lady herself was quite pleased with the trick played on Sophia, which she thought Jones could never reveal to her for his own benefit.
The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after proper ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.
The next day was set for the first visit, and after the necessary formalities, Lady Bellaston went back home.
Chapter iii. — Containing various matters.
Jones was no sooner alone than he eagerly broke open his letter, and read as follows:—
Jones was barely alone when he eagerly tore open his letter and read as follows:—
“Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you left this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she tells me she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by all the regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for it will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some things which have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already without some suspicion. Something favourable perhaps may happen; we must wait with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have any concern for my ease, do not think of returning hither.”
“Sir, I can’t express how much I’ve suffered since you left this house. Since I think you might plan to come back, I sent Honour out, even though it’s late at night, because she says she knows where you’re staying, to stop you. I beg you, for all the affection you have for me, not to consider visiting here; it will definitely be found out. In fact, I almost believe, based on some things I've heard from her ladyship, that she might already be suspicious. Maybe something good will happen; we just have to be patient. But I must once again plead with you, if you care about my peace of mind, don’t think about coming back here.”
This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones, which Job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he was reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston; for there are some certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do very difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after the strict prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human power. At length, after much deliberation, which during that night supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself sick: for this suggested itself as the only means of failing the appointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more than one reason of desiring to avoid.
This letter provided the same kind of comfort to poor Jones that Job once got from his friends. On top of shattering all the hopes he had pinned on seeing Sophia, he found himself in an unhappy situation regarding Lady Bellaston. He knew there were certain commitments that were really hard to excuse if he didn't follow through. And after Sophia's strict warning, he refused to be forced into going by anyone. Finally, after a lot of thinking that took the place of sleep that night, he decided to pretend to be sick. This seemed like the only way to skip the scheduled visit without angering Lady Bellaston, which he certainly wanted to avoid for more than one reason.
The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned excuse; and to this he soon received the following answer:—
The first thing he did in the morning was write a reply to Sophia, which he included in a letter to Honour. He then sent another letter to Lady Bellaston with the excuse mentioned above; and he soon received the following response:—
“I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.—I am so tormented all this morning with fools, that I have scarce a moment's time to write to you. Adieu. “P.S.—I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.—Be sure to be alone.”
“I’m really upset that I can’t see you here this afternoon, but I’m more worried about the situation; please take care of yourself and get the best advice, and I hope there’s no danger.—I’ve been so bothered all morning by idiots that I barely have a moment to write to you. Goodbye. P.S.—I’ll try to come by and see you this evening at nine.—Make sure you’re alone.”
Mr Jones now received a visit from Mrs Miller, who, after some formal introduction, began the following speech:—“I am very sorry, sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will consider the ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of my poor girls, if my house should once be talked of as a house of ill-fame. I hope you won't think me, therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had struck two before one of them went away.”—“I do assure you, madam,” said Jones, “the lady who was here last night, and who staid the latest (for the other only brought me a letter), is a woman of very great fashion, and my near relation.”—“I don't know what fashion she is of,” answered Mrs Miller; “but I am sure no woman of virtue, unless a very near relation indeed, would visit a young gentleman at ten at night, and stay four hours in his room with him alone; besides, sir, the behaviour of her chairmen shows what she was; for they did nothing but make jests all the evening in the entry, and asked Mr Partridge, in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with his master all night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr Jones, upon your own account; nay, I have a very high obligation to you for your generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I did not know how very good you had been till lately. Little did I imagine to what dreadful courses the poor man's distress had driven him. Little did I think, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you had given them to a highwayman! O heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you preserved this family!—The character which Mr Allworthy hath formerly given me of you was, I find, strictly true.—And indeed, if I had no obligation to you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his account, I should shew you the utmost respect in my power.—Nay, believe me, dear Mr Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation were out of the case, I should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young gentleman should converse with these women; but if you are resolved to do it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for I do not myself like to have such things carried on under my roof; but more especially upon the account of my girls, who have little, heaven knows, besides their characters, to recommend them.” Jones started and changed colour at the name of Allworthy. “Indeed, Mrs Miller,” answered he, a little warmly, “I do not take this at all kind. I will never bring any slander on your house; but I must insist on seeing what company I please in my own room; and if that gives you any offence, I shall, as soon as I am able, look for another lodging.”—“I am sorry we must part then, sir,” said she; “but I am convinced Mr Allworthy himself would never come within my doors, if he had the least suspicion of my keeping an ill house.”—“Very well, madam,” said Jones.—“I hope, sir,” said she, “you are not angry; for I would not for the world offend any of Mr Allworthy's family. I have not slept a wink all night about this matter.”—“I am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam,” said Jones, “but I beg you will send Partridge up to me immediately;” which she promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy retired.
Mr. Jones received a visit from Mrs. Miller, who, after a brief introduction, began her speech: “I’m really sorry to come to you on such an occasion, but I hope you’ll consider the negative impact this could have on the reputation of my poor girls if my house is talked about as one of ill repute. I hope you won’t think I’m being rude if I ask you not to bring any more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had struck two before one of them left.” “I assure you, madam,” said Jones, “the lady who was here last night, and stayed the latest (the other one just brought me a letter), is a woman of high social standing and my close relative.” “I don’t know what kind of social standing she has,” Mrs. Miller replied, “but I’m sure no virtuous woman, unless she’s a very close relative, would visit a young man at ten at night and stay in his room alone for four hours. Besides, sir, the behavior of her chairmen shows what she was; they were just making jokes all evening in the hallway and asked Mr. Partridge, within hearing of my maid, if madam intended to stay with his master all night, along with a lot of other inappropriate stuff. I really have a lot of respect for you, Mr. Jones, for your own sake; in fact, I owe you a great deal for your generosity to my cousin. I honestly didn’t realize how good you had been until recently. I never imagined how dire the poor man’s situation had become. I never thought, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you had given them to a highwayman! Oh, heavens! What goodness you’ve shown! How you’ve preserved this family! The praise Mr. Allworthy gave me of you was, I see, absolutely true. And indeed, even if I owed you nothing, my obligations to him are such that, on his behalf, I would show you the utmost respect. Honestly, dear Mr. Jones, if my daughters and my own reputation weren’t at stake, I would be sorry that such a handsome young man should be seen with these women; but if you insist on doing it, I must ask you to find another place to stay because I don’t want such things happening under my roof, especially for the sake of my girls, who have little to recommend them besides their reputations.” Jones flinched and changed color at the mention of Allworthy. “Indeed, Mrs. Miller,” he replied a bit hotly, “I don’t find this at all kind. I will never bring shame to your house; but I must insist on being able to see whatever company I please in my own room; and if that offends you, I’ll find somewhere else to stay as soon as I can.” “I’m sorry we must part then, sir,” she said, “but I’m convinced Mr. Allworthy himself would never come into my house if he had the slightest suspicion that I was running an ill house.” “Very well, madam,” said Jones. “I hope, sir,” she said, “you’re not angry; for I wouldn’t for the world offend any of Mr. Allworthy’s family. I haven’t slept a wink all night worrying about this.” “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep, madam,” said Jones, “but I ask that you send Partridge to me immediately,” which she promised to do, and then with a very low curtsy, she left.
As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most outrageous manner. “How often,” said he, “am I to suffer for your folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours resolved upon my destruction?” “What have I done, sir?” answered affrighted Partridge. “Who was it gave you authority to mention the story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?” “I, sir?” cries Partridge. “Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in denying it,” said Jones. “If I did mention such a matter,” answers Partridge, “I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have opened my lips, if it had not been to his own friends and relations, who, I imagined, would have let it go no farther.” “But I have a much heavier charge against you,” cries Jones, “than this. How durst you, after all the precautions I gave you, mention the name of Mr Allworthy in this house?” Partridge denied that he ever had, with many oaths. “How else,” said Jones, “should Mrs Miller be acquainted that there was any connexion between him and me? And it is but this moment she told me she respected me on his account.” “O Lord, sir,” said Partridge, “I desire only to be heard out; and to be sure, never was anything so unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own how wrongfully you have accused me. When Mrs Honour came downstairs last night she met me in the entry, and asked me when my master had heard from Mr Allworthy; and to be sure Mrs Miller heard the very words; and the moment Madam Honour was gone, she called me into the parlour to her. `Mr Partridge,' says she, `what Mr Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman mentioned? is it the great Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire?' `Upon my word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.' `Sure,' says she, `your master is not the Mr Jones I have heard Mr Allworthy talk of?' `Upon my word, madam,' says I, `I know nothing of the matter.' `Then,' says she, turning to her daughter Nancy, says she, `as sure as tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he agrees exactly with the squire's description.' The Lord above knows who it was told her: for I am the arrantest villain that ever walked upon two legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when I am desired. Nay, sir, so far was I from telling her anything about Mr Allworthy, that I told her the very direct contrary; for, though I did not contradict it at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they say, are best, so when I came to consider that somebody must have informed her, thinks I to myself, I will put an end to the story; and so I went back again into the parlour some time afterwards, and says I, upon my word, says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman was Mr Jones; that is, says I, that this Mr Jones was that Mr Jones, told you a confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention any such matter, says I; for my master, says I, will think I must have told you so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned any such word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have been thinking with myself ever since, how it was she came to know it; not but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old woman without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for all the world shall never persuade me but that they have a great power to do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old woman again, but I shall think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”
As soon as Partridge showed up, Jones confronted him in the most outrageous way. “How many times,” he said, “am I supposed to suffer because of your foolishness, or rather my own for putting up with you? Is that tongue of yours set on my ruin?” “What have I done, sir?” replied a frightened Partridge. “Who gave you the right to talk about the robbery, or to say that the man you saw here was the one?” “I, sir?” exclaimed Partridge. “Don’t lie about it,” Jones said. “If I mentioned such a thing,” Partridge replied, “I certainly meant no harm; I wouldn't have said anything if it wasn’t to his friends and family, who I thought would keep it to themselves.” “But I have a much bigger accusation against you,” Jones said, “than this. How dare you, after all the warnings I gave you, mention Mr. Allworthy's name in this house?” Partridge swore he had never done such a thing. “How else,” Jones asked, “would Mrs. Miller know there was any connection between him and me? Just now she told me she respected me because of him.” “Oh Lord, sir,” Partridge said, “I just want to be heard; I swear nothing has ever been so unfortunate. Just hear me out, and you’ll see how wrong you are to accuse me. When Mrs. Honour came downstairs last night, she ran into me in the hallway and asked when my master had heard from Mr. Allworthy; and certainly, Mrs. Miller heard those exact words. As soon as Mrs. Honour left, she called me into the parlor. ‘Mr. Partridge,’ she said, ‘which Mr. Allworthy did the lady mention? Is it the famous Mr. Allworthy from Somersetshire?’ ‘I swear, madam,’ I said, ‘I know nothing about it.’ ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘your master is not the Mr. Jones I’ve heard Mr. Allworthy talk about?’ ‘I swear, madam,’ I said, ‘I know nothing about it.’ ‘Then,’ she said, turning to her daughter Nancy, ‘I’m sure this is the very young gentleman, and he fits the squire’s description perfectly.’ God knows who told her that; I’m the biggest villain to ever walk the earth if it ever came out of my mouth. I assure you, sir, I can keep a secret when asked. In fact, I was so far from telling her anything about Mr. Allworthy that I told her the exact opposite. Though I didn’t contradict her right then, I thought it over, and they say second thoughts are the best. So when I realized someone must have informed her, I thought I better clear things up. I went back into the parlor some time later and said, I swear, whoever told you that this gentleman was Mr. Jones—meaning this Mr. Jones is that Mr. Jones—told you a terrible lie. And I kindly ask you never to mention such a thing again; because my master will think I told you so, and I challenge anyone in this house to say I mentioned anything like that. For sure, sir, it’s a strange thing, and I’ve been thinking since then about how she found out. I did see an old woman begging at the door the other day, who looked just like the one we saw in Warwickshire, which caused us all that trouble. I firmly believe it’s never good to pass by an old woman without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; because no one will ever convince me they don’t have the power to cause mischief. And I know the next time I see an old woman, I’ll think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”
The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his mind; and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he intended presently to leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go and endeavour to get him others.
The simplicity of Partridge made Jones laugh and ended his anger, which never lasted long anyway; instead of discussing his defense, he told him he planned to leave those lodgings soon and instructed him to go find others.
Chapter iv. — Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of both sexes.
Partridge had no sooner left Mr Jones than Mr Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a short salutation, said, “So, Tom, I hear you had company very late last night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been in town above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door till two in the morning.” He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of the same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, “I suppose you have received all this information from Mrs Miller, who hath been up here a little while ago to give me warning. The good woman is afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters.” “Oh! she is wonderfully nice,” says Nightingale, “upon that account; if you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the masquerade.” “Nay, upon my honour, I think she's in the right of it,” says Jones: “however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent Partridge to look for another lodging.” “If you will,” says Nightingale, “we may, I believe, be again together; for, to tell you a secret, which I desire you won't mention in the family, I intend to quit the house to-day.” “What, hath Mrs Miller given you warning too, my friend?” cries Jones. “No,” answered the other; “but the rooms are not convenient enough. Besides, I am grown weary of this part of the town. I want to be nearer the places of diversion; so I am going to Pall-mall.” “And do you intend to make a secret of your going away?” said Jones. “I promise you,” answered Nightingale, “I don't intend to bilk my lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking a formal leave.” “Not so private,” answered Jones; “I promise you, I have seen it ever since the second day of my coming to the house. Here will be some wet eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her, faith! Indeed, Jack, you have played the fool with that girl. You have given her a longing, which I am afraid nothing will ever cure her of.” Nightingale answered, “What the devil would you have me do? would you have me marry her to cure her?” “No,” answered Jones, “I would not have had you make love to her, as you have often done in my presence. I have been astonished at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it.” “Pugh, see it!” cries Nightingale. “What, the devil should she see?” “Why, see,” said Jones, “that you have made her daughter distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal it a moment; her eyes are never off from you, and she always colours every time you come into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for she seems to be one of the best-natured and honestest of human creatures.” “And so,” answered Nightingale, “according to your doctrine, one must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with women, for fear they should fall in love with us.” “Indeed, Jack,” said Jones, “you wilfully misunderstand me; I do not fancy women are so apt to fall in love; but you have gone far beyond common gallantries.” “What, do you suppose,” says Nightingale, “that we have been a-bed together?” “No, upon my honour,” answered Jones, very seriously, “I do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will go farther, I do not imagine you have laid a regular premeditated scheme for the destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou art a very good-natured fellow; and such a one can never be guilty of a cruelty of that kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own vanity, without considering that this poor girl was made a sacrifice to it; and while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour, you have actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the most serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly; to what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of happiness arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did you imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you intend she should?” “Upon my soul, Tom,” cries Nightingale, “I did not think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?” “No,” cries Jones, “may I be d—n'd if I would.” “Tom, Tom,” answered Nightingale, “last night; remember last night——
Partridge had barely left Mr. Jones when Mr. Nightingale, who had now become quite close to him, approached, and after a brief greeting, said, “So, Tom, I hear you had company very late last night. Honestly, you’re a lucky guy; you’ve only been in town for a couple of weeks and already have people waiting at your door until two in the morning.” He continued with the same kind of light-hearted teasing until Jones finally interrupted him, saying, “I guess you got all this info from Mrs. Miller, who just came by a little while ago to give me a heads-up. It seems the good woman is worried about her daughters' reputation.” “Oh! she’s incredibly particular,” said Nightingale, “on that matter; if you recall, she wouldn’t let Nancy join us for the masquerade.” “Well, I honestly think she’s right about that,” said Jones. “Nevertheless, I’ve taken her at her word and have sent Partridge out to look for another place.” “If you want,” said Nightingale, “we might be able to hang out again; to let you in on a little secret—I intend to leave the house today.” “What, has Mrs. Miller kicked you out too, my friend?” exclaimed Jones. “No,” replied Nightingale, “but the rooms aren’t convenient enough. Besides, I've grown tired of this area of town. I want to be closer to where the fun is, so I’m heading to Pall-mall.” “And do you plan to make a secret of your moving?” asked Jones. “I promise you,” Nightingale replied, “I’m not trying to skip out on my rent; but I have a personal reason for not formally saying goodbye.” “Not so personal,” replied Jones; “I assure you, I've seen it since the second day I got here. There will be some sad faces when you leave. Poor Nancy, I feel sorry for her! Seriously, Jack, you’ve been a fool with that girl. You've given her hope that I’m afraid nothing will ever erase.” Nightingale responded, “What the hell do you want me to do? Should I marry her to fix it?” “No,” said Jones, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to flirt with her as you often have in front of me. I’ve been amazed by her mother’s blindness in never noticing it.” “What should she see?” exclaimed Nightingale. “Why, see,” said Jones, “that you’ve made her daughter hopelessly in love with you. The poor girl can’t hide it for a second; her eyes are always on you, and she blushes every time you walk into the room. Honestly, I feel for her; she seems like one of the sweetest and most sincere people.” “So,” replied Nightingale, “according to your logic, we shouldn’t even have a little fun with women because they might fall for us.” “Honestly, Jack,” Jones said, “you’re deliberately misunderstanding me; I don’t think women are that quick to fall in love; but you’ve gone way beyond normal flirting.” “What, do you think,” said Nightingale, “that we’ve slept together?” “No, I swear,” replied Jones, quite seriously, “I don’t think so poorly of you; in fact, I would go further—I don’t believe you’ve even intentionally plotted to disturb the peace of a poor little creature, or even considered the consequences: because I know you’re a good-natured fellow; and someone like that could never be cruel on purpose; but at the same time, you’ve indulged your own vanity without realizing that this poor girl became a casualty of it; and while you were just looking to pass the time, you’ve actually given her a reason to believe that you were genuinely interested in her. Tell me honestly, Jack, what was the point of all those beautiful and sweet descriptions of happiness that come from passionate and mutual affection? All those heartfelt declarations of tenderness and generous, selfless love? Did you think she wouldn’t relate them to you? Or honestly, did you not mean for her to?” “My word, Tom,” replied Nightingale, “I didn’t expect this from you. You’d make a fantastic pastor. So I guess you wouldn’t go to bed with Nancy now, even if she offered?” “No,” replied Jones, “may I be damned if I would.” “Tom, Tom,” Nightingale said, “remember last night; think about last night—”
When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,
And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft.” When everyone’s eyes were closed, and the pale moon,
And silent stars, shone aware of the theft.
“Lookee, Mr Nightingale,” said Jones, “I am no canting hypocrite, nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my neighbours. I have been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I have ever injured any.—Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself, be knowingly the cause of misery to any human being.”
“Listen, Mr. Nightingale,” said Jones, “I’m not a two-faced hypocrite, nor do I claim to be more chaste than my neighbors. I’ve had my share of relationships with women, and I admit that; but I don’t believe I’ve ever caused harm to anyone. And I would never intentionally make someone else miserable just to gain pleasure for myself.”
“Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I am convinced you acquit me of any such thing.”
“Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I'm sure you don't think I’d do anything like that.”
“I do, from my heart,” answered Jones, “of having debauched the girl, but not from having gained her affections.”
“I truly do,” replied Jones, “regret ruining the girl, but not for having won her love.”
“If I have,” said Nightingale, “I am sorry for it; but time and absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I must take myself; for, to confess the truth to you—I never liked any girl half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my addresses to her.”
“If I have,” said Nightingale, “I’m sorry about that; but time and distance will soon fade those feelings. It's a lesson I have to learn myself; honestly, I’ve never liked any girl as much in my entire life. But I need to tell you the whole truth, Tom. My father has arranged a marriage for me with a woman I've never met, and she’s coming to town so I can get to know her.”
At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when Nightingale cried—“Nay, prithee, don't turn me into ridicule. The devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy! Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession.”
At these words, Jones broke into loud laughter; when Nightingale exclaimed, “Come on, don’t make fun of me. I swear I’m going crazy over this! My poor Nancy! Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune of my own.”
“I heartily wish you had,” cries Jones; “for, if this be the case, I sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't intend to go away without taking your leave of her?”
“I really wish you had,” Jones exclaims; “because if that’s the case, I truly feel sorry for both of you; but you can't possibly plan to leave without saying goodbye to her?”
“I would not,” answered Nightingale, “undergo the pain of taking leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead of answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart.”
“I wouldn’t,” Nightingale replied, “put myself through the pain of saying goodbye for a hundred thousand dollars; besides, I believe it would only upset my poor Nancy even more. So please, don’t bring it up today, and I plan to leave this evening or tomorrow morning.”
Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took the most prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the ground floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman himself was to occupy that which was between them.
Jones promised he wouldn’t; and after thinking it over, he realized that since he had decided and had to leave her, he was taking the most sensible approach. He then told Nightingale that he would be very happy to stay in the same house with him; and it was agreed that Nightingale would find him either the ground floor or the second floor, since the young gentleman himself was going to stay in the space between them.
This Nightingale, of whom we shall be presently obliged to say a little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of strict honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in his morals; not that he was even here as void of principle as gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it is certain he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women, and had, in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many deceits, which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted the greatest villain upon earth.
This Nightingale, about whom we will soon need to say a bit more, was in the everyday dealings of life a man of strict honor, and, even rarer among young gentlemen in town, one of strict honesty too; yet in matters of love, he was somewhat loose with his morals; not that he was completely lacking in principles as gentlemen sometimes are, and often pretend to be; but it is certain he had committed some indefensible betrayals against women and had, in a certain mysterious game called making love, practiced many deceits that, had he applied them in business, would have labeled him the biggest villain on earth.
But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.
But as the world, for reasons I don’t quite understand, chooses to view this betrayal more positively, he was not at all ashamed of his wrongdoings; in fact, he took pride in them and often bragged about his ability to win over women and his successes in capturing their hearts. He had received some criticism from Jones for this behavior, who always expressed deep disapproval towards any mistreatment of women. Jones argued that if women were viewed as they should be—as our most treasured friends—they deserved to be treated with love, respect, and kindness. However, if they were seen as adversaries, then winning them over was something to be embarrassed about, not something to take pride in.
Chapter v. — A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.
Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon he received an invitation from Mrs Miller to drink tea; for that good woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an angry manner.
Jones today had a pretty good dinner for a sick man, meaning he ate most of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon, he got an invitation from Mrs. Miller to have tea. That kind woman, having learned, whether through Partridge or some other natural or supernatural way, that he had a relationship with Mr. Allworthy, couldn't bear the idea of parting with him on bad terms.
Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the tea-kettle removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without much preface, began as follows: “Well, there are very surprizing things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business that I should have a relation of Mr Allworthy in my house, and never know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I did not long since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches, two destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to the cruelty, of the world.
Jones accepted the invitation, and as soon as the tea kettle was taken away and the girls left the room, the widow, without much introduction, began: “Well, it’s surprising what happens in this world; but it’s truly incredible that I have a relative of Mr. Allworthy in my home and had no idea about it. Oh dear! You can’t imagine what a friend that wonderful man has been to me and my family. Yes, I’m not ashamed to admit it; it’s because of his kindness that I didn’t end up starving and leaving my poor little children, two vulnerable, helpless, friendless orphans, at the mercy, or rather the cruelty, of the world.”
“You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was an officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death, became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good luck to die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take the second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of this lady had been a servant to my grand-mother; and, having inherited a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion. She used my sister so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth and poverty, calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she at length broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise died within a twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to provide better for me, and within a month from his decease I was married to a clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before, and who had been very ill used by my father on that account: for though my poor father could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred us up as delicately, considered us, and would have had us consider ourselves, as highly as if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all this usage, and the moment we were become fatherless he immediately renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always liked, and now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did I live in a state of perfect happiness with that best of men, till at last—Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived me of the kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest parent.—O my poor girls! you never knew the blessing which ye lost.—I am ashamed, Mr Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall never mention him without tears.” “I ought rather, madam,” said Jones, “to be ashamed that I do not accompany you.” “Well, sir,” continued she, “I was now left a second time in a much worse condition than before; besides the terrible affliction I was to encounter, I had now two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr Allworthy, who had some little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I must and will read it to you.
“You have to understand, sir, that even though I’m now making a living by renting out rooms, I was born and raised a lady. My father was an army officer and died with a decent rank, but he lived beyond his means, and after his death, his family was left in poverty. We were three sisters. One of us was fortunate to pass away soon after from smallpox; a kind lady took the second one in out of charity, as she said, to be her companion. The mother of this lady had been a servant to my grandmother and had inherited a huge fortune from her father, which he made from pawnbroking. She married a gentleman of great wealth and status. This lady treated my sister extremely poorly, constantly reminding her of her low status and poverty, mockingly calling her a gentlewoman, which I believe eventually broke her spirit. In short, she also died within a year of my father. Luck seemed to favor me better; within a month of his death, I married a clergyman, who had been in love with me for a long time before and had been mistreated by my father for that reason. Even though my poor father couldn’t give us a penny, he raised us with all the delicacies and expectations of wealthy heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all that treatment, and as soon as we lost our father, he immediately pursued me with such warmth that I, who had always liked him and now appreciated him more than ever, quickly agreed. I spent five years in pure happiness with that wonderful man, until—Oh! cruel, cruel fate that separated us and robbed me of the kindest husband and my poor girls of the most loving parent.—Oh, my poor girls! you never knew the blessing you lost.—I'm embarrassed, Mr. Jones, by this display of emotion; but I'll never mention him without shedding tears.” “I should be the one ashamed, madam,” said Jones, “for not joining you in this.” “Well, sir,” she continued, “I was left for a second time in an even worse situation than before; in addition to the terrible hardship I had to face, I now had two children to take care of and was, if possible, even more broke than ever. Then, that great, good, glorious man, Mr. Allworthy, who had a slight acquaintance with my husband, accidentally learned of my situation and immediately wrote this letter to me. Here, sir, here it is; I tucked it in my pocket to show you. This is the letter, sir; I must and will read it to you.”
“'Madam, “'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt from the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your tenderness. “`However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of much worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg you will accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe me to be, madam, &c.'
'Madam,'I sincerely sympathize with you on your recent deep loss. Your wisdom and the important lessons you've learned from the best of men will help you cope better than any advice I could offer. I have no doubt that you, who I’ve heard is the most devoted of mothers, will not let excessive grief stop you from fulfilling your responsibility to those little ones, who now solely need your care.'However, since you are likely not able to focus on practical matters right now, please forgive me for sending someone to you with twenty guineas, which I hope you will accept until I have the pleasure of seeing you. Believe me, madam, &c.'
“This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the irreparable loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight afterwards, Mr Allworthy—the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me, which I have constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake alone my life is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since I must esteem one for whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if I beg you not to converse with these wicked women. You are a young gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry with me, sir, for what I said upon account of my house; you must be sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy himself would never forgive my conniving at such matters, and particularly with you.”
"I received this letter, sir, within two weeks after the terrible loss I mentioned. Shortly after that, Mr. Allworthy—the wonderful Mr. Allworthy—came to visit me. He put me in this house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of money to furnish it, and set up a £50-a-year annuity for me, which I have been receiving ever since. So, Mr. Jones, you can imagine how much I must appreciate a benefactor to whom I owe my life and the lives of my dear children, who are the only reason my life holds any value. Please don’t think I’m being rude, Mr. Jones (since I must care for someone whom I know Mr. Allworthy holds in such high regard), if I ask you not to associate with those wicked women. You’re a young gentleman and don’t realize half of their deceptive tricks. Please don’t be upset with me for what I said about my house; you must understand it would ruin my poor dear girls. Moreover, sir, you must know that Mr. Allworthy would never forgive me for going along with such matters, especially with you."
“Upon my word, madam,” said Jones, “you need make no farther apology; nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but give me leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr Allworthy, to deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his.”
“Honestly, ma’am,” said Jones, “you don’t need to apologize any further; I’m not offended at all by what you’ve said. However, if you’ll allow me, since no one values Mr. Allworthy more than I do, I’d like to clear up a misunderstanding that might not reflect well on him. I assure you, I’m not related to him at all.”
“Alas! sir,” answered she, “I know you are not, I know very well who you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you, had you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words `dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to say, unless the word `dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they are intirely innocent.”
“Honestly, sir,” she replied, “I know who you are; Mr. Allworthy has told me everything. I assure you, even if you were twenty times his son, he couldn’t have shown you more affection than he has right in front of me. There’s no need to be ashamed of who you are; I promise that no decent person will think less of you for it. No, Mr. Jones, the term 'dishonourable birth' is ridiculous, as my beloved husband used to say, unless it refers to the parents; because children can’t inherit any real dishonour from something they had no part in.”
Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, “Since I perceive, madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances concerning myself.” And these Mrs Miller having expressed great desire and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history, without once mentioning the name of Sophia.
Here, Jones let out a deep sigh and said, “Since I see, ma'am, that you really do know me, and Mr. Allworthy has seen fit to mention my name to you; and since you’ve been so open with me about your own situation, I’ll share some more details about myself.” Mrs. Miller, eager and curious to hear, encouraged him, so he began to tell her his entire story, without once mentioning Sophia's name.
There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they give an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for, as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should be the last at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one of great distinction, and that nothing but what was intirely innocent was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep his word.
There’s a kind of understanding among honest people that allows them to trust one another easily. Mrs. Miller believed everything Jones told her was true and felt a lot of sympathy and concern for him. She was about to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; as the time for their meeting approached, he insisted on a second meeting with her that evening, promising it would be the last at her place. He swore that she was someone of high status and that nothing but completely innocent things would happen between them; honestly, I believe he meant to keep his promise.
Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston appeared.
Mrs. Miller finally gave in, and Jones went to his room, where he sat alone until midnight, but Lady Bellaston never showed up.
As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our business is only to record truth.
As we mentioned, this lady had a strong affection for Jones, and it must have seemed genuine. The reader might wonder about her first missed appointment, especially since she believed he was sick, a time when friendship needs those visits the most. Some may see her behavior as strange, but that's not our issue; our job is just to tell the truth.
Chapter vi. — Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers.
Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night; not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character from that noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within himself, and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without being once stopped by the calamities which happen to others. He could not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy, whose love for Mr Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her mother, who had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of her daughter, “who from being,” she said, “one of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden, become all gloom and melancholy.”
Mr. Jones didn't close his eyes at all during the earlier part of the night; not because he was anxious about being disappointed by Lady Bellaston, nor was Sophia, even though most of his sleepless hours could be blamed on her. In truth, poor Jones was one of the kindest guys around and had that weakness called compassion, which separates this flawed character from the strong-mindedness that allows someone to move through life, like a polished ball, without being halted by the misfortunes that affect others. He couldn't help but feel sympathy for poor Nancy, whose love for Mr. Nightingale seemed so obvious to him that he was shocked by her mother's inability to see it. The night before, her mother had mentioned more than once how much her daughter's mood had changed, saying that, “from being,” she remarked, “one of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, she had suddenly become all gloom and melancholy.”
Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now, as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.—To speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
Sleep eventually overcame all resistance; now, as if he were already a god, as the ancients believed, and one who was offended too, he seemed to relish his hard-earned victory. To put it plainly, Mr. Jones slept until eleven the next morning and probably would have remained in that peaceful state much longer if a loud commotion hadn’t woken him up.
Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter, answered, “That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were both crying and lamenting over her.” Jones expressed much concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by saying, with a smile, “he fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for that Susan” (which was the name of the maid) “had given him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In short,” said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the Foundling Hospital.”——“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,” cries Jones. “Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave—Stay, you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to breakfast with her.” He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to Mr Jones, “That her mistress hoped he would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up notice sooner.” Jones desired, “She would give herself no trouble about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any service to her, she might command him.”
Partridge was called in, and when asked what was going on, he replied, “There’s a terrible commotion downstairs; Miss Nancy is in a fit, and her sister and mother are both crying over her.” Jones was quite worried by this news, but Partridge tried to ease his concerns by smiling and saying, “I don’t think the young lady is in any real danger; Susan” (the maid) “told me it’s just a common thing. Basically,” he said, “Miss Nancy wanted to be as wise as her mother; that’s all. She was a bit hungry, it seems, and sat down to dinner before grace was said; now there’s a child on the way for the Foundling Hospital.” “Please, stop your foolish joking,” Jones exclaimed. “Is the suffering of these poor people a laughing matter? Go straight to Mrs. Miller and tell her I ask—Wait, you’ll mess it up; I’ll go myself, as she invited me to breakfast.” He then got up and dressed as quickly as he could, while Partridge, despite being scolded, couldn’t help making some crude jokes about the situation. As soon as Jones was dressed, he headed downstairs and knocked on the door, where he was quickly let in by the maid into the empty outer parlor, which had neither guests nor any dining setup. Mrs. Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, and the maid soon came back with a message for Mr. Jones, “Her mistress hopes you’ll excuse the disappointment, but an accident has happened, making it impossible for her to enjoy your company at breakfast today, and she apologizes for not letting you know sooner.” Jones replied, “She shouldn’t worry about something as trivial as my disappointment; I’m truly sorry about the situation, and if I can be of any help to her, she can count on me.”
He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all, suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of tears, said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor girl.—O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain”——“O Mr Jones!” said she, “that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my poor girl; hath destroyed her.—I know you are a man of honour. You have a good—a noble heart, Mr Jones. The actions to which I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath undone my daughter. She is—she is—oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him; and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another monster lives.”
He had barely said these words when Mrs. Miller, who overheard everything, suddenly flung open the door and came out to him, crying heavily. She said, “Oh Mr. Jones! You truly are one of the best young men alive. I can’t thank you enough for your kind offer to help, but, unfortunately, it’s beyond your power to save my poor girl. Oh my child! My child! She is ruined, ruined forever!” “I hope, madam,” said Jones, “that no villain”—“Oh Mr. Jones!” she interrupted, “that villain who left my place yesterday has betrayed my poor girl; he has destroyed her. I know you are a man of honor. You have a good—noble heart, Mr. Jones. The actions I have witnessed could come from no one else. I must tell you everything; in fact, it’s impossible to keep it a secret after what has happened. That Nightingale, that cruel villain, has ruined my daughter. She is—she is—oh! Mr. Jones, my girl is pregnant by him, and in that state he has abandoned her. Here! Here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if such another monster exists.”
The letter was as follows:
The letter read as follows:
“DEAR NANCY,
“As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this
method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately
paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath
provided for my—I need not write the detested word. Your own good
understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to
an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear
arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her
with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a
secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as
I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have
suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and
forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain
ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I
mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in
your faithful, though unhappy,
“J. N.” “DEAR NANCY,
“I found it impossible to tell you what I’m afraid will be just as shocking to you as it is to me, so I’m writing this letter to let you know that my father insists I immediately pursue a wealthy young lady he has chosen for my— I need not write the detested word. You know how completely I'm obligated to obey him, which will forever keep me away from your dear arms. Your mother’s affection may encourage you to confide in her about the unfortunate outcome of our love, which can easily be kept a secret from the world, and I will make sure to provide for it, as I will for you. I hope you feel less pain about this than I have suffered; but please summon all your strength and forgive and forget the man whom only the fear of certain ruin could drive to write this letter. I ask you to forget me, only as a lover; but you will always find the best of friends in your faithful, though unhappy,
“J. N.”
When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I cannot express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the reputation of your daughter.”——“It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,” cryed she, “as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I myself outlive any accident of that nature.—What then will become of my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause. O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The barbarous, cruel——hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects? Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother? Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education? Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to lose one or both in such a manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Jones, with tears in his eyes, “I pity you from my soul.”—“O! Mr Jones,” answered she, “even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her. I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he hath always directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed to be real. Could I have believed that these were only snares laid to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?”—At these words little Betsy came running into the room, crying, “Dear mamma, for heaven's sake come to my sister; for she is in another fit, and my cousin can't hold her.” Mrs Miller immediately obeyed the summons; but first ordered Betsy to stay with Mr Jones, and begged him to entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic voice, “Good heaven! let me preserve one of my children at least.”
When Jones finished reading the letter, they both stood silent for a minute, looking at each other; finally, he began: “I can’t express how shocked I am by what I’ve read. But please, I beg you, consider the reputation of your daughter.” — “It’s gone, it’s lost, Mr. Jones,” she cried. “Her innocence is gone too. She got the letter in a room full of people, and as soon as she opened it, she fainted, and everyone there knew what it said. But the loss of her reputation, bad as it is, isn’t the worst part; I will lose my child. She has already tried to take her own life twice, and even though she’s been stopped for now, she vows she won’t survive this. I don’t think I could survive anything like that either. What will happen to my little Betsy, a helpless orphan? That poor little thing will, I believe, break her heart witnessing the misery that her sister and I are in, all while being ignorant of the cause. Oh, she’s the most sensitive and kind-hearted little thing! The cruel villain has destroyed us all. Oh, my poor children! Is this the reward for all my care? Is this the outcome of all my hopes? Have I cheerfully taken on all the responsibilities and duties of a mother? Have I been so gentle during their infancy, so careful with their upbringing? Have I worked so many years, denying myself even the comforts of life, just to provide for them, only to lose one or both in such a way?” “Indeed, madam,” said Jones, tears in his eyes, “I truly pity you.” — “Oh! Mr. Jones,” she replied, “even you, despite knowing the goodness of your heart, can’t begin to grasp what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most obedient of children! Oh my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! The joy of my eyes! The pride of my heart! Too much my pride, in fact; because of those foolish, ambitious hopes arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin. Alas! I took pleasure in seeing the way this young man admired her. I thought it was an honorable love; I flattered my foolish vanity with the thought of seeing her married to someone so much her better. A thousand times in front of me, and often in front of you, he attempted to comfort and encourage these hopes with the most generous expressions of unselfish love, which he always directed toward my poor girl, and which both she and I believed to be genuine. Could I have possibly believed that these were just traps laid out to betray my child’s innocence and ruin us all?” — At that moment, little Betsy came rushing into the room, crying, “Dear mommy, please come to my sister; she’s having another fit, and my cousin can’t hold her.” Mrs. Miller immediately responded to the call but first told Betsy to stay with Mr. Jones, asking him to keep her entertained for a few minutes, saying, in the most heartfelt tone, “Good heavens! Let me at least save one of my children.”
Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very highly affected with Mrs Miller's story. He told her “Her sister would be soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she would not only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too.” “Indeed, sir,” says she, “I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I would burst my heart rather than they should see me cry.—But my poor sister can't see me cry.—I am afraid she will never be able to see me cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her; indeed, I can't.—And then poor mamma too, what will become of her?—She says she will die too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won't be left behind.” “And are you not afraid to die, my little Betsy?” said Jones. “Yes,” answered she, “I was always afraid to die; because I must have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not afraid of going anywhere with those I love.”
Jones, following this request, did everything he could to comfort the little girl, even though he was deeply affected by Mrs. Miller's story himself. He told her, "Your sister will be better soon; if you keep acting like this, you'll only make her worse and your mother sick too." "Really, sir," she replied, "I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them for the world. I would burst my heart before they saw me cry. But my poor sister can’t see me cry. I’m afraid she won’t ever see me cry again. Honestly, I can’t be without her; I really can’t. And what about poor mama? What will happen to her? She says she will die too and leave me behind, but I’m determined I won’t be left alone." "Aren't you afraid to die, my little Betsy?" asked Jones. "Yes," she answered, "I’ve always been afraid to die because I would have to leave my mama and my sister, but I’m not afraid to go anywhere with those I love."
Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the child; and soon after Mrs Miller returned, saying, “She thanked heaven Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy,” says she, “you may go in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you.” She then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having disappointed him of his breakfast.
Jones was so happy with this answer that he eagerly kissed the child; and soon after, Mrs. Miller returned, saying, “She thanked heaven that Nancy was now back to herself. And now, Betsy,” she said, “you can go in, because your sister is better and wants to see you.” She then turned to Jones and began to apologize again for having made him miss his breakfast.
“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “I shall have a more exquisite repast than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt it. I am very much deceived in Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom, as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this be the case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will affect him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to bring you good news.”
“I hope, ma’am,” said Jones, “to have a much better meal than anything you could have offered me. I promise you, that will be the case if I can help this little family of love. But no matter what happens, I’m determined to try. I would be very mistaken about Mr. Nightingale if, despite what’s happened, he doesn’t have a lot of goodness in him, along with a deep affection for your daughter. If that’s true, I believe the picture I’m going to show him will really touch him. Try to comfort yourself and Miss Nancy as best as you can. I’m going to find Mr. Nightingale right away, and I hope to bring you good news.”
Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr Nightingale, and the good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat cheared at what her mother told her; and both joined in resounding the praises of Mr Jones.
Mrs. Miller dropped to her knees and called down all the blessings from heaven on Mr. Jones; afterward, she added heartfelt expressions of gratitude. He then left to find Mr. Nightingale, and the kind woman returned to comfort her daughter, who felt somewhat uplifted by what her mother told her; both started singing the praises of Mr. Jones.
Chapter vii. — The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.
The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they bring on their fellow-creatures.
The good or evil we offer to others often comes back to us. People with a kind nature enjoy their acts of kindness just as much as those who benefit from them. Likewise, there are hardly any truly wicked people who can harm others without feeling some pain for the damage they cause to their fellow humans.
Mr Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary, Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire, and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily to meet him; and after much congratulation said, “Nothing could be more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the spleen in my life.”
Mr. Nightingale, at least, wasn't that kind of person. On the contrary, Jones found him in his new place, sitting sadly by the fire and quietly mourning the unfortunate situation he had put poor Nancy in. As soon as he saw his friend show up, he quickly got up to greet him; and after a lot of congratulations, he said, “This visit couldn't have come at a better time; I've never felt more down in my life.”
“I am sorry,” answered Jones, “that I bring news very unlikely to relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further preface, then, I come to you, Mr Nightingale, from a worthy family, which you have involved in misery and ruin.” Mr Nightingale changed colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded, in the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the reader was acquainted in the last chapter.
“I’m sorry,” replied Jones, “to bring you news that’s very unlikely to ease your mind; in fact, I believe it will shock you more than anything else. Still, it’s important that you know. So, without further ado, I come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a respectable family that you have driven into misery and ruin.” Mr. Nightingale paled at these words; however, Jones, ignoring his reaction, continued enthusiastically to narrate the tragic story that the reader already knows from the last chapter.
Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, “What you tell me, my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret; and then the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such things happen in this town: and if the husband should suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his wife and the world.”
Nightingale never interrupted the story, even though he felt strong emotions throughout it. But when it finished, he let out a deep sigh and said, “What you’ve shared with me, my friend, really touches me. There’s never been such a terrible accident as that poor girl revealing my letter. Her reputation could have stayed safe, and the whole thing could have remained a deep secret; then the girl could have gone away without any consequences because this kind of thing happens all the time in this town. And if the husband starts to suspect something, it would be smarter for him to keep his doubts to himself, both from his wife and the rest of the world.”
“Indeed, my friend,” answered Jones, “this could not have been the case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her affections, that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family.” “Nay, for that matter, I promise you,” cries Nightingale, “she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to be, will have very little share in them.” “And is it possible then,” said Jones, “you can think of deserting her?” “Why, what can I do?” answered the other. “Ask Miss Nancy,” replied Jones warmly. “In the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less,” cries Jones, “than fulfil the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether you have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are bound to proceed.”
“Sure, my friend,” replied Jones, “this couldn’t have been the case with your poor Nancy. You’ve won her heart so completely that it’s your absence, not her reputation, that’s hurting her, and it will lead to the downfall of her and her family.” “Well, on that note, I can assure you,” exclaimed Nightingale, “she has my heart so entirely that my future wife, whoever she is, will have very little of it.” “Is it really possible,” said Jones, “that you’re thinking of leaving her?” “What can I do?” the other replied. “Ask Miss Nancy,” Jones said passionately. “Given the situation you’ve put her in, I honestly believe she should decide what you owe her. Her interests, not yours, should be your main concern. But if you’re asking what you should do, what could be less than meeting the expectations of her family and her own? In fact, I genuinely believe those were mine too, ever since I first saw you together. You’ll forgive me for assuming on the friendship you’ve shown me, as I’m moved by compassion for those poor souls. But your own heart will best tell you whether your actions haven’t led both the mother and daughter to believe you intended to act honorably: and if that’s the case, even if there was no direct promise of marriage, I’ll leave it to your judgment how far you need to go.”
“Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted,” said Nightingale; “but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I have given.” “And can you, after owning that,” said Jones, “hesitate a moment?” “Consider, my friend,” answered the other; “I know you are a man of honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules; if there were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?” “Undoubtedly,” replied Jones, “and the very best and truest honour, which is goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind, you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family, and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you, with honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the thought, that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies for you; who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such contemplations as these a moment?”
“No, I have to admit more than what you’ve hinted at,” said Nightingale. “In fact, I’m afraid I’ve even made that very promise you mentioned.” “And can you, after acknowledging that,” replied Jones, “hesitate for even a second?” “Think about it, my friend,” the other responded. “I know you’re an honorable man and wouldn’t advise anyone to act against its principles. Even if there were no other concerns, how can I consider such a union with honor after her disgrace has been revealed?” “Absolutely,” Jones replied, “and the truest form of honor, which is goodness, demands it of you. Since you’ve brought up a concern like this, allow me to examine it further. Can you, with honor, admit to deceiving a young woman and her family under false pretenses, and betraying her innocence in the process? Can you, with honor, be knowingly, deliberately responsible for the downfall of another human being? Can you, with honor, ruin the reputation, peace, and possibly the life and soul of this young woman? Is it right to even think that this young woman is tender, helpless, and defenseless? A young woman who loves you, who adores you, who is suffering because of you; who has placed complete trust in your promises and sacrificed everything dear to her because of that trust? Can honor allow you to entertain such thoughts, even for a moment?”
“Common sense, indeed,” said Nightingale, “warrants all you say; but yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that, was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever showing my face again.”
“Common sense, for sure,” said Nightingale, “supports everything you say; but you know that everyone else thinks the opposite, so if I were to marry a prostitute, even my own, I would be embarrassed to ever show my face again.”
“Fie upon it, Mr Nightingale!” said Jones, “do not call her by so ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her she became your wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And what is this world which you would be ashamed to face but the vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false honour as its shadow.—But I am well assured there is not a man of real sense and goodness in the world who would not honour and applaud the action. But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my friend, applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to your imagination the circumstances of her fond despairing parent, driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely daughter. View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On the other side, consider yourself as relieving them from their temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to her pale cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness of all. Think of this little family made by one act of yours completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my friend if it requires any long deliberation whether he will sink these wretches down for ever, or, by one generous, noble resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do—That the misery from which you will relieve these poor people is the misery which you yourself have wilfully brought upon them.”
“Come on, Mr. Nightingale!” said Jones, “don't call her such an unkind name: when you promised to marry her, she became your wife; and her mistakes are more about being cautious than immoral. And what kind of world would you be ashamed to face but one filled with the vile, the foolish, and the reckless? Forgive me if I say that feeling ashamed comes from false modesty, which always follows false honor like a shadow. But I truly believe that there isn’t a person of genuine sense and goodness in the world who wouldn’t respect and praise the action. But even if no one else would, wouldn't your own heart, my friend, celebrate it? And don’t the warm, joyful feelings we get from just knowing we’ve done something honest, noble, and generous bring us more happiness than the unearned praise of millions? Look at the choice clearly. On one side, picture this poor, unhappy, loving girl in her mother’s arms, taking her last breaths. Hear her broken heart in anguish, sighing out your name, and lamenting, rather than blaming, the cruelty that drives her towards destruction. Imagine the state of her deeply distressed mother, pushed to madness, or possibly death, by the loss of her beautiful daughter. Picture the helpless, orphaned infant; and as you think about these things for just a moment, see yourself as the cause of all this tragedy for this poor, worthy, defenseless family. On the other side, imagine yourself lifting them out of their temporary suffering. Think of how joyfully that lovely girl will run to you. See her color return to her pale cheeks, her spark come back to her dull eyes, and her heart filled with joy. Consider the elation of her mother, the happiness of everyone involved. Picture how one act of yours could make this little family completely happy. Think about this choice, and I’m sure I’m wrong about my friend if it takes long deliberation to decide whether to let these people fall into despair forever or, with one generous, noble decision, lift them all from the edge of misery and despair to the highest level of human happiness. And add to this just one more thought: the fact that it’s your duty to do this—that the suffering you’ll relieve these poor people from is the suffering you’ve willingly caused.”
“O, my dear friend!” cries Nightingale, “I wanted not your eloquence to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult but my own, I would marry her to-morrow morning: I would, by heaven! but you will easily imagine how impossible it would be to prevail on my father to consent to such a match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and to-morrow, by his express command, I am to wait on the lady.”
“Oh, my dear friend!” cries Nightingale, “I didn’t need your words to wake me up. I feel so sorry for poor Nancy, and I would give anything I could to change the fact that we ever got close. Honestly, I struggled a lot with my feelings before I could force myself to write that cruel letter, which has caused all the pain in that unfortunate family. If I only listened to my own desires, I would marry her tomorrow morning: I swear I would! But you can imagine how impossible it would be to get my father to agree to such a match; besides, he has arranged someone else for me; and tomorrow, by his direct order, I have to meet the lady.”
“I have not the honour to know your father,” said Jones; “but, suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the only means of preserving these poor people?” “As eagerly as I would pursue my happiness,” answered Nightingale: “for I never shall find it in any other woman.—O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them: could my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be wanting to compleat my own happiness or that of my Nancy.”
“I don't have the honor of knowing your father,” said Jones; “but if he could be convinced, would you agree to the only way to save these poor people?” “As eagerly as I would chase my own happiness,” replied Nightingale. “I will never find it with any other woman. Oh, my dear friend! If you could understand what I’ve felt in the last twelve hours for my poor girl, you’d know she wouldn’t take up all your sympathy. My passion is solely for her; and if I had any silly scruples about honor, you've completely put them to rest: if my father could be persuaded to support my wishes, nothing would be lacking to complete my happiness or that of my Nancy.”
“Then I am resolved to undertake it,” said Jones. “You must not be angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given of the wretchedness of the family.”
“Then I’m determined to take it on,” said Jones. “You shouldn’t be mad at me, no matter how this situation needs to be framed, which, trust me, couldn’t stay hidden from him for long: matters like this spread quickly once they’re out in the open, as this unfortunately already has. Besides, if any tragic incident occurs, which I genuinely fear will unless we act fast, the public will talk about you in a way that, if your father has any humanity, will upset him. So, if you could let me know where I can find the old man, I won’t waste any time on this. While I’m handling it, you could do a really kind thing by visiting the poor girl. You'll see I haven’t exaggerated about how miserable the family is.”
Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said, “My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew my father you would never think of obtaining his consent.——Stay, there is one way—suppose you told him I was already married, it might be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the consequence.”
Nightingale immediately agreed to the proposal, and now, having informed Jones about his father's place and the coffee shop where he would likely find him, he paused for a moment and then said, “My dear Tom, you're about to take on an impossible task. If you knew my father, you wouldn't even think about getting his approval. —Wait, there is one way—what if you told him I was already married? It might be easier for him to accept it after the fact; and, honestly, I’m so moved by what you’ve said, and I love my Nancy so deeply, I almost wish it was already done, no matter what the consequences might be.”
Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the old gentleman.
Jones was really pleased with the suggestion and promised to follow up on it. They then went their separate ways, Nightingale heading to see his Nancy, and Jones looking for the old gentleman.
Chapter viii. — What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history.
Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same purpose; Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of them, expressly holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are some incidents in life so very strange and unaccountable, that it seems to require more than human skill and foresight in producing them.
Despite what the Roman satirist says about the lack of divine influence in fortune, and Seneca's similar view, Cicero, whom I believe was wiser than either of them, firmly disagrees. It’s clear that there are some events in life that are so odd and inexplicable that they seem to require more than just human skill and foresight to bring them about.
Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr Nightingale the elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she was really worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived such another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of the young lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for many hours; and the latter was just now gone, and had left the former delighted with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long contention, which had been between the two fathers of the future bride and bridegroom; in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and, as it not rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully satisfied of having obtained the victory.
What happened next to Jones was quite something, as he found Mr. Nightingale Sr. in such a crucial moment that Fortune, if she truly deserved all the praise she got in Rome, couldn't have orchestrated anything better. In short, the old man, who was the father of the young woman he hoped to match with his son, had been working hard for many hours. The young man had just left, and Mr. Nightingale was thrilled, believing he had finally won a long-standing argument between the two fathers of the future bride and groom. In this clash, both were trying to outsmart the other, and, as often happens, both ended up feeling completely satisfied with their perceived victory.
This gentleman, whom Mr Jones now visited, was what they call a man of the world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this world as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade; but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had lately declined his business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in goods, to dealing only in money, of which he had always a plentiful fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to make a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of private men, and sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed conversed so entirely with money, that it may be almost doubted whether he imagined there was any other thing really existing in the world; this at least may be certainly averred, that he firmly believed nothing else to have any real value.
This man, whom Mr. Jones was visiting, was what people call a man of the world; that is, a person who lives his life as if there’s no other world to consider, determined to make the most of this one. In his younger years, he was trained for trade, but after accumulating a good fortune, he recently stepped away from his business; or, more accurately, shifted from selling goods to dealing only in money, which he always had plenty of at his disposal and knew exactly how to turn into significant profit, sometimes taking advantage of individual needs and other times of public situations. He had indeed spent so much time dealing with money that it’s almost questionable whether he believed anything else actually existed in the world; at the very least, it can be said with certainty that he firmly believed nothing else held any real value.
The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled out a more improper person for Mr Jones to attack with any probability of success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a more unseasonable time.
I think the reader will agree that Fortune couldn't have picked a more unsuitable person for Mr. Jones to confront if he hoped for any chance of success; nor could the quirky lady have chosen a more ill-timed moment for this confrontation.
As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts, so the moment he saw a stranger within his doors it immediately occurred to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to bring him money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of the person who approached him.
As money was always on this gentleman's mind, the moment he saw a stranger at his door, he instantly thought that the stranger was either there to give him money or to take it from him. Depending on which thought dominated, he formed either a positive or negative impression of the person who approached him.
Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present; for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no sooner told him that he was come on his son's account than the old gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an exclamation, “That he would lose his labour.” “Is it then possible, sir,” answered Jones, “that you can guess my business?” “If I do guess it,” replied the other, “I repeat again to you, you will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one of those sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be instrumental in the ruin of nobody.” “How, sir,” said Jones, “and was this lady of your providing?” “Pray, sir,” answered the old gentleman, “how comes it to be any concern of yours?”—“Nay, dear sir,” replied Jones, “be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the satisfaction you have given me by what you say; for I do assure you your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour.—Nay, sir, it is not easy to express the esteem I have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him one of the happiest men upon earth.”
Unfortunately for Jones, the latter was currently in control; a young gentleman had visited him the day before with a bill from his son for a debt related to a play, and at the first sight of Jones, he worried that he had come for a similar purpose. As soon as Jones mentioned that he was there on his son's behalf, the old gentleman, confirming his suspicion, exclaimed, "You’re going to waste your time." “Is it really possible, sir,” replied Jones, “that you can guess why I’m here?” “If I do guess,” the other replied, “I'll say it again: you will waste your time. What, do I think you’re one of those guys leading my son into all those wild parties and sinful activities that will ruin him? I won’t be paying any more of his bills, I promise you. I expect him to cut ties with such company from now on. If I had thought otherwise, I wouldn’t have arranged a wife for him; I wouldn’t want to be part of anyone’s downfall.” “How, sir,” said Jones, “was this lady someone you arranged?” “Please, sir,” responded the old gentleman, “why is this any of your business?”—“Well, dear sir,” replied Jones, “please don’t be upset that I care about your son’s happiness, for I hold him in great esteem. That’s precisely why I came to see you. I can’t express how pleased I am with what you said; your son is someone I have the highest regard for.—No, sir, it’s hard to convey the respect I have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so kind, and so caring to arrange such a match for your son? A woman who, I’m sure, will make him one of the happiest men on earth.”
There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.
There’s hardly anything that brings us to like someone as much as initially being a bit scared of them. Once those fears start to fade away, we quickly forget the anxiety they caused and feel grateful to the very people who first frightened us for our current comfort.
Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased with his presence. “Pray, good sir,” said he, “be pleased to sit down. I do not remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before; but if you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy, it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty, in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy.” “Undoubtedly,” cries Jones, “for she is in herself a fortune; so beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she is indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and hath a most delicate hand at the harpsichord.” “I did not know any of these matters,” answered the old gentleman, “for I never saw the lady: but I do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am the better pleased with her father for not laying any stress on these qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these articles as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he never mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no disparagements to a woman.” “I do assure you, sir,” cries Jones, “she hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less inclined to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady; therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you, as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have mentioned, but many more.”—“If that was your business, sir,” said the old gentleman, “we are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her fortune.” “Sir,” answered Jones, “I honour you every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well as the nobleness of your mind.”——“Not so very moderate, young gentleman, not so very moderate,” answered the father.—“Still more and more noble,” replied Jones; “and give me leave to add, sensible: for sure it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. Such a woman as this with her little, her nothing of a fortune”—“I find,” cries the old gentleman, “you have a pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better acquainted with the person of the lady than with her circumstances. Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have?” “What fortune?” cries Jones, “why, too contemptible a one to be named for your son.”—“Well, well, well,” said the other, “perhaps he might have done better.”—“That I deny,” said Jones, “for she is one of the best of women.”—“Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean,” answered the other. “And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine your friend is to have?”—“How much?” cries Jones, “how much? Why, at the utmost, perhaps £200.” “Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?” said the father, a little angry. “No, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “I am in earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I ask her pardon.” “Indeed you do,” cries the father; “I am certain she hath fifty times that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son.” “Nay,” said Jones, “it is too late to talk of consent now; if she had not fifty farthings your son is married.”—“My son married!” answered the old gentleman, with surprize. “Nay,” said Jones, “I thought you was unacquainted with it.” “My son married to Miss Harris!” answered he again. “To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no, sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings—“—“Are you bantering, or are you in earnest?” cries the father, with a most solemn voice. “Indeed, sir,” answered Jones, “I scorn the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret.”
Thus it happened to Nightingale, who, as soon as he realized that Jones had no claim on him, as he suspected, began to enjoy his company. “Please, sir,” he said, “take a seat. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before; but if you are a friend of my son and have anything to say about this young lady, I’d like to hear it. As for her making him happy, it will be his own fault if she doesn’t. I’ve done my part by ensuring the main point. She will bring him a fortune that can make any reasonable, sensible, sober man happy.” “Absolutely,” exclaimed Jones, “for she is a fortune in herself; so beautiful, so refined, so sweet-natured, and so well-educated; she is indeed a most accomplished young lady; she sings incredibly well and plays the harpsichord beautifully.” “I wasn’t aware of any of this,” replied the old gentleman, “since I’ve never seen the lady: but I don’t dislike her for what you tell me; and I’m more pleased with her father for not focusing on these qualities in our deal. I’ll always regard it as a sign of his understanding. A foolish man would have emphasized these traits as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him credit, he never mentioned them, although they certainly don’t detract from a woman.” “I assure you, sir,” Jones said, “she possesses them all to the highest degree: personally, I was worried you might be a bit hesitant, a little less inclined towards the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady; therefore, I came, sir, to implore you, as you value your son’s happiness, not to oppose his match with a woman who has not only all the good qualities I’ve mentioned but many more.” “If that was your aim, sir,” said the old gentleman, “we both owe you thanks; and you can be completely at ease, for I assure you I was very satisfied with her fortune.” “Sir,” replied Jones, “I respect you more and more every moment. To be so easily satisfied and so moderate in that regard is a testament to both your sound judgment and the nobility of your character.” “Not so very moderate, young man, not so very moderate,” the father replied. “Even more noble,” said Jones; “and allow me to add, sensible: for it is almost madness to consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. A woman like her with her little, her nonexistent fortune—” “I see,” the old gentleman interjected, “you have a pretty good opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better acquainted with the lady than her situation. What fortune do you think this lady actually has?” “What fortune?” exclaimed Jones, “well, one too trivial to mention for your son.” “Well, well, well,” the other said, “perhaps he could have done better.” “I disagree,” said Jones, “for she is one of the best women.” “Yes, yes, but in terms of fortune, I mean,” the other answered. “But now, how much do you think your friend is getting?” “How much?” exclaimed Jones, “how much? At most, perhaps £200.” “Are you joking with me, young man?” the father asked, a bit angry. “No, I swear,” Jones replied, “I’m serious: in fact, I believe I’ve calculated to the last penny. If I’ve done the lady a disservice, I apologize.” “Indeed, you have,” the father retorted; “I’m certain she has fifty times that amount, and she must prove it before I agree to her marrying my son.” “Now,” said Jones, “it’s too late to discuss consent; if she had not fifty pennies, your son is already married.” “My son married!” the old gentleman exclaimed in surprise. “I thought you were unaware of it.” “My son married to Miss Harris!” he said again. “To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no, sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs. Miller, at whose house he stayed; a young lady, whose mother has been reduced to renting out rooms—” “Are you joking, or are you serious?” the father asked, in a very solemn tone. “Indeed, sir,” Jones replied, “I disdain the role of a joker. I approached you most sincerely, thinking, as I’ve now realized to be true, that your son had never dared inform you of a match so much beneath him in terms of fortune, although the lady’s reputation can no longer keep it a secret.”
While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.
While the father stood there, completely speechless at this news, a man walked into the room and greeted him as "brother."
But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who, though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a very large share.
But even though these two were closely related, their personalities were almost completely opposite. The brother who just arrived had also been raised in business, and as soon as he realized he was worth £6000, he bought a small estate with most of that money and moved to the countryside. There, he married the daughter of a clergyman without a proper income; she was a young woman who, despite lacking beauty and wealth, won his heart entirely with her great sense of humor.
With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden age, than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times. By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity, except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and his wife had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had actually refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little turned of forty, because she could not bring herself to part with her parents.
For twenty-five years, he lived with this woman in a way that felt more like the idealized golden age described by some poets than anything we see in today's world. They had four children, but only one daughter survived to adulthood, and they doted on her completely. She reciprocated their affection to such an extent that she turned down an exceptional marriage proposal from a man a bit over forty because she couldn't bear to leave her parents.
The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his son was a near neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and in reality it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew; for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person nor mind seemed to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity: for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and very ill-natured.
The young woman Mr. Nightingale had in mind for his son lived close to his brother and was a friend of his niece. In fact, he had come to town specifically to discuss this potential match, not to support it but to persuade his brother against it, as he believed it would surely ruin his nephew. He saw no positive outcome from a marriage with Miss Harris, despite her substantial fortune, since she didn’t seem to offer any sort of happiness in a relationship: she was extremely tall, very thin, quite unattractive, very pretentious, rather foolish, and quite unpleasant.
His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction; and when the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner:
His brother, therefore, as soon as he brought up his nephew's marriage to Miss Miller, expressed his complete satisfaction; and when the father had harshly condemned his son and declared him to be destitute, the uncle began in the following manner:
“If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose, and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.
“If you were a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose, and I assume you think it’s for his sake; and surely it is his happiness that you had in mind with the marriage you proposed for him.
“Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends entirely on the affection which subsists between the parties.
“Now, brother, telling others how to be happy has always seemed very ridiculous to me, and insisting on doing it feels quite dictatorial. I know it’s a common mistake, but it’s still a mistake. And if this is foolish in other matters, it’s particularly so when it comes to marriage, where happiness completely relies on the love between the partners.”
“I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force affection is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion.
“I have always found it unreasonable for parents to want to choose for their children in this matter; since forcing affection is an impossible task. In fact, love resists force so much that I can’t help but wonder if, due to an unfortunate but unchangeable flaw in our nature, it might even be resistant to persuasion.”
“It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think, wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew, therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority when you absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen and known as well as I, it must have been madness in you to have ever thought of bringing her into your family?
“It’s true that while a parent shouldn’t dictate choices, I believe they should be consulted in situations like this; and to be fair, they should at least have a say. So, my nephew, I admit that by marrying without seeking your advice, he has made a mistake. But honestly, brother, haven’t you played a part in this mistake? Haven’t your repeated statements on this topic given him a strong impression that you would refuse him if there were any issues with money? Isn’t your current anger mostly due to that financial shortfall? And if he has fallen short in his responsibilities here, didn’t you exceed your authority when you made a deal with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom you’ve never even met, and whom, if you had known her as well as I do, it would have been completely irrational to even consider bringing her into your family?”
“Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and will acknowledge that you consulted his interest only, and if he unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry him still wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother, because he hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as you would, will you distress them as much as you can?”
“I still think my nephew made a mistake, but it’s not an unforgivable one. He acted without your approval in a situation where he should have asked for it, but it’s something that mainly affects his own interests. You have to admit that you were thinking only of his well-being, and if he unfortunately sees things differently and has a mistaken idea of happiness, will you, brother, if you care for your son, push him even further away from what he wants? Will you make the negative consequences of his simple choice worse? Will you try to turn a situation that might only lead to disappointment into a guaranteed misery for him? In short, brother, just because he has taken away your ability to ensure his life is as comfortable as you want it to be, will you make his life as difficult as possible?”
By the force of the true Catholic faith St Anthony won upon the fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed over habitual avarice.
Through the power of true Catholic faith, St. Anthony gained the loyalty of the fish. Orpheus and Amphion took it a step further and, through the magic of music, enchanted inanimate objects. Both are incredible! However, neither history nor legend has ever recorded anyone who has, through logic and reason, conquered persistent greed.
Mr Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their children. “I wish,” said he, “brother, you would have confined your care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by your example.” For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had often declared he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.
Mr. Nightingale, the father, instead of trying to respond to his brother, simply noted that they had always disagreed about how to raise their kids. “I wish,” he said, “brother, that you’d focused your attention on your own daughter and not interfered with my son, who I believe has gained as little from your teachings as he has from your behavior.” Young Nightingale was his uncle's godson and had spent more time with him than with his father. Because of this, the uncle had often stated that he loved his nephew almost as much as his own child.
Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his nephew at the house of Mrs Miller.
Jones was thrilled with this good gentleman; and when, after a lot of persuasion, they saw that the father was getting more and more irritated instead of calmed down, Jones took the uncle to see his nephew at Mrs. Miller's house.
Chapter ix. — Containing strange matters.
At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The mother, the two daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that house.
Upon returning to his place, Jones found everything had changed significantly since he left. The mother, her two daughters, and young Mr. Nightingale were sitting down to supper together when the uncle, who wanted to join, was introduced to the group without any formalities, as they all knew him well; he had visited his nephew at that house several times before.
The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister; and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first performed.
The old gentleman quickly approached Miss Nancy, greeted her, and wished her happiness, just as he later did with her mother and sister. Finally, he extended the same polite compliments to his nephew, with the same humor and courtesy, as if his nephew had married someone of equal or greater social status, after meeting all the necessary requirements first.
Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but Mrs Miller took the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.
Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale and looked more foolish than anything else in that moment; but Mrs. Miller seized the first chance to leave. After calling Jones into the dining room, she threw herself at his feet and, in a passionate outpouring of tears, called him her good angel, the savior of her little family, along with many other respectful and affectionate names. She expressed every bit of gratitude that the greatest favor could inspire from the most thankful heart.
After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded to inform Mr Jones that all matters were settled between Mr Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the next morning; at which Mr Jones having expressed much pleasure, the poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with him back to the company, whom they found in the same good humour in which they had left them.
After the initial rush of her excitement faded, which she said would have overwhelmed her if she hadn't expressed it, she informed Mr. Jones that everything was arranged between Mr. Nightingale and her daughter, and they were set to get married the next morning. Mr. Jones expressed his happiness, and the poor woman once again fell into a fit of joy and gratitude, which he eventually managed to calm down and persuaded her to go back with him to the group, who were in the same cheerful mood they had left them in.
This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr Nightingale, taking the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:—
This little group had just spent two or three really enjoyable hours together, during which the uncle, who loved his drinks, had gotten his nephew to the point where, although he wasn't drunk, he was starting to feel a bit tipsy. Now Mr. Nightingale, inviting the old gentleman upstairs to the room he had recently occupied, opened up to him as follows:—
“As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match, which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything.” He then confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.
“As you have always been the best and kindest uncle to me, and since you’ve shown such amazing grace in accepting this match, which might seem a bit reckless, I would never forgive myself if I tried to mislead you in any way.” He then admitted the truth and explained everything.
“How, Jack?” said the old gentleman, “and are you really then not married to this young woman?” “No, upon my honour,” answered Nightingale, “I have told you the simple truth.” “My dear boy,” cries the uncle, kissing him, “I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was better pleased in my life. If you had been married I should have assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad matter; but there is a great difference between considering a thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do. Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no need of any dissuasive arguments.” “How, sir?” replies young Nightingale, “is there this difference between having already done an act, and being in honour engaged to do it?” “Pugh!” said the uncle, “honour is a creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought; even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these engagements.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” cries Nightingale, “I can never think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should look upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of all methods, by breaking her heart.” “Break her heart, indeed! no, no, Jack,” cries the uncle, “the hearts of women are not so soon broke; they are tough, boy, they are tough.” “But, sir,” answered Nightingale, “my own affections are engaged, and I never could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?” “Why, ay,” replied the old gentleman, “so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse wisely.—Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl.”——“Indeed, uncle,” cries the other, “I must and will have her.” “You will, young gentleman;” said the uncle; “I did not expect such a word from you. I should not wonder if you had used such language to your father, who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter, now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her.” “You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,” said Nightingale; “for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her inclinations.” “Don't abuse my girl,” answered the old gentleman with some emotion; “don't abuse my Harriet. I have brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit of being pleased to do whatever I like.” “Pardon, me, sir,” said Nightingale, “I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me.—But, dear sir, let us return to the company; for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her mother.” “Oh! you need not fear me,” answered he, “I understand myself too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour; and in return I must expect another of you.” “There are but few of your commands, sir,” said Nightingale, “which I shall not very chearfully obey.” “Nay, sir, I ask nothing,” said the uncle, “but the honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in his own opinion, is the wisest man in the world.”
“How, Jack?” said the old gentleman, “are you really not married to this young woman?” “No, I swear,” answered Nightingale, “I’ve told you the simple truth.” “My dear boy,” exclaimed the uncle, kissing him, “I’m really glad to hear it. I have never been more pleased in my life. If you had been married, I would have done everything I could to make the best of a bad situation; but there’s a big difference between dealing with something that’s already done and can’t be changed, and something that is still to be done. Let your reason take its course, Jack, and you’ll see this match in such a foolish and absurd light that you won’t need any arguments against it.” “How so, sir?” replied young Nightingale, “is there really this difference between having already done something and being honorably engaged to do it?” “Nonsense!” said the uncle, “honor is a creation of the world, and the world can control and shape it as it wishes. You know very well how trivial these breaches of contract are considered; even the most egregious ones are just a topic of conversation for a day. Is there a man who would be more hesitant to give you his sister or daughter afterward? Or is there any sister or daughter who would hesitate to accept you? Honor doesn’t play a role in these engagements.” “Excuse me, dear sir,” cried Nightingale, “I can’t think that way; not just honor, but conscience and humanity are at stake. I’m convinced that if I were to disappoint the young woman, it would lead to her death, and I would see myself as her murderer; indeed, her murderer in the cruelest way, by breaking her heart.” “Break her heart, really? No, no, Jack,” said the uncle, “women’s hearts aren’t so easily broken; they’re tough, boy, they’re tough.” “But, sir,” Nightingale replied, “my own feelings are engaged, and I could never be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say that children should always be allowed to choose for themselves, and that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?” “Well, yes,” replied the old gentleman, “I would have them choose; but I would want them to choose wisely. Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl.” “Indeed, uncle,” cried Nightingale, “I must and will have her.” “You will, young man,” said the uncle; “I didn’t expect to hear that from you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you said such things to your father, who has always treated you poorly, keeping you at the distance a tyrant keeps from his subjects; but I, who have lived with you on equal terms, expected better from you: but I see I have to account for it all; it’s all because of your ridiculous upbringing, in which I have had too little input. Look at my daughter, for example; I’ve raised her as my friend, and she never does anything without my advice, nor does she ever refuse it when I give it.” “You’ve never given her advice about matters like this,” said Nightingale; “I’m sure my cousin wouldn’t be too eager to obey your most emphatic orders about abandoning her feelings.” “Don’t speak ill of my girl,” replied the old gentleman, somewhat emotionally; “don’t speak ill of my Harriet. I’ve raised her to have no feelings that go against mine. By letting her do whatever she wants, I’ve gotten her used to doing what I like.” “Forgive me, sir,” said Nightingale, “I don’t mean to speak negatively about my cousin, whom I hold in great respect; and really, I believe you’ll never put her through such a harsh trial, or place such difficult demands on her as you would on me. But, dear sir, let’s return to the company; they’ll start to get uneasy with our long absence. I must ask one favor of my dear uncle, which is that he doesn’t say anything to upset the poor girl or her mother.” “Oh! You don’t need to worry about me,” he replied, “I know myself well enough not to offend women; so I’ll gladly grant you that favor; and in return, I expect another favor from you.” “There are few of your requests, sir,” said Nightingale, “that I won’t wholeheartedly comply with.” “Well, I’m asking for nothing,” said the uncle, “except for the honor of your company home to my place, so that I can discuss this situation a bit more with you; because I would, if possible, like the satisfaction of keeping my family intact, despite the stubborn foolishness of my brother, who thinks he’s the wisest man in the world.”
Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with the same decorum which he had before maintained.
Nightingale, who knew his uncle was just as stubborn as his father, agreed to take him home, and then they both went back into the room, where the old man promised to behave with the same decorum he had maintained before.
Chapter x. — A short chapter, which concludes the book.
The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as, during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.
The uncle and nephew had been gone for so long that it started to worry everyone they left behind. This was especially true because, during their earlier conversation, the uncle had raised his voice several times to make sure he could be heard downstairs. Even though they couldn't make out what he was saying, it led to a feeling of unease in Nancy, her mother, and even in Jones himself.
When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds, from June to December.
When the group gathered again, there was a noticeable change in everyone’s expressions; the cheerful vibe that had been evident on all their faces during their last meeting was now replaced with a much less pleasant look. It was a shift that was, in fact, quite common for the weather in this area, going from sunny to cloudy, from June to December.
This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.
This change didn't really stand out to anyone there; since they were all trying to hide their own thoughts and play a role, they became too caught up in the situation to actually observe it. So neither the uncle nor the nephew noticed any signs of doubt from the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter pick up on the exaggerated ease of the old man or the fake satisfaction that showed on the young man's face.
Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
Something like this often happens, where both friends are so focused on their own roles that they can’t see or suspect the tricks being played against them; therefore, each one ends up getting caught in the other's scheme.
From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in payment.
For the same reason, it's not uncommon for both sides to be taken advantage of in a deal, although one side usually ends up losing more; like the person who sold a blind horse and got a bad check in return.
Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all his engagements.
Our group broke up in about half an hour, and the uncle took his nephew away; but not before the nephew quietly assured Miss Nancy that he would see her early in the morning and keep all his promises.
Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.
Jones, who seemed the least bothered in this situation, actually noticed the most. He suspected something was up; in addition to seeing the big change in the uncle’s behavior, the distance he kept, and his excessive politeness to Miss Nancy, the fact that a groom was being taken away from his bride at that time of night was so out of the ordinary that the only explanation could be that young Nightingale had spilled the whole truth, which his open personality and the fact that he was tipsy made very likely.
While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.——He went immediately out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery, and on that of his unfortunate angel.
While he was thinking about whether he should tell these poor people his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him that a lady wanted to speak with him. He went out right away, took the candle from the maid, and led his visitor upstairs. It was Mrs. Honour, who brought him such terrible news about his Sophia that he completely forgot about everyone else. All his compassion was consumed by thoughts of his own misery and that of his unfortunate angel.
What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and those will be the subject of the following book.
What this terrible situation was will be revealed to the reader after we first describe the many earlier events that led to it, and those will be the focus of the following book.
BOOK XV. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i. — Too short to need a preface.
There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have but one objection, namely, that it is not true.
There are some moral writers who claim that being virtuous is the sure path to happiness, while being immoral leads to misery in this world. It's a positive and reassuring belief, but we have one main issue with it: it's not true.
Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point; for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages, to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue; for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites, those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant gratification of every sensual appetite.
Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean practicing those core virtues that, like good homemakers, focus only on their own family's affairs, I will readily agree; because all these definitely contribute to happiness, I could almost wish to call them wisdom instead of virtue, defying all ancient and modern philosophers. As far as this life goes, I believe no system was ever wiser than that of the ancient Epicureans, who thought this wisdom was the highest good; nor was there ever a more foolish viewpoint than that of their opposites, the modern epicureans, who see all happiness in the excessive satisfaction of every physical desire.
But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness; because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by the above virtue have brought themselves thither.
But if by virtue we mean (as I think we should) a certain relative quality that always seems to be focused on helping others as much as itself, I can't easily agree that this is the best path to human happiness. I worry that we may then have to include poverty and scorn, along with all the harm that gossip, jealousy, and ingratitude can cause people, in our definition of happiness. In fact, sometimes we might even have to follow this so-called happiness to a jail, since many people have ended up there because of that same virtue.
I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation, as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
I don't have the time to dive into such a vast area of speculation that's opening up for me; my goal was to address a belief that was obstructing me. While Mr. Jones was playing the most virtuous role imaginable by trying to save his fellow humans from ruin, the devil, or some other malevolent spirit, possibly disguised in human form, was working tirelessly to make him utterly miserable by ruining his Sophia.
This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of immortality.
This seems to be an exception to the rule mentioned earlier, if it can even be considered a rule. However, since we've encountered so many other exceptions in our journey through life, we choose to challenge the belief it's based on. We don't think it's Christian, we’re convinced it's not true, and it actually undermines one of the strongest reasons that logic can provide for believing in immortality.
But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
But since the reader’s curiosity (if they have any) must be awake and eager by now, we will do our best to satisfy it as quickly as we can.
Chapter ii. — In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general; but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
I remember a wise old man who used to say, “When kids are doing nothing, they’re up to trouble.” I won’t expand on this charming saying to cover all of creation, but I can say that when the effects of female jealousy aren’t visible in their typical forms of anger and fury, we can suspect that sneaky feelings are at play behind the scenes, trying to undermine what they won’t confront openly.
This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented itself to her.
This was shown in Lady Bellaston’s behavior, who, beneath all the smiles on her face, hid a lot of anger toward Sophia. Since she clearly saw that this young woman was in the way of her getting what she wanted, she decided to get rid of her by any means necessary. It wasn’t long before a very good opportunity to do this came along.
The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him, that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who had very safely conducted her to her chair.
The reader might be glad to recall that when Sophia was thrown into distress at the theater by the jokes and antics of some young men who refer to themselves as the town, we informed him that she had taken refuge with a young nobleman who safely escorted her to her carriage.
This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in love with her.
This nobleman, who often visited Lady Bellaston, had seen Sophia there multiple times since she arrived in town and had developed a strong liking for her. This affection, as beauty often appears more captivating in times of distress, had grown even more during this frightening situation, so he could now, without much hesitation, be considered truly in love with her.
It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have prompted him to pay her a visit.
It’s easy to believe that he wouldn’t let such a great opportunity to get to know the person he loves pass by, especially since even basic manners would suggest he should go see her.
The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia, with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm from her last night's adventure.
The next morning after the incident, he went to see Sophia, offering the usual compliments and expressing hope that she had not been hurt from her adventure the night before.
As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence, even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the very reverse of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.
As love, like fire, once fully ignited, quickly blazes up, Sophia completed her conquest in no time. Time flew by unnoticed, and the noble lord had spent two hours with the lady before it occurred to him that he had overstayed his welcome. This alone would have alarmed Sophia, who was better at keeping track of time now; she had much clearer signs from her lover’s eyes about what was going on in his heart. Although he didn’t openly declare his feelings, many of his words were far too passionate and tender to be dismissed as just friendliness, even during a time when such friendliness was common; quite the opposite is well known to be the case today.
Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time she saw this young couple together. This business, she rightly I think concluded, that she should by no means forward by mixing in the company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants, that when my lord was going, they should tell him she desired to speak with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would very readily embrace the execution of.
Lady Bellaston had been informed about his lordship's visit as soon as he arrived; and the length of his stay reassured her that things were going as she wanted, which she had suspected the second time she saw this young couple together. She accurately concluded that she should not interfere by joining them while they were together; so, she instructed her servants to let my lord know that she wanted to speak with him as he was leaving. In the meantime, she thought about the best way to carry out a plan that she was sure his lordship would eagerly agree to.
Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the following strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see you about an affair of some importance.”——“Indeed, Lady Bellaston,” said he, “I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had staid above half-a-one.”——“What am I to conclude from thence, my lord?” said she. “The company must be very agreeable which can make time slide away so very deceitfully.”——“Upon my honour,” said he, “the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a sudden?”——“What blazing star, my lord?” said she, affecting a surprize. “I mean,” said he, “the lady I saw here the other day, whom I had last night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been making that unreasonable visit.”——“O, my cousin Western!” said she; “why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire, and hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first time.”——“Upon my soul,” said he, “I should swear she had been bred up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so genteel, so sensible, so polite.”——“O brave!” cries the lady, “my cousin hath you, I find.”——“Upon my honour,” answered he, “I wish she had; for I am in love with her to distraction.”——“Nay, my lord,” said she, “it is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and her father's estate is a good £3000 a-year.” “Then I can assure you, madam,” answered the lord, “I think her the best match in England.” “Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I heartily wish you had her.” “If you think so kindly of me, madam,” said he, “as she is a relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her father?” “And are you really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with an affected gravity. “I hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better opinion of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an affair of this kind.” “Indeed, then,” said the lady, “I will most readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe, assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I blush to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever be able to conquer.” “Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he, “you have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of being.” “Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should rather hope I had struck fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather imagined you would have asked your rival's name, that you might have immediately entered the lists with him.” “I promise you, madam,” answered he, “there are very few things I would not undertake for your charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?”—“Why, he is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say most happy men with us are, one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your lordship's footmen.” “And is it possible,” cried he, “that a young creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so unworthily?” “Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider the country—the bane of all young women is the country. There they learn a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, which this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a whole winter.” “Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is of too immense a value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented.” “Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think, intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. And to deal more openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with him.” “What you tell me, Lady Bellaston,” answered his lordship, “affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship endeavoured to reason with her?” Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My dear lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman out of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the jewels they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure their folly; but this is a medicine which I am certain she will not take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. In short, nothing but violent methods will do.” “What is to be done?” cries my lord; “what methods are to be taken?—Is there any method upon earth?—Oh! Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such a reward.”——“I really know not,” answered the lady, after a pause; and then pausing again, she cried out—“Upon my soul, I am at my wit's end on this girl's account.—If she can be preserved, something must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods will do.——If your lordship hath really this attachment to my cousin (and to do her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which she will soon see her folly, she is every way deserving), I think there may be one way, indeed, it is a very disagreeable one, and what I am almost afraid to think of.—It requires a great spirit, I promise you.” “I am not conscious, madam,” said he, “of any defect there; nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an egregious defect indeed, which could make me backward on this occasion.” “Nay, my lord,” answered she, “I am so far from doubting you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such a confidence in your honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on any consideration.” In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him no more than justice, in speaking well of him. “Well, then,” said she, “my lord,—I—I vow, I can't bear the apprehension of it.—No, it must not be.——At least every other method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss Western.—I promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all go soon—and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some method to convince you of her attachment to this fellow.” My lord made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or to reckon by the old style, in the afternoon.
Lord Fellamar (that was the title of this young nobleman) was barely introduced to her ladyship when she immediately said, “Goodness, my lord, you’re still here? I thought my servants had messed up and let you leave; I wanted to talk to you about something important.” — “Indeed, Lady Bellaston,” he replied, “I can see why you’re surprised about the length of my visit; I’ve been here over two hours, and I thought it was only half an hour.” — “What should I conclude from that, my lord?” she asked. “It must mean you’re very agreeable company if time flies by so quickly.” — “I swear,” he said, “you are the most delightful company I’ve ever encountered. Please tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is this shining star you’ve brought into our midst so suddenly?” — “What shining star, my lord?” she said, pretending to be surprised. “I mean,” he said, “the young lady I saw here the other day, whom I held in my arms at the playhouse last night, and to whom I’ve been making that unreasonable visit.” — “Oh, my cousin Western!” she exclaimed; “well, that shining star, my lord, is the daughter of a country bumpkin squire, and she’s been in town for about two weeks for the first time.” — “I swear,” he said, “I would think she was raised in a court; besides her beauty, I’ve never seen anyone so refined, so smart, so polite.” — “Oh, wonderful!” the lady exclaimed, “my cousin has captured your heart, I see.” — “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “I wish she had; because I’m in love with her to distraction.” — “Well, my lord,” she said, “that’s not very good for you either, since she is quite a fortune: I assure you, she’s an only child, and her father’s estate is a solid £3000 a year.” “Then I can assure you, madam,” he replied, “I consider her the best match in England.” “Indeed, my lord,” she said, “if you like her, I sincerely hope you get her.” “If you think so kindly of me, madam,” he said, “since she’s a relative of yours, will you do me the honor of proposing it to her father?” “And are you really serious?” the lady asked, with a feigned seriousness. “I hope, madam,” he replied, “you think better of me than to believe I would joke with you about something like this.” “Well then,” said the lady, “I will gladly suggest your lordship to her father; and I believe I can assure you of his happy acceptance of the proposal; but there is one obstacle, which I’m almost ashamed to mention; yet it’s one you’ll never be able to overcome. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I’m embarrassed to say, neither you nor anyone else will ever be able to surpass.” “Oh, Lady Bellaston,” he exclaimed, “you’ve brought a chill to my heart that’s almost made me faint.” “Don't be silly, my lord,” she said, “I’d rather hope I’ve ignited a spark in you. A lover discussing chills in his heart! I would think you would have asked for your rival’s name right away, so you could challenge him.” “I promise, madam,” he replied, “there are very few things I wouldn’t do for your charming cousin; but please, who is this fortunate man?” — “Well,” she answered, “what I’m sorry to say is that most fortunate men with us are just the lowest sort of fellows. He’s a beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a man in poorer circumstances than one of your lordship’s footmen.” “Is it possible,” he cried, “that such a young woman with those perfections could even consider marrying so unworthy a man?” “Alas! my lord,” she replied, “consider the countryside—the worst thing for young women is the countryside. That’s where they develop a romantic notion of love and other foolishness that this town and good company can hardly eradicate in a whole winter.” “Indeed, madam,” the lord responded, “your cousin is too valuable to be wasted; this disaster must be prevented.” “Oh, my lord,” she cried, “how can it be prevented? The family has done everything in their power; but the girl is, I think, infatuated, and nothing less than ruin will satisfy her. And to be completely honest with you, I expect to hear any day that she’s run away with him.” “What you’ve told me, Lady Bellaston,” the lord said, “deeply affects me, and only increases my admiration for your cousin, instead of diminishing it. We must find a way to preserve such a priceless jewel. Have you tried to reason with her?” Here the lady laughed and said, “My dear lord, surely you know us better than to suggest reasoning with a young woman out of her feelings? These priceless jewels are as deaf as the jewels they wear: time, my lord, is the only remedy to cure their folly; but this is a remedy I’m sure she won’t accept; nay, I live in constant dread for her. In short, nothing but forceful methods will work.” “What can we do?” my lord asked; “what methods should we take? — Is there any method on earth? — Oh! Lady Bellaston! I would do anything for such a reward.” — “I really don’t know,” the lady replied after a pause, and then pausing again, she exclaimed, “I swear, I’m at my wit's end regarding this girl. — If she can be saved, something must be done immediately; and, as I’ve said, nothing but forceful methods will do. — If your lordship truly has feelings for my cousin (and to do her justice, aside from this silly crush which she’ll soon realize is foolish, she’s deserving in every way), I think there may be one way, indeed it’s a very unpleasant way, and I’m almost afraid to consider it. — It requires great courage, I promise you.” “I’m not aware, madam,” he said, “of any lack of courage; nor do I hope to be suspected of any such thing. It must be a serious flaw indeed that would hold me back in this situation.” “No, my lord,” she replied, “I have no doubts about you; I’m much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must take a tremendous risk. In short, I must place such trust in your honor that a wise woman would seldom place in a man under any circumstances.” On this point, my lord thoroughly reassured her; his reputation was spotless, and public opinion did nothing but justice in speaking well of him. “Well, then,” she said, “my lord, I—I can’t bear the thought of it. — No, it can’t happen. — At least every other method shall be tried. Can you cancel your engagements and dine here today? Your lordship will have the chance to see a little more of Miss Western. — I assure you we have no time to lose. There will be nobody here except Lady Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all leave soon—and I won’t be available to anyone else. Then your lordship can be a little more open. No, I will figure out some way to show you her attachment to this fellow.” My lord made the appropriate compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they parted to get ready, it being now past three in the morning, or in old-time reckoning, in the afternoon.
Chapter iii. — A further explanation of the foregoing design.
Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society which not long since flourished in this kingdom.
Though the reader may have long concluded that Lady Bellaston was a significant member of high society, she was actually a very prominent figure in a smaller, yet equally worthy and respectable community that had recently thrived in this kingdom.
Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the members should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that every member should, within the twenty-four hours, tell at least one merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren and sisterhood.
Among other positive principles that this society was founded on, there was one very notable one; for, just like an honorable group of heroes who gathered at the end of the recent war, it was a rule that every member should engage in at least one fight each day. In this case, the rule was that every member should tell at least one playful lie within a twenty-four hour period, which was then to be shared by all the brothers and sisters.
Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he sat in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but, upon very strict enquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of very good sort of people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good humour.
Many silly stories were told about this society, which, for some reason, might not be completely unfairly thought to have come from the society itself. For example, that the devil was the president and that he personally sat in an armchair at the head of the table. However, after a thorough investigation, I discovered that none of those stories were true, and that the group actually consisted of very decent people. The lies they spread were harmless and only aimed to create laughter and good spirits.
Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be till the evening, when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and while they were engaged in a rubber at whist.
Edwards was also a member of this humorous group. So, Lady Bellaston approached him as a suitable tool for her plans and gave him a lie to tell whenever she signaled him; that wouldn't happen until the evening, when everyone except Lord Fellamar and him had left, and while they were playing a game of whist.
To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than if you lived out of it.”
To this time, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we will bring our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss Western, and Tom, were playing whist and in the last game of their rubbers, Tom got his hint from Lady Bellaston, who said, “I have to say, Tom, you’ve become unbearable lately; you used to keep us updated on all the news in town, and now you know less about the world than if you lived in a cave.”
Mr Edwards then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, madam: it lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking of.——O la! though now I think on't there hath a terrible accident befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.——Poor Ned.——You know him, my lord, everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him.”
Mr. Edwards then started: “It's not my fault, ma'am; it's the boredom of this time that brings nothing worth discussing.——Oh dear! Now that I think of it, there's been a terrible accident involving poor Colonel Wilcox.——Poor Ned.——You know him, my lord; everyone knows him. Honestly! I’m really worried about him.”
“What is it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston.
“What is it, please?” says Lady Bellaston.
“Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all.”
“Why, he killed a man this morning in a duel, that’s all.”
His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had killed? To which Edwards answered, “A young fellow we none of us know; a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near relation of one Mr Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.—Upon my soul, he is one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!”
His lordship, who was not in the loop, asked seriously, who he had killed? To which Edwards replied, “A young guy none of us know; a Somersetshire lad who just came to town, his name is Jones; a close relative of one Mr. Allworthy, of whom I believe you've heard, my lord. I saw the lad lying dead in a coffee house.—Honestly, he is one of the finest corpses I've ever seen in my life!”
Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter part of the story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a third, at last dropt the rest from her hand, and fell back in her chair.
Sophia, who had just started to deal since Tom mentioned that a man was killed, paused and listened carefully (because all stories like that affected her). But as soon as he got to the last part of the story, she started dealing again; and after dealing three cards to one player, seven to another, and ten to a third, she finally dropped the rest of the cards from her hand and sank back into her chair.
The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at her earnest desire, led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth, attempted to carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.
The company acted like they usually do in these situations. The usual commotion happened, the usual help was called for, and Sophia, as always, came back to her senses. Soon after, at her insistence, she was taken to her room; where, at my lord's request, Lady Bellaston informed her of what really happened, tried to pass it off as one of her own jokes, and reassured her repeatedly that neither his lordship nor Tom, even though she had filled him in on the story, knew the real details of the situation.
There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two noble persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully resolved too, to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage), yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation.
There was no further evidence needed to convince Lord Fellamar how accurately Lady Bellaston had presented the case to him; and now, upon her return to the room, a plan was devised between these two nobles. Although it didn’t seem too terrible to him (as he honestly promised and fully intended to make it right with marriage), we’re sure many of our readers will view it with just disdain.
The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for the purpose, most of the servants despatched out of the house; and for Mrs Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to engage her in an apartment as distant as possible from the scene of the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.
The next evening at seven was set for the dangerous plan, when Lady Bellaston arranged for Sophia to be alone, and his lordship to be introduced to her. The entire family was organized for this purpose, and most of the servants were sent out of the house. Mrs. Honour, who was to stay with her mistress until his lordship arrived to avoid suspicion, would be occupied by Lady Bellaston in a room as far away as possible from where the trouble was meant to happen, and out of earshot of Sophia.
Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually to remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with Jones, by a means of which she should never appear to be guilty, even if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which all the rest of her family would rejoice.
With everything settled, his lordship took his leave, and her ladyship went to bed feeling very pleased with a plan she was confident would succeed. It promised to effectively remove Sophia as an obstacle to her romance with Jones, in a way that would make her seem innocent, even if the truth became public. However, she was sure she could prevent that by rushing into a marriage that she believed the distressed Sophia would easily agree to, which would also make the rest of her family happy.
But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly described by Shakespear—
But things were not so calm for the other conspirator; his mind was tossed in all the distracting anxiety so eloquently described by Shakespeare—
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.”—— “Between the act of doing something awful and the first move, all the time in between feels like a nightmare, or a terrible dream; the spirit and the human tools are then debating; and the condition of a person, like a small kingdom, suffers from the nature of a rebellion.”
Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the first hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation of the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the action itself in all its natural black colours before his eyes, with all the consequences which must, and those which might probably attend it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night, between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he determined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.
Even though his intense passion made him jump at the first suggestion of this plan, especially since it came from a relative of the lady, once he had time to reflect—thanks to his pillow—he could see the situation in all its dark reality, along with all the consequences that would definitely or probably follow. His determination started to weaken, or rather shift to the opposite side; after a long night of battling between honor and desire, honor eventually won out, and he decided to pay a visit to Lady Bellaston and abandon the plan.
Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia sitting by her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him to stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no sooner departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her cousin not to encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a little unjustly) upon her account. “I see his design,” said she; “for he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am resolved never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together any more, and to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may be always denied to him.”
Lady Bellaston was in bed, despite it being very late in the morning, with Sophia sitting by her bedside when the servant informed her that Lord Fellamar was downstairs in the parlor. Her ladyship asked him to wait, saying she would see him soon; but as soon as the servant left, poor Sophia began to plead with her cousin not to encourage the visits of that detestable lord (as she referred to him, though perhaps a bit unfairly). “I see what he’s up to,” she said; “he was making a blatant pass at me yesterday morning. But since I’m determined not to entertain it, I kindly ask you not to leave us alone together again and to instruct the servants that if he asks for me, I should always be denied access to him.”
“La! child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls have nothing but sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is civil to you is making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows about town, and I am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make love to you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him.”
“Wow, child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls only think about romance; you believe every guy who is nice to you is flirting. He’s one of the most charming young men in town, and I’m sure he’s just being a bit charming. Flirting with you, really! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be completely crazy to turn him down.”
“But as I shall certainly be that mad woman,” cries Sophia, “I hope his visits shall not be intruded upon me.”
“But I’m definitely going to be that crazy woman,” Sophia exclaims, “I hope he won’t come to see me uninvited.”
“O child!” said Lady Bellaston, “you need not be so fearful; if you resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who can hinder you.”
“O child!” said Lady Bellaston, “you don’t have to be so scared; if you decide to run away with that Jones, I know no one who can stop you.”
“Upon my honour, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship injures me. I will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my father's inclinations.”
“On my honor, ma'am,” Sophia exclaims, “you’re hurting me. I will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry against my father's wishes.”
“Well, Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you are not in a humour to see company this morning, you may retire to your own apartment; for I am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him up into my dressing-room.”
“Well, Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you're not in the mood to see anyone this morning, you can go back to your room; because I’m not intimidated by his lordship, and I need to call him up to my dressing room.”
Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently afterwards Fellamar was admitted upstairs.
Sophia thanked her lady and left; shortly after, Fellamar was allowed upstairs.
Chapter iv. — By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's scruples, she treated them with the same disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young witness. “My dear lord,” said she, “you certainly want a cordial. I must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie upon it! have more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or are you apprehensive——? Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I should think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of the lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is another story of the Sabine ladies—and that too, I thank heaven, is very antient. Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook tells us, they made tolerable good wives afterwards. I fancy few of my married acquaintance were ravished by their husbands.” “Nay, dear Lady Bellaston,” cried he, “don't ridicule me in this manner.” “Why, my good lord,” answered she, “do you think any woman in England would not laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she might wear in her countenance?——You force me to use a strange kind of language, and to betray my sex most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to serve my cousin; for I think you will make her a husband notwithstanding this; or, upon my soul, I would not even persuade her to fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not upbraid me hereafter with having lost a man of spirit; for that his enemies allow this poor young fellow to be.”
When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's concerns, she dismissed them with the same disdain a lawyer, often called a Newgate solicitor, shows towards the doubts of a young witness. “My dear lord,” she said, “you definitely need a pick-me-up. I’ll have to ask Lady Edgely for one of her best drinks. Come now! Be more resolute. Are you scared by the word rape? Or are you worried——? Well! if the story of Helen were modern, I’d think it was unrealistic. I mean Paris’s behavior, not the lady’s affection; all women love a man who has spirit. There’s another story about the Sabine women—and thankfully, that one is quite ancient as well. You might appreciate my reading, but I believe Mr. Hook says they ended up being fairly good wives afterwards. I doubt few of my married friends were forced by their husbands.” “Come on, dear Lady Bellaston,” he exclaimed, “don’t mock me like this.” “Well, my good lord,” she replied, “do you really think any woman in England wouldn’t secretly laugh at you, no matter how prim she acted on the outside?——You make me speak in a strange way and betray my sex in a terrible manner; but I’m fine knowing my intentions are good, and that I’m trying to help my cousin; because I believe you will still make her a husband despite this; or, honestly, I wouldn’t even encourage her to waste herself on a meaningless title. She shouldn't blame me later for losing a man of spirit, since even his enemies acknowledge this poor young man to be.”
Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this kind from a wife or a mistress, declare whether they are at all sweetened by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk deeper into his lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero could have said on the occasion.
Let those who have experienced compliments like these from a wife or a mistress say whether they feel any more special because they came from a woman. It's clear that they affected his lordship more profoundly than anything Demosthenes or Cicero could have said at that moment.
Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord's pride, began now, like a true orator, to rouse other passions to its assistance. “My lord,” says she, in a graver voice, “you will be pleased to remember, you mentioned this matter to me first; for I would not appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put off my cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need of an advocate to recommend them.” “Nor doth Miss Western,” said he, “require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion, no woman ever had half her charms.” “Yes, yes, my lord,” replied the lady, looking in the glass, “there have been women with more than half her charms, I assure you; not that I need lessen her on that account: she is a most delicious girl, that's certain; and within these few hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth not deserve her, though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a man of spirit.”
Lady Bellaston, noticing she had hurt the young lord's pride, began, like a skilled speaker, to stir up other emotions to support her argument. “My lord,” she said in a more serious tone, “please remember that you brought this up with me first; I wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to push my cousin onto you. Eighty thousand pounds certainly don’t need someone to advocate for them.” “And Miss Western,” he replied, “doesn’t need any recommendation from her wealth; in my opinion, no woman has ever had half of her charms.” “Yes, yes, my lord,” the lady responded, glancing in the mirror, “there have been women with more than half of her charms, I can assure you; not that I need to downplay her for that reason: she is absolutely charming, that’s for sure; and in just a few hours, she will be in the arms of someone who certainly doesn’t deserve her, though I must admit, I believe he is genuinely a man of spirit.”
“I hope so, madam,” said my lord; “though I must own he doth not deserve her; for, unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me, she shall within that time be in mine.”
“I hope so, ma'am,” said my lord; “though I have to admit he doesn't deserve her; for, unless heaven or you disappoint me, she will be mine in that time.”
“Well spoken, my lord,” answered the lady; “I promise you no disappointment shall happen from my side; and within this week I am convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public.”
“Well said, my lord,” the lady replied; “I assure you, there will be no disappointment from my side; and within this week, I’m sure I will publicly call you my cousin.”
The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses, and compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but rather dull when related at second hand. Here, therefore, we shall put an end to this dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything was prepared for the destruction of poor Sophia.
The rest of this scene was filled with excitement, apologies, and compliments, which were very nice to hear from the people involved; but pretty boring when retold. So, we'll wrap up this dialogue and move on to the tragic moment when everything was set for poor Sophia's downfall.
But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall treat it in a chapter by itself.
But since this is the most tragic event in our entire history, we'll cover it in its own chapter.
Chapter v. — Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may surprize, the reader.
The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy, sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she was now come to that part where the poor distrest Isabella disposes of her wedding-ring.
The clock had just struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and sad, sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she had reached the part where the poor distressed Isabella gives away her wedding ring.
Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into her bosom. In this situation she had continued a minute, when the door opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at his entrance; and his lordship advancing forwards, and making a low bow, said, “I am afraid, Miss Western, I break in upon you abruptly.” “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a little surprized at this unexpected visit.” “If this visit be unexpected, madam,” answered Lord Fellamar, “my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters of my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely you could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your possession, without receiving a visit from its owner.” Sophia, confused as she was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think) with a look of inconceivable disdain. My lord then made another and a longer speech of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling, said, “Am I really to conceive your lordship to be out of your senses? Sure, my lord, there is no other excuse for such behaviour.” “I am, indeed, madam, in the situation you suppose,” cries his lordship; “and sure you will pardon the effects of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned; for love hath so totally deprived me of reason, that I am scarce accountable for any of my actions.” “Upon my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I neither understand your words nor your behaviour.” “Suffer me then, madam,” cries he, “at your feet to explain both, by laying open my soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you to the highest degree of distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature! what language can express the sentiments of my heart?” “I do assure you, my lord,” said Sophia, “I shall not stay to hear any more of this.” “Do not,” cries he, “think of leaving me thus cruelly; could you know half the torments which I feel, that tender bosom must pity what those eyes have caused.” Then fetching a deep sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes in a strain which would be little more pleasing to the reader than it was to the lady; and at last concluded with a declaration, “That if he was master of the world, he would lay it at her feet.” Sophia then, forcibly pulling away her hand from his, answered with much spirit, “I promise you, sir, your world and its master I should spurn from me with equal contempt.” She then offered to go; and Lord Fellamar, again laying hold of her hand, said, “Pardon me, my beloved angel, freedoms which nothing but despair could have tempted me to take.——Believe me, could I have had any hope that my title and fortune, neither of them inconsiderable, unless when compared with your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the humblest manner, presented them to your acceptance.——But I cannot lose you.—By heaven, I will sooner part with my soul!—You are, you must, you shall be only mine.” “My lord,” says she, “I intreat you to desist from a vain pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you on this subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from you this moment; nor will I ever see you more.” “Then, madam,” cries his lordship, “I must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot live, nor will I live without you.”——“What do you mean, my lord?” said Sophia; “I will raise the family.” “I have no fear, madam,” answered he, “but of losing you, and that I am resolved to prevent, the only way which despair points to me.”—He then caught her in his arms: upon which she screamed so loud, that she must have alarmed some one to her assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all ears.
Here the book slipped from her hand, and a stream of tears ran down into her chest. She stayed like that for a minute when the door opened, and in walked Lord Fellamar. Sophia jumped up from her chair at his arrival; he moved closer, bowed low, and said, “I’m afraid, Miss Western, I’m intruding on you unexpectedly.” “Indeed, my lord,” she replied, “I must admit I’m a little surprised by this unexpected visit.” “If this visit is unexpected, madam,” Lord Fellamar responded, “then my eyes were very untrustworthy interpreters of my heart when I last had the pleasure of seeing you; surely you couldn’t have thought you could keep my heart without a visit from its owner.” Despite being flustered, Sophia met this grandiloquence (and quite rightly, I think) with a look of utter disdain. He then launched into another long speech of the same nature. To which Sophia, trembling, said, “Am I really to believe you’re out of your mind? Surely, my lord, there’s no other explanation for such behavior.” “I am indeed, madam, in the situation you think,” exclaimed his lordship; “and surely you can forgive the effects of a madness of your own making; for love has so completely stripped me of reason that I can barely be held accountable for any of my actions.” “Honestly, my lord,” Sophia said, “I neither understand your words nor your actions.” “Allow me then, madam,” he said, “to explain both at your feet, by opening my soul to you and declaring that I adore you to the highest degree of distraction. O most delightful, most divine creature! what words can express my feelings?” “I assure you, my lord,” Sophia responded, “I will not stay to hear more of this.” “Please,” he cried, “don’t think of leaving me so cruelly; if you knew even half the torment I’m feeling, that tender heart of yours must pity what those eyes have caused.” Then taking a deep breath and grabbing her hand, he continued for several minutes in a way that would please the reader little more than it pleased her; he ended with a declaration, “That if I were master of the world, I would lay it at your feet.” Sophia then, forcefully pulling her hand away, replied with great spirit, “I assure you, sir, I would reject both your world and its master with equal scorn.” She then tried to leave, and Lord Fellamar, again taking hold of her hand, said, “Forgive me, my beloved angel, for the liberties that only despair could have driven me to take. Believe me, if I had any hope that my title and fortune, neither of which is insignificant unless compared to your worth, would have been accepted, I would have humbly presented them to you. But I can’t lose you. By heaven, I’d rather part with my soul! You are, you must be, you shall be only mine.” “My lord,” she said, “I beg you to give up this pointless pursuit; for, upon my honor, I will never discuss this with you. Let go of my hand, my lord; I am determined to leave you this moment, and I will never see you again.” “Then, madam,” he replied, “I must make the most of this moment; for I cannot live, nor will I live without you.” “What do you mean, my lord?” said Sophia; “I will raise the family.” “I have no fear, madam,” he answered, “but of losing you, and I’m determined to prevent that, in the only way despair suggests to me.” He then caught her in his arms: she screamed so loudly that she would have alerted someone for help, had Lady Bellaston not ensured that there were no ears around.
But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise now broke forth, which almost drowned her cries; for now the whole house rang with, “Where is she? D—n me, I'll unkennel her this instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know she's in the house, and I'll see her if she's above-ground. Show me where she is.”—At which last words the door flew open, and in came Squire Western, with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels.
But a stroke of luck happened for poor Sophia; another noise suddenly erupted, nearly drowning out her cries. The entire house echoed with, “Where is she? Damn it, I’ll find her right now. Show me her room, I say. Where is my daughter? I know she’s in this house, and I’ll see her if she’s alive. Show me where she is.” At those last words, the door swung open, and in came Squire Western, with his priest and a group of goons following behind him.
How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident upon earth which could have preserved the peace of her mind from being for ever destroyed.
How miserable must have been poor Sophia's situation when the angry voice of her father was a relief to her! It truly was a relief, and thankfully he showed up; it was the only thing that could have kept her mind from being completely wrecked.
Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father's voice; and his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice of reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the perpetration of his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach, and hearing likewise whose it was (for as the squire more than once roared forth the word daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of her struggling, cried out upon her father), he thought proper to relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and with his rude lips committed violence on her lovely neck.
Sophia, despite her fear, quickly recognized her father's voice; and her father, despite his anger, recognized the voice of reason that firmly reminded him this wasn’t the time to act on his wrongdoing. Hearing the voice get closer and knowing who it belonged to (for the squire repeatedly shouted the word daughter, and Sophia, in the midst of her struggle, called out to her father), he decided to let go of his victim, having only messed up her handkerchief and, with his coarse lips, violated her beautiful neck.
If the reader's imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able to describe the situation of these two persons when Western came into the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat disordered, pale, breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her father.
If the reader's imagination doesn't help me, I won't be able to describe the situation of these two people when Western entered the room. Sophia stumbled into a chair, sitting there disheveled, pale, breathless, filled with anger at Lord Fellamar; scared, but also more relieved, at the arrival of her father.
His lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hanging over one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered, and rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at his bosom. As to the rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and ashamed.
His lordship sat down next to her, with the bag of his wig draped over one shoulder, his outfit looking a bit messy, and a bit more linen than usual showing at his chest. Overall, he felt amazed, scared, frustrated, and embarrassed.
As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake, most of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally speaking, drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his running immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue in the most inveterate manner; nay, he had probably committed violence with his hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, “For heaven's sake, sir, animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let me beg you to mitigate your wrath; it should minister a fulness of satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to revenge, it belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you will forgive her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return unto her duty.”
As for Squire Western, at this moment he was caught by an enemy that frequently targets, and usually succeeds in catching, most of the country gentlemen in this country. He was, quite literally, drunk; and this, along with his natural impulsiveness, led him to immediately go up to his daughter and verbally lash out at her in the most relentless way; indeed, he probably would have used his hands if the parson hadn't stepped in, saying, “For heaven's sake, sir, remember that you are in the house of a great lady. Please try to calm down; it should bring you a sense of fulfillment that you’ve found your daughter. As for revenge, it’s not our place to seek it. I can see a lot of regret on the young lady's face. I’m sure if you forgive her, she will regret all her past mistakes and return to her responsibilities.”
The strength of the parson's arms had at first been of more service than the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words wrought some effect, and the squire answered, “I'll forgee her if she wull ha un. If wot ha un, Sophy, I'll forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak? Shat ha un! d—n me, shat ha un! Why dost unt answer? Was ever such a stubborn tuoad?”
The strength of the pastor's arms had initially been more useful than the strength of his words. However, his last statement had some impact, and the squire responded, “I'll forgive her if she wants it. If you want it, Sophy, I'll forgive you everything. Why don't you speak? What do you want! Damn it, what do you want! Why aren't you answering? Was there ever such a stubborn toad?”
“Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said the parson; “you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive her of all power of utterance.”
“Please, sir, can you be a bit more moderate?” said the parson. “You’re scaring the young lady so much that she can't say a word.”
“Power of mine a—,” answered the squire. “You take her part then, you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful child! Yes, yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I'll gee un to the devil sooner.”
“Power of mine a—,” replied the squire. “So you’re supporting her, huh? It’s quite something for a priest to side with a disobedient child! Yes, yes, I’d rather give you a livable income with a curse. I’d give it to the devil first.”
“I humbly crave your pardon,” said the parson; “I assure your worship I meant no such matter.”
“I sincerely apologize,” said the priest; “I assure you, I meant no such thing.”
My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who no sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of his sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid her some of his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded to his complaints, and said, “There, my lady cousin; there stands the most undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and won't marry one of the greatest matches in all England, that we have provided for her.”
My Lady Bellaston entered the room and walked over to the squire, who, as soon as he saw her, decided to follow his sister's advice. He gave her a polite bow, in a friendly manner, and offered her some of his best compliments. He then quickly voiced his complaints, saying, “There you are, my lady cousin; there stands the most ungrateful child in the world; she’s pining after a worthless jerk and refuses to marry one of the best prospects in all of England that we’ve set up for her.”
“Indeed, cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am persuaded you wrong my cousin. I am sure she hath a better understanding. I am convinced she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much to her advantage.”
“Sure, cousin Western,” the lady replied, “I genuinely believe you’re misjudging my cousin. I know she has a better understanding. I’m convinced she won’t turn down something she surely realizes is so beneficial for her.”
This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr Western meant; though perhaps she thought he would easily be reconciled to his lordship's proposals.
This was a deliberate mistake on Lady Bellaston's part, as she fully knew who Mr. Western was referring to; although she likely believed he would quickly agree to his lordship's suggestions.
“Do you hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her ladyship says? All your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a good girl, and be dutiful, and make your father happy.”
“Do you hear that,” said the squire, “what her ladyship is saying? Your whole family supports the match. Come on, Sophy, be a good girl, be obedient, and make your father happy.”
“If my death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia, “you will shortly be so.”
“If my death will make you happy, sir,” replied Sophia, “you’ll be getting that soon enough.”
“It's a lye, Sophy; it's a d—n'd lye, and you know it,” said the squire.
“It's a lie, Sophy; it's a damn lie, and you know it,” said the squire.
“Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure your father; he hath nothing in view but your interest in this match; and I and all your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to your family in the proposal.”
“Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you are hurting your father; he only wants what’s best for you in this arrangement; and I and all your friends must recognize the great honor this proposal brings to your family.”
“Ay, all of us,” quoth the squire; “nay, it was no proposal of mine. She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first.—Come, Sophy, once more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent before your cousin.”
“Yeah, all of us,” said the squire; “no, it wasn’t my idea. She knows it was her aunt who first suggested it to me. — Come on, Sophy, once again let me ask you to be a good girl and give me your consent before your cousin.”
“Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It is the fashion now-a-days to dispense with time and long courtships.”
“Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It’s the trend these days to skip the long waits and drawn-out romances.”
“Pugh!” said the squire, “what signifies time; won't they have time enough to court afterwards? People may court very well after they have been a-bed together.”
“Pugh!” said the squire, “what does time even matter? They'll have plenty of time to date after this. People can date just fine after they've been in bed together.”
As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he made no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up, therefore, to the squire, he said, “Though I have not the honour, sir, of being personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the happiness to have my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in behalf of the young lady, that she may not be more solicited at this time.”
As Lord Fellamar was completely confident that Lady Bellaston was referring to him, and having never heard or suspected anything about Blifil, he had no doubt that he was meant by the father. So, approaching the squire, he said, “Even though we don’t know each other personally, sir, I’m happy to have my proposals accepted. Let me request, sir, that the young lady not be pressured any further at this time.”
“You intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the devil are you?”
“You're stepping in, sir!” said the squire; “who the hell are you?”
“Sir, I am Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the happy man whom I hope you have done the honour of accepting for a son-in-law.”
“Sir, I’m Lord Fellamar,” he replied, “and I’m the lucky man whom I hope you’ve honored by accepting as your son-in-law.”
“You are a son of a b——,” replied the squire, “for all your laced coat. You my son-in-law, and be d—n'd to you!”
“You're the son of a b——,” the squire replied, “despite your fancy coat. You’re my son-in-law, and damn you!”
“I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man,” answered the lord; “but I must inform you that I am not used to hear such language without resentment.”
“I will take more from you, sir, than from anyone else,” replied the lord; “but I need to let you know that I’m not accustomed to hearing that kind of language without feeling angry.”
“Resent my a—,” quoth the squire. “Don't think I am afraid of such a fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there dangling at thy side. Lay by your spit, and I'll give thee enough of meddling with what doth not belong to thee. I'll teach you to father-in-law me. I'll lick thy jacket.”
“Regret my a—,” said the squire. “Don’t think I’m scared of someone like you just because you have a spit hanging at your side. Put your spit away, and I’ll show you what happens when you mess with things that aren’t yours. I’ll teach you to try and control me. I’ll wipe the floor with you.”
“It's very well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no disturbance before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble servant, sir; Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.”
“That's perfectly fine, sir,” said my lord. “I won’t cause any trouble in front of the ladies. I’m completely satisfied. Your humble servant, sir; Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.”
His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr Western, said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not whom you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune, and yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as I am sure you must accept with the highest pleasure.”
His lordship had barely left when Lady Bellaston approached Mr. Western and said, “Goodness, sir, what have you done? You don’t realize who you’ve offended; he’s a wealthy nobleman of the highest status, and yesterday he proposed to your daughter; I’m sure you would be thrilled to accept.”
“Answer for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I will have nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall have an honest country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her—and she shall ha' un.—I am sorry for the trouble she hath given your ladyship with all my heart.” Lady Bellaston made a civil speech upon the word trouble; to which the squire answered—“Why, that's kind—and I would do as much for your ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.—Come, madam, you must go along with me by fair means, or I'll have you carried down to the coach.”
“Think for yourself, cousin,” said the squire. “I won’t get involved with any of your lords. My daughter deserves a decent country gentleman; I’ve already chosen one for her—and that’s what she’s going to have. I truly regret the trouble she’s caused you.” Lady Bellaston responded politely to the mention of trouble, to which the squire replied, “That’s kind of you—and I’d do the same for you. After all, family should help each other out. So I wish you a good night. Now, come on, madam, you can walk with me nicely, or I’ll have you carried to the coach.”
Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any other way.
Sophia said she would go to him willingly; but she requested to use a chair, saying she wouldn't be able to ride any other way.
“Prithee,” cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst not ride in a coach, wouldst? That's a pretty thing surely! No, no, I'll never let thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise thee.” Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. “O break thy heart and be d—n'd,” quoth he, “if a good husband will break it. I don't value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of any undutiful b— upon earth.” He then took violent hold of her hand; upon which the parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle methods. At that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson hold his tongue, saying, “At'nt in pulpit now? when art a got up there I never mind what dost say; but I won't be priest-ridden, nor taught how to behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good-night. Come along, Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha' un, d—n me, shat ha' un!”
“Please,” the squire shouted, “you can’t persuade me to ride in a carriage, can you? That’s ridiculous! No, no, I won’t let you out of my sight until you’re married, I promise you that.” Sophia told him she could see he was determined to break her heart. “Oh, break your heart and be damned,” he said, “if a good husband breaks it. I don’t care at all about any disobedient woman on earth.” He then grabbed her hand forcefully, and the parson intervened again, asking him to be gentle. At that, the squire cursed and told the parson to be quiet, saying, “Aren’t you in the pulpit now? When you’re up there, I don’t care what you say; but I won’t be bossed around by you or told how to act. I wish you a good night, my lady. Come on, Sophy; be a good girl, and everything will be fine. You’ll have it, damn me, you’ll have it!”
Mrs Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Hold, madam, hold, you come no more near my house.” “And will you take my maid away from me?” said Sophia. “Yes, indeed, madam, will I,” cries the squire: “you need not fear being without a servant; I will get you another maid, and a better maid than this, who, I'd lay five pounds to a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy, she shall contrive no more escapes, I promise you.” He then packed up his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he mounted himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his betters.
Mrs. Honour came downstairs and curtsied to the squire, offering to assist her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Wait, madam, don’t come any closer to my house.” “Are you really going to take my maid away from me?” Sophia asked. “Yes, I absolutely will,” the squire replied. “You don’t have to worry about being without a servant; I’ll find you another maid, and a better maid than this one, who, I bet you five pounds to a crown, is no more a maid than my grandmother. No, no, Sophy, she won’t be pulling off any more escapes, I promise you.” He then packed up his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he got in himself and ordered it to head to his place. On the way there, he let Sophia be quiet while he entertained himself by lecturing the parson on good manners and how to behave around his superiors.
It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have detained her; but, in reality, she was not a little pleased with the confinement into which Sophia was going; and as her project with Lord Fellamar had failed of success, she was well contented that other violent methods were now going to be used in favour of another man.
He might not have so easily taken his daughter away from Lady Bellaston if she had wanted to keep her, but the truth is, she was actually quite pleased with the situation Sophia was entering. Since her plan with Lord Fellamar had fallen through, she was more than happy that other drastic measures were now going to be taken for the benefit of another man.
Chapter vi. — By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more unaccountable appearances than this of Mr Western, without any satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever it is in our power, we shall now proceed to shew by what method the squire discovered where his daughter was.
Though the reader, in many histories, has to deal with much stranger occurrences than this concerning Mr. Western, often without any explanation at all; still, since we truly enjoy satisfying him whenever we can, we will now show how the squire found out where his daughter was.
In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for it is not our custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for the occasion) that Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of reconciling her uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from committing the same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family. After much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the following letter, which we shall give the reader at length, for more reasons than one.
In the third chapter of the previous book, we hinted (since we usually don’t reveal more than necessary for the moment) that Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who was eager to reconcile her uncle and Aunt Western, believed she had a good chance to do so by helping Sophia avoid making the same mistake that had angered her family. After thinking it over, she decided to tell Aunt Western where her cousin was, and she wrote the following letter, which we will provide in full for several reasons.
“HONOURED MADAM,
“The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine
agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though
I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of
another.
“Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at
your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin
Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,
though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy
me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of
running into the same fatal mischief, which, by foolishly and
ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have
unfortunately brought on myself.
“In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yesterday in
his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By
what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you
now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest
he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know
where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath
secured her.——No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only
inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,
and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family.
You know, madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome
me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great
understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely
informing you of the matter of fact.
“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the
good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to
your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and
is so necessary to my future happiness.
“I am,
with the utmost respect,
honoured madam,
your most dutiful obliged niece,
and most obedient humble
servant,
HARRIET FITZPATRICK.” “DEAR MADAM,
“The reason I’m writing this letter may make it pleasing to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though I have little hope it will be so on behalf of another.
“Without further excuses, as I was about to throw myself at your feet in desperation, I met, by the strangest coincidence, my cousin Sophy, whose story you know better than I do, though, unfortunately, I know far too much; enough to convince me that unless she is stopped immediately, she is at risk of getting into the same disastrous trouble that I have unfortunately brought upon myself by foolishly ignoring your wise and sensible advice.
“In short, I have met the man; in fact, I spent most of yesterday with him, and I assure you he is a charming young fellow. The reasons we became acquainted are too long to explain now; however, I have changed my lodgings this morning to avoid him, lest he discover my cousin through me, for he still doesn’t know where she is, and it’s best he doesn’t until my uncle has her safe. There’s no time to waste; I just need to inform you that she is currently with Lady Bellaston, who I’ve seen and who seems to have plans to keep her hidden from her family. You know, madam, she is a peculiar woman; however, nothing would be more inappropriate for me than to presume to offer any advice to someone with your great understanding and knowledge of the world, other than to state the facts.
“I hope, madam, that my concern for my family on this matter will earn me your favor again, as you have always shown so much commitment to the honor and true interests of us all, and that it may lead to restoring me to your friendship, which has been a significant part of my past and is essential to my future happiness.
“I am,
with the utmost respect,
dear madam,
your most dutiful and obliged niece,
and most obedient humble
servant,
HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”
Mrs Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided ever since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him in daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.
Mrs. Western was now at her brother's house, where she had been living ever since Sophia ran away, to provide some comfort to the poor squire in his grief. We’ve previously shared an example of this comfort, which she distributed to him in daily doses.
She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff in her hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort to the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received the above letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep. Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her.”
She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff in her hand, was handing out this daily dose of comfort to the squire while he smoked his afternoon pipe when she received the letter mentioned above; as soon as she read it, she handed it to him, saying, “There you go, sir, there's an update on your lost sheep. Fortune has brought her back to you, and if you follow my advice, you might still be able to keep her.”
The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and that parson Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace, saying, “Zounds! you don't seem pleased; one would imagine you was sorry I have found the girl.”
The squire had barely finished reading the letter when he jumped up from his chair, tossed his pipe into the fire, and shouted with joy. He then called for his servants, asked for his boots, and ordered the Chevalier and a few other horses to be saddled, as well as having Parson Supple sent for right away. After doing this, he turned to his sister, picked her up in his arms, and gave her a tight hug, saying, “Wow! You don’t look happy; you’d think you were sorry that I found the girl.”
“Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to the bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from what swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want. There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior, I am afraid, to yours.”
"Brother," she replied, "the most insightful politicians, who really understand the situation, often see things in a very different light than what is immediately obvious. It's true that things seem a bit less dire now in Holland compared to when Louis the Fourteenth was at the gates of Amsterdam; however, handling this situation requires a certain finesse that I fear you may lack, brother. There’s a level of decorum needed when dealing with a woman of stature, like Lady Bellaston, which demands a worldly knowledge that, I'm afraid, is beyond your grasp."
“Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my parts; but I'll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge of warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever I can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don't know how to come at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”
“Hey sis,” the squire shouts, “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’ll show you who the real fool is this time. Knowledge, huh! I haven’t been in the country this long without picking up some understanding of warrants and the law. I know I can take what’s mine wherever I find it. Show me my own daughter, and if I can’t figure out how to get to her, you can call me a fool for the rest of my life. There are justices of the peace in London, just like everywhere else.”
“I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of this matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive in town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother, you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have told her your story, and have made proper use of my name (for I think you just know one another only by sight, though you are relations), I am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method.—Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation?”
“I protest,” she exclaims, “you’re making me anxious about how this will turn out, but if you follow my advice, you can resolve it well. Do you really think, brother, that the home of a respected woman can be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of the peace? Let me tell you how to handle this. As soon as you get to town and put on a decent outfit (because honestly, brother, you have nothing appropriate to wear right now), you need to send your regards to Lady Bellaston and ask if you can visit her. When you get an audience with her, which you definitely will, and you share your story and appropriately mention my name (since I believe you only know each other by sight, even though you're related), I'm sure she’ll withdraw her support from my niece, who has clearly deceived her. This is the only way. Justices of the peace, really? Do you think anything like that could happen to a respected woman in a civilized society?”
“D—n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised nation, truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending a parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so ignorant as you think me——I know you would have women above the law, but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”
“Damn their figures,” the squire shouts; “what a civilized nation this is, really, where women are above the law. And why should I waste my time sending a bunch of compliments to a damn whore who keeps a daughter away from her own natural father? I’m telling you, sister, I’m not as ignorant as you think——I know you want women above the law, but that’s all a lie; I heard his lordship say in court that no one is above the law. But I guess this is your version of Hanover law.”
“Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in ignorance.——I protest you are grown an arrant bear.”
“Mr. Western,” she said, “I think you get more clueless every day. Seriously, you’ve turned into a complete brute.”
“No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the squire.—“Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I will show you I have got more good manners than some folks.”
“No more of a grizzly than you, Sister Western,” said the squire. “Darn it! You can talk about your politeness all you want, but I'm sure you never show any to me. I'm not a grizzly, and I'm not a dog either, though I do know someone who is something that starts with a b; but darn it! I’ll prove to you that I have better manners than some people.”
“Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you please, je vous mesprise de tout mon coeur. I shall not therefore be angry.——Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed, indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite court.—Greenland—Greenland should always be the scene of the tramontane negociation.”
“Mr. Western,” the lady replied, “you can say whatever you like, je vous mesprise de tout mon coeur. I won’t be upset. Besides, as my cousin, with that dreadful Irish name, rightly says, I care too much about my family's honor and true interests, and about my niece, who is part of that family, to not go to town myself this time; honestly, brother, you’re not the right person to represent us at a polite court. Greenland—Greenland should always be the setting for that sort of negotiation.”
“I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don't understand you now. You are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me.”—“Which I promise you,” says she, “I never will.”—“Well, and I promise you,” returned he, “that I never will dispute the t'other.”
“I thank Heaven,” says the squire, “I don’t get what you mean now. You've switched to that Hanoverian language. But I’ll show you that I won’t be outdone in politeness; since you’re not upset about what I said, I’m not upset about what you said. Honestly, I’ve always thought it’s silly for family to argue; and if they sometimes say things in the heat of the moment, well, people should take it and move on; as for me, I never hold grudges; and I really appreciate you going up to London; I’ve only been there twice in my life, and each time I was there for no more than a couple of weeks, so it’s not like I could know much about the streets or the people in that time. I’ve never denied that you know all this better than I do. For me to argue against that would be just like you arguing about managing a pack of dogs or spotting a hare sitting still with me.” —“Which I promise you,” she replies, “I will never do.” —“Well, I promise you,” he responds, “that I will never argue the other way.”
Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady) between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.
Here, a deal was made (to use a phrase from the lady) between the opposing sides; and now that the pastor had arrived and the horses were ready, the squire left, having promised his sister that he would take her advice, while she got ready to follow him the next day.
But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in the manner we have already seen.
But after discussing these issues with the parson on the road, they both agreed that the required formalities could easily be skipped; and the squire, having changed his mind, went ahead in the way we've already seen.
Chapter vii. — In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:—
Affairs were in that situation when Mrs. Honour arrived at Mrs. Miller's and called Jones out from the group, as we have seen before. Once she found herself alone with him, she began as follows:—
“O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone.” “Hath anything happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like a madman. “All that is bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” At these words Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on—“O! Mr Jones, I have lost my lady for ever.” “How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!” “You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place.”——“D—n your place!” cries Jones; “where is—what—what is become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to be sure,” cries she, “servants may be d—n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones, “I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me,” answered Honour; “I don't d—n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress——” “What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving fit. “What?—What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could have happened both for you and for me.—Her father is come to town, and hath carried her away from us both.” Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. “No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be worse for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry Mr Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am turned out of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal force.” “To be sure, sir,” said she, “that's true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas! sir,” said she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place but the getting another altogether as good?” “Do not despair, Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to reinstate you again in the same.” “Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I flatter myself with such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face. To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am terribly afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock me up, I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him; but then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference.”
“Oh, my dear sir! How can I find the strength to tell you this? You’re doomed, sir, and my poor lady is doomed, and I’m doomed too.” “Has something happened to Sophia?” shouts Jones, staring like a madman. “All is bad,” replies Honour. “Oh, I will never find another lady like her! Oh, that I should live to see this day!” At her words, Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour continued, “Oh! Mr. Jones, I’ve lost my lady forever.” “How? What! For Heaven's sake, tell me. Oh, my dear Sophia!” “You can call her that,” said Honour; “she was the dearest lady to me. I will never have another job like this.” “Damn your job!” shouts Jones. “Where is—what—what has happened to my Sophia?” “Yes, indeed,” she responds, “servants can be damned. It doesn’t matter what happens to them, even if they’re turned away and ruined. They aren’t flesh and blood like other people. No, it really doesn’t matter what becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” pleads Jones, “please tell me what has happened to Sophia right now!” “I certainly feel more pity for you than you do for me,” Honour replies. “I don’t damn you because you’ve lost the sweetest lady in the world. You deserve to be pitied, and I deserve to be pitied too; for, if ever there was a good mistress—” “What has happened?” cries Jones, almost in a fit. “What?—What?” says Honour: “Why, the worst thing that could happen to both of us. Her father has come to town and taken her away from us.” Here, Jones fell to his knees in gratitude that it wasn’t worse. “No worse!” Honour repeated; “what could be worse for either of us? He took her away, swearing she would marry Mr. Blifil; that’s for your comfort, and as for me, I’m thrown out.” “Indeed, Mrs. Honour,” replied Jones, “you scared me out of my wits. I thought something truly dreadful had happened to Sophia; something that would make even seeing her married to Blifil seem trivial. But as long as there’s life, there’s hope, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty can’t be married by sheer brute force.” “That’s true, sir,” she says. “There might be some hope for you; but alas! what hope is there for poor me? And you must realize I suffer all this because of you. The squire is angry with me for taking your side against Mr. Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs. Honour,” he responded, “I’m aware of my obligations to you and will do everything in my power to make it right.” “Alas! sir,” she said, “what can make a servant whole again after losing one job but getting another one just as good?” “Don’t lose hope, Mrs. Honour,” said Jones. “I hope to get you reinstated in the same job.” “Oh dear, sir,” she replied, “how can I fool myself with such hopes when I know it’s impossible? The squire is completely against me. Yet if you ever have my lady, which I truly hope you will; for you are a generous, good-natured gentleman; and I know you love her, and she loves you as dearly as her own soul. It’s pointless to deny it; everyone who knows my lady can see it. The poor dear cannot hide it: if two people who love each other aren't happy, then who should be? Happiness doesn't always come from what people have; besides, my lady has enough for both. So, really, it would be a tragedy to keep two such lovers apart; I’m convinced you will meet again; if it’s meant to be, nothing can stop it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of the peace on earth cannot break it apart. I wish Parson Supple had a little more courage to tell the squire about his wrongness in trying to force his daughter against her wishes, but his whole livelihood depends on the squire. So the poor gentleman, though he’s truly a good, religious man who talks about the badness of such actions behind the squire’s back, still fears he can’t speak boldly to his face. I’ve never seen him be so bold as he just was; I was afraid the squire would hit him. I don’t want you to be sad, sir, or feel hopeless; things may improve as long as you know you have my lady, which I am certain you do; for she will never agree to marry any other man. I’m terribly afraid the squire will harm her in his fury because he’s a very passionate man; and I’m also worried the poor lady might break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a chicken. It’s a shame she doesn’t have a bit of my courage. If I were in love with a young man and my father tried to lock me away, I’d fight back! But there’s a great fortune involved, which her father has the power to either give her or not; that surely makes a difference.”
Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that the great lady was upon the stairs.
Whether Jones paid close attention to all the previous speech, or whether there was simply no break in the conversation, I can't say; but he never tried to respond, nor did she stop talking until Partridge rushed into the room and told him that the important lady was coming upstairs.
Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is common enough) the worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.
Nothing could match the predicament Jones found himself in now. Honour had no idea about the connection between him and Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last person he would have shared it with. In this rush and panic, he took the worst option, and instead of revealing her to the lady, which would have been no big deal, he decided to reveal the lady to her. So, he made up his mind to hide Honour, whom he only had just enough time to position behind the bed, and to pull the curtains shut.
The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour, and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head; so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the part of a sick man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness of his countenance, would have at all supported.
The rush that Jones had been in all day because of his struggling landlady and her family, the fears caused by Mrs. Honour, and the chaos brought on by Lady Bellaston's sudden arrival had completely pushed any previous thoughts out of his mind; so much so that he never even considered pretending to be sick, which, in any case, neither his cheerful outfit nor the brightness of his face would have supported at all.
He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the least disorder.
He welcomed her ladyship more in line with her wishes than her expectations, keeping as much good humor as he could on his face, and without showing any real or pretended sign of disturbance.
Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself down on the bed: “So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find nothing can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I intend to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife.”
Lady Bellaston barely walked into the room before she settled herself on the bed. “So, my dear Jones,” she said, “you see that nothing can keep me away from you for long. Maybe I should be upset that I haven’t seen or heard from you all day, since I can tell you’ve been well enough to go out. I mean, I doubt you’ve been sitting in your room all day dressed up like a fancy lady waiting for visitors after giving birth. But don’t think I’m here to scold you; I will never give you an excuse for being distant like a husband by acting all grumpy like a wife.”
“Nay, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your ladyship will not upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and languish?”
“Not at all, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I’m sure you won’t blame me for neglecting my duties when I was just waiting for instructions. Who, dear lady, has a reason to complain? Who missed an appointment last night and left a miserable man to wait, hope, sigh, and suffer?”
“Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” cried she. “If you knew the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm; for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this instant sit for the picture of Adonis.”
“Don’t mention it, my dear Mr. Jones,” she exclaimed. “If you knew the situation, you would feel sorry for me. Basically, it’s hard to imagine what women in my position have to endure because of the nonsense from idiots, just to maintain the illusion of society. However, I’m glad all your sighing and wishing haven’t affected you; you’ve never looked better in your life. Honestly! Jones, you could pose right now for a portrait of Adonis.”
There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her tongue.
There are certain provocative words that honorable men believe should only be answered with a punch. Among lovers, there might be some comments that can only be answered with a kiss. The compliment that Lady Bellaston gave Jones seems to be one of those, especially since it came with a look that conveyed more tender thoughts than she could put into words.
Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison we made use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady, Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it, in the presence of a third person; seconds in this kind of duels not being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance, and, not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed colour two or three times; had got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him, or the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter disgrace.
Jones was definitely in one of the most uncomfortable and stressful situations imaginable. To continue with our earlier comparison, even though the lady was the one who caused the issue, Jones couldn’t get any satisfaction, nor could he even ask for it, in front of a third person; having seconds in this type of duel isn’t accepted by the rules of engagement. Since Lady Bellaston didn’t realize there was another woman present besides herself, she waited for some time, astonished, for an answer from Jones, who, aware of how ridiculous he looked, kept his distance and, not daring to respond properly, said nothing at all. It’s hard to imagine anything more comical yet more tragic than this scene if it had gone on any longer. The lady had already changed colors two or three times, had gotten up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones wished the ground would swallow him whole or that the house would collapse on him, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment that even the eloquence of a Cicero or the cunning of a Machiavelli couldn’t have resolved without total disgrace.
This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk; or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use of their reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.
This was none other than the arrival of young Nightingale, totally wasted; or rather in that state of drunkenness that robs people of their reason without taking away their ability to move.
Mrs Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones's chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and was entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his seat and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale never came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed.
Mrs. Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire. He reached Mr. Jones's bedroom door without any interruptions. He burst it open and was about to enter without any formalities when Jones jumped from his seat and rushed to stop him, doing so so effectively that Nightingale never got close enough to the door to see who was sitting on the bed.
Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in which himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in, often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones, however, prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his master's assistance.
Nightingale had actually confused Jones’s apartment with the one where he had stayed; he insisted on coming in, often swearing that he wouldn’t be kept from his own bed. However, Jones managed to overpower him and handed him over to Partridge, who was soon called to his master's aid by the noise in the stairway.
And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment, where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same time saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which in a lady of a tender constitution would have been an hysteric fit.
And now Jones had to go back to his own apartment, even though he didn’t want to. As soon as he walked in, he heard Lady Bellaston let out an exclamation, though it wasn’t very loud. At the same time, he saw her throw herself into a chair, clearly very upset—something that could have seemed like a hysterical fit for a woman of delicate constitution.
In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men, of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion she found already occupied by another.
In reality, the woman, scared by the fight between the two men and unsure of what the outcome would be, heard Nightingale swearing many oaths that he would return to his own bed. In her panic, she tried to retreat to her usual hiding spot, only to find it already occupied by someone else, which left her feeling very confused.
“Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady.—“Basest of men?——What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?” “Wretch!” cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of concealment—“Marry come up!——Wretch forsooth?——as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks who are richer can say.”
“Are we supposed to put up with this, Mr. Jones?” the lady exclaims. “The lowest of men? Who is this miserable person you’ve put me in front of?” “Miserable!” Honour shouts, bursting out in a fit of rage from her hiding spot. “Come on! Miserable, really? As poor as I am, I’m still honest; that’s more than can be said for some people who have more.”
Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of Mrs Honour's resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most unfortunate man in the world; and presently after, addressing himself to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd protestations of innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially on such occasions, calmly replied: “Sir, you need make no apologies, I see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: but now I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions upon my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be in my power to be much more hereafter.”
Jones, instead of trying to smooth over Mrs. Honour's anger like a more experienced suitor would have, started cursing his luck and feeling sorry for himself as the most unfortunate man in the world. Soon after, he turned to Lady Bellaston and made some ridiculous protests about his innocence. By this time, the lady had regained her composure, which she could do as quickly as any woman, especially in situations like this, and calmly replied: “Sir, you don’t need to apologize. I see who the person is now; I didn’t recognize Mrs. Honour at first, but now that I do, I can’t suspect anything inappropriate between her and you. I know she’s sensible enough not to misinterpret my visit to you; I have always been her friend, and I may be able to be much more than that in the future.”
Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing, therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened hers.——“I'm sure, madam,” says she, “I have been always ready to acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure I never had so good a friend as your ladyship——and to be sure, now I see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off for very mad.—I constructions upon your ladyship—to be sure it doth not become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady—I mean I was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more miserable wretch is me.—I have lost the best mistress——” Here Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears.—“Don't cry, child,” says the good lady; “ways perhaps may be found to make you amends. Come to me to-morrow morning.” She then took up her fan which lay on the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in circumstances of this nature.
Mrs. Honour was just as easygoing as she was emotional. So, when she heard Lady Bellaston speak in a gentle tone, she softened her own as well. “I’m sure, madam,” she said, “I’ve always been ready to acknowledge your ladyship’s kindness to me; I’ve never had a better friend than you—now that I realize it’s you I was talking to, I could almost bite my tongue out of frustration. I have expectations for your ladyship—but really, it’s not proper for someone like me to think about such a great lady—I mean, I was a servant; truth is, I’m nobody’s servant now, and I’m the poorer for it. I’ve lost the best mistress...” At this point, Honour felt it was right to shed a few tears. “Don’t cry, dear,” said the kind lady; “maybe we can find a way to make things right. Come see me tomorrow morning.” She then picked up her fan from the floor and, without even glancing at Jones, walked out of the room with a majestic air; there is a sort of dignity in the boldness of high-born women that their lessers can only dream of achieving in situations like this.
Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any notice of him as he stood bowing before her.
Jones followed her downstairs, frequently extending his hand to her, which she completely declined, and sat down in her chair without acknowledging him as he stood bowing in front of her.
At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady; on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings of the squire.
At his return upstairs, a long conversation took place between him and Mrs. Honour while she was getting herself together after the upset she had experienced. The topic was his dishonesty towards her young lady, which she discussed with much bitterness. However, Jones eventually managed to calm her down and not only that, but he also secured a promise of complete secrecy from her, and that she would try to find Sophia the next morning and bring him more news about the squire's actions.
Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge from experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper it about till it come to the ears of every one except the ignorant person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publickly known.
Thus ended this unfortunate adventure, satisfying only Mrs. Honour; because a secret (as some of my readers might know from experience) is often a very valuable possession: not just to those who keep it safe, but sometimes to those who share it around until it reaches everyone except the clueless person who is paying to keep what is already publicly known a secret.
Chapter viii. — Short and sweet.
Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past, excused it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same disturbances into the house.
Despite all the favors she had received from Jones, Mrs. Miller couldn't help but gently express her concerns in the morning about the chaos that had occurred in his room the night before. However, her remarks were so gentle and friendly, genuinely aiming for the well-being of Mr. Jones himself, that he, instead of being upset, gratefully accepted the woman's advice, showed real remorse for what had happened, made the best excuses he could, and promised never to cause such disturbances in the house again.
But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being indeed to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife in so imprudent a manner.
But even though Mrs. Miller didn’t hold back from a brief protest in private at their first meeting, the reason he was called downstairs that morning was much more pleasant. It was to play the role of a father to Miss Nancy and to give her away in marriage to Mr. Nightingale, who was now dressed and as sober as many of my readers might think a man should be when marrying a wife in such an untraditional way.
And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the condition in which we have seen him the night before.
And here it might be appropriate to explain how this young man escaped from his uncle and why he appeared in the state we saw him in the night before.
Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely finished.
Now that the uncle had arrived at his place with his nephew, partly to indulge his own desires (because he really loved his drinks), and partly to prevent his nephew from going through with his plans right away, he ordered wine to be brought to the table. He kept pouring it for the young man, who, although not very accustomed to drinking, didn’t dislike it enough to be rude or disrespectful by refusing. He soon ended up completely out of it.
Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns.
Just as the uncle achieved this victory and was getting a bed ready for his nephew, a messenger showed up with some news that completely threw him off balance and shocked him. In an instant, he forgot all about his nephew, and all he could think about were his own problems.
This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.
This shocking and painful news was that his daughter had taken the chance of almost the very first moment he was away and had run off with a nearby young clergyman. Her father had only one objection to him: he had no money. Still, she had never found it necessary to tell her father about her romance, and she had been so clever about it that no one had suspected anything until now that it had actually happened.
Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and, having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.
Old Mr. Nightingale barely received this news when, completely overwhelmed, he ordered a carriage to be ready immediately. After entrusting his nephew to a servant, he left the house, hardly aware of what he was doing or where he was going.
The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant, who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied; and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.
The uncle left, and when the servant came to help the nephew get ready for bed, he woke him up for that reason and eventually made him aware that his uncle was gone. Instead of accepting the servant's kind offer, the nephew insisted on having a chair brought to him. The servant, who hadn't been given any specific instructions against it, gladly agreed, and after being taken back to Mrs. Miller's house, the nephew wobbled up to Mr. Jones's room, as has been previously mentioned.
This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of all human beings.
This obstacle with the uncle was now out of the way (though young Nightingale didn’t yet know how), and everyone was quickly prepared. The mother, Mr. Jones, Mr. Nightingale, and his beloved hopped into a cab, which took them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in simple terms, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in every sense of the word, one of the happiest people on earth.
And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.
And now Mr. Jones, having helped that poor woman and her family reach a happy ending, started to focus on his own issues. However, to prevent many of my readers from criticizing his foolishness for getting involved in other people's business, and to ensure that some don't believe he was more selfless than he actually was, I feel it's important to clarify that he was far from indifferent in this situation; he actually had a significant personal interest in seeing it resolved.
To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly say with him in Terence, Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of any one; and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading through the deepest iniquity.
To clarify this apparent contradiction, he could genuinely say with Terence, Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. He was never just a passive observer of anyone's pain or happiness; he experienced either feeling deeply, based on how much he contributed to it. Therefore, he couldn't help but feel immense joy himself when he helped lift an entire family from the depths of suffering to the heights of happiness—possibly more than what typical people achieve for themselves through grueling work, often involving the worst of moral decay.
Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable catastrophe.
Readers who share his views might think this brief chapter is full of content, while others might wish, even though it's short, that it had been completely left out as irrelevant to the main purpose, which they likely believe is to lead Mr. Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to an even worse fate.
Chapter ix. — Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.
Mr. Jones, when he got home, found the following letters on his table, which he fortunately opened in the order they were sent.
LETTER I.
“Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
can invent.——Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too——I will
think no more.——Come to me directly.——This is the third letter I
have writ, the two former are burnt——I am almost inclined to burn
this too——I wish I may preserve my senses.——Come to me
presently.”
LETTER II.
“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
doors, come to me this instant.”
LETTER III.
“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;—I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long.” LETTER I.
“I must be caught up in some strange obsession; I can’t stick to my resolutions for even a moment, no matter how strongly I make them or how reasonable they are. Last night I decided never to see you again; this morning I’m open to hearing if you can, as you say, explain this situation. And yet I know that’s impossible. I’ve gone over everything in my mind that you might think of. —Maybe not. Maybe your creativity is more powerful. So, come to me as soon as you get this. If you can come up with an excuse, I almost promise I’ll believe it. Betrayed too — I won’t think about it anymore. — Come to me right away. — This is the third letter I’ve written; I burned the first two — I’m almost tempted to burn this one too — I hope I can keep my sanity. — Come to me soon.”
LETTER II.
“If you want to be forgiven, or even allowed to enter my home, come to me right now.”
LETTER III.
“I just found out you weren’t home when my notes were delivered to your place. As soon as you get this, let’s meet; I won’t go out; nobody will be allowed in except you. Surely nothing can keep you away for long.”
Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night's adventure?” (for it was now no secret to any one in that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones very gravely.——“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?” said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me.”
Jones had just gone over these three notes when Mr. Nightingale walked into the room. “Well, Tom,” he said, “any news from Lady Bellaston after last night's incident?” (It was now no secret to anyone in that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” Jones replied very seriously. “Come on, Tom,” Nightingale exclaimed, “don’t be so reserved with your friends. Even though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you really think I don’t know who the queen of the fairies is?” “So you really recognized her at the masquerade?” Jones asked. “Yes, I swear I did,” Nightingale replied, “and I’ve dropped you hints about it since, but you always seemed so sensitive about it that I didn’t want to say it outright. I think, my friend, with how cautious you are regarding this matter, you know her reputation better than her personality. Don’t be upset, Tom, but I promise you, you’re not the first young guy she’s seduced. Her reputation is safe, trust me.”
Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.
Though Jones had no reason to think the lady was virtuous when his romance started, he was completely unfamiliar with the town and didn’t have many connections there. He had no idea about the character known as a demirep; in other words, a woman who flirts with every man she likes while pretending to be virtuous. Although some prissy ladies won’t associate with her, everyone else in town sees her, and in short, everyone knows what she really is, even if nobody says it.
When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.
When he realized that Nightingale was fully aware of his secret and started to think that the careful approach he had been taking wasn't really needed anymore, he relaxed his friend's restraint and asked him to speak openly about what he knew or had heard about the lady.
Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our head.
Nightingale, who was often a bit too delicate in his nature, had a strong tendency to gossip. As soon as he was given permission to speak by Jones, he launched into a lengthy story about the lady, which included many details that could damage her reputation. Out of respect for all women of importance, we won’t repeat those details. We want to avoid giving future critics the chance to make any malicious connections and turn us into unwitting authors of scandal, something we never intended.
Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.” “And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale. “Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body, consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it.”—“And can you, my good friend,” cries Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting such a—” “Hold,” said Jones, “no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!” answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her, would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my boy! I have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay, propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”
Jones, having listened carefully to everything Nightingale said, let out a deep sigh. Nightingale noticed and exclaimed, “Wow! I hope you’re not in love! If I had thought my stories would have affected you, I swear you would never have heard them.” “Oh, my dear friend!” Jones replied, “I’m so tangled up with this woman that I don’t know how to get away. In love? No, my friend, but I owe her a lot, and it’s a huge debt. Since you know so much already, I’ll be very honest with you. It’s probably only because of her that I haven’t, until now, been starving. How can I possibly abandon such a woman? Yet I must leave her, or I would be committing the worst betrayal against someone who deserves far better from me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion that few can even imagine. I’m half-crazy with doubts about what to do.” “And is this other woman, pray, an honorable mistress?” Nightingale asked. “Honorable!” Jones replied; “no one has ever dared to tarnish her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the clear stream not clearer, than her honor. She is perfect in both mind and body. She is the most beautiful person in the world; yet she possesses such noble qualities that, although she’s always on my mind, I hardly ever think of her beauty unless I see it.” “And can you, my good friend,” Nightingale exclaimed, “with such a commitment as this, hesitate for even a moment about leaving such a—” “Hold on,” Jones interrupted, “no more insults against her: I can’t stand the thought of ingratitude.” “Come on!” the other replied, “you’re not the first one she’s helped in this way. She’s very generous when she likes someone; though, let me tell you, her favors are given so wisely that they usually boost a man's ego more than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale went on so much about this, sharing many stories about the lady, which he swore were true, that he completely wiped out all respect Jones had for her; and his gratitude shrank accordingly. In fact, he started to view all the kindness he’d received more like payment than gifts, which devalued not just her, but himself as well, putting him in a bad mood with both of them. From this frustration, his thoughts, quite naturally, shifted to Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love for him, her suffering on his behalf, filled his mind, making his association with Lady Bellaston seem even more disgusting. Ultimately, even though leaving her would mean losing his livelihood as he now saw his situation, he decided to leave, if he could just find a good excuse: when he shared this with his friend, Nightingale thought for a moment and then said, “I’ve got it, my boy! I’ve found a sure way; propose marriage to her, and I’d bet on the outcome.” “Marriage?” Jones exclaimed. “Yes, propose marriage,” Nightingale responded, “and she’ll back out in a heartbeat. I knew a young guy she used to keep who sincerely proposed to her, and she dumped him right away for it.”
Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then? caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;” answered Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at any time get out of the trap.”——“What expedient can that be?” replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight of her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”
Jones said he couldn't go through with the plan. “Maybe,” he said, “she would be less upset about this suggestion coming from one guy than from another. And if she actually takes me seriously, where does that leave me? Caught in my own trap, and doomed forever.” “No,” Nightingale replied, “not if I can give you a way to escape the trap at any time.” “What way could that be?” Jones asked. “This,” Nightingale said. “The young guy I mentioned, who is one of my closest friends, is so angry with her for some bad things she's done to him that I know he would easily show you her letters. Then you could break things off with her in a decent way and call it off before anything's official, if she really does want to go through with it, which I don’t think she will.”
After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance, consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated:—
After thinking it over for a bit, Jones, feeling reassured, agreed; however, since he claimed he didn't have the courage to bring it up in person, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated:—
“MADAM,
“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement
abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's
commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear
your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There
is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made
completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right
of calling you mine for ever.—I am,
madam,
with most profound respect,
your ladyship's most obliged,
obedient, humble servant,
THOMAS JONES.” “MADAM,
I’m really worried that, because of an unfortunate trip abroad, I missed the honor of receiving your ladyship's commands as soon as they arrived; and the delay I now face in clearing my name with you only adds to this misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! I’ve been in such a panic worrying that your reputation might be tarnished by these unfortunate events! There’s only one way to protect it. I don’t need to say what that is. Just let me express that your honor is as important to me as my own, and my only wish is to have the honor of laying my freedom at your feet; believe me when I say I can never be truly happy unless you generously grant me the legal right to call you mine forever.—I am,
madam,
with the deepest respect,
your ladyship's most grateful,
obedient, humble servant,
THOMAS JONES.”
To this she presently returned the following answer:
She quickly replied to this:
“SIR, “When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for—? but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your profound respect. “P.S. I am prevented from revising:——Perhaps I have said more than I meant.——Come to me at eight this evening.”
“Sir, When I read your serious letter, I could swear that your coldness and formality made it seem like you already had the legal rights you mentioned; in fact, it felt like we had been that monstrous institution of a husband and wife for years. Do you really think I’m a fool? Or do you believe you can manipulate me so completely that I’d hand over my entire fortune to you just to fund your pleasures at my expense? Are these the signs of love I was expecting? Is this the response for—? But I won’t accuse you, and I’m truly amazed by your deep respect. P.S. I didn’t get a chance to revise this—maybe I’ve said more than I intended—meet me at eight this evening.”
Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:
Jones, following the advice of his advisory council, responded:
“MADAM, “It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine, madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment, overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he had concluded the former letter.
“Madam, I can’t express how shocked I am by the suspicion you have of me. Could Lady Bellaston have given her favors to a man she believed could be involved in such a low scheme? Or does she disregard the most sacred bond of love? Can you really think, madam, that if the intensity of my passion, in a careless moment, overshadowed the respect I have for your honor, I would consider continuing a relationship that could not possibly stay hidden for long and, when discovered, would endanger your reputation? If that’s how you see me, I must ask for a quick chance to repay the financial help I've unfortunately accepted from you; and for those of a more affectionate nature, I will always remain, etc.” And so he ended with the same words as in the previous letter.
The lady answered as follows:
The woman replied as follows:
“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you come here I shall not be at home.”
“I see you’re a villain! and I detest you with all my heart. If you come here, I won’t be home.”
Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor would he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be guilty of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and surely the reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly in favour of Sophia.
Though Jones was really happy to be free from a situation that anyone who has gone through it would agree is quite heavy, he still wasn't completely at ease. This plan had too much deception for someone who absolutely hated any kind of lie or dishonesty: he wouldn't have gone along with it if he hadn't found himself in a tough spot, where he had to act dishonorably towards one lady or the other. And surely, the reader will agree that every good principle, as well as love, strongly supported Sophia.
Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He answered, “Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on each other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England.”
Nightingale was really proud of how his plan worked out, and he got a lot of thanks and praise from his friend. He replied, “Dear Tom, we’ve each put each other in very different positions. You owe me for getting your freedom back; I owe you for losing mine. But if you feel as good about your freedom as I do about my loss, I promise you we're the two happiest guys in England.”
The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller, who performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words, and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her consideration.
The two gentlemen were now called down to dinner, where Mrs. Miller, who cooked the meal herself, had put in her best effort to celebrate her daughter's wedding. She mainly credited this happy occasion to the kind actions of Jones; her whole heart was filled with gratitude towards him, and everything about her—her looks, words, and actions—was so focused on expressing that gratitude that her daughter and even her new son-in-law barely registered in her thoughts.
Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we have had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its contents in our next.
Dinner had just finished when Mrs. Miller received a letter; but since we’ve covered enough letters in this chapter, we’ll share its contents in the next one.
Chapter x. — Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them.
The letter then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was from Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to come immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew.
The letter that arrived at the end of the previous chapter was from Mr. Allworthy. It stated that he planned to come to town right away with his nephew Blifil and requested to stay in his usual lodgings: the first floor for himself and the second for his nephew.
The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match with her daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr Allworthy, after all the obligations received from him, for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due; for that gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not only from the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by every other method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When he settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs Miller, he told her, “it was in consideration of always having her first-floor when he was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's warning.” He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he had no opportunity of giving such notice; and this hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were then empty; for he would most certainly have been well satisfied to have relinquished them, on a less sufficient excuse than what Mrs Miller could now have made.
The cheerful look that had previously been on the poor woman's face was a bit overshadowed this time. This news really upset her. It seemed very unfair to her to repay such a selfless match with her daughter by immediately kicking her new son-in-law out. At the same time, she could hardly bear the thought of having to make excuses to Mr. Allworthy, after all he had done for them, for taking away the accommodation that he was certainly entitled to. That gentleman, in offering countless benefits to others, followed a principle completely opposite to what most generous people do. He always found ways to hide his kindness, not just from the public, but even from those he was helping. He constantly used the terms “Lend” and “Pay” instead of “Give,” and found every way he could to downplay the favors he was giving, all while he was actually piling them up with both hands. So, when he set up the annuity of £50 a year for Mrs. Miller, he told her it was because he wanted to have her first-floor available whenever he was in town (which he rarely planned to be), but that she could rent it out any other time, as he would always give her a month's notice. However, he was now rushed to town so suddenly that he didn’t have a chance to give that notice; and this urgency probably kept him from mentioning in his request for lodging whether they were available at that moment, because he surely would have been happy to give them up for a less pressing reason than what Mrs. Miller could now present.
But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks, direct their conduct by something
But there are some people who, as Prior wisely points out, guide their behavior by something
Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law.
Beyond the established and set rules
Of right and wrong in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law.
To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented, though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of the hangman.
To them, it's far from enough that their defense would clear them at the Old Bailey; they're not even satisfied, even if conscience— the strictest judge of all— should let them off the hook. Nothing less than what is fair and honorable will meet their sensitive standards; if any of their actions fall short of this standard, they sulk and wither away, feeling as anxious and uneasy as a murderer who's afraid of a ghost or the executioner.
Mrs Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this letter; with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently relieved her anxiety. “As for myself, madam,” said he, “my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning; and Mr Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither Mrs Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal both husband and wife instantly agreed.
Mrs. Miller was one of those people. She couldn't hide her discomfort about the letter; as soon as she shared its contents with the group and hinted at her worries, Jones, her good friend, quickly eased her mind. "As for me, madam," he said, "my place is at your service whenever you need it; and Mr. Nightingale, I'm sure, since he can't yet prepare a home fit for his wife, will be willing to go back to his new place, where Mrs. Nightingale will definitely agree to go." With that suggestion, both the husband and wife immediately agreed.
The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last speech called her daughter Mrs Nightingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave the fond mother more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his having dissipated her present anxiety.
The reader would likely think that Mrs. Miller’s cheeks started to glow with even more gratitude towards Jones. However, it might be harder to convince him that when Mr. Jones, in his last speech, referred to her daughter as Mrs. Nightingale (the first time she had ever heard that lovely name), it brought the proud mother more joy and warmed her heart toward Jones even more than easing her current worries did.
The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married couple, and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was again restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil's coming to town (for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and what greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him early the next evening, had disappointed him.
The next day was set for the newly married couple and Mr. Jones, who was also going to stay in the same house with his friend. The mood among the group returned to calm, and they spent the day in great cheerfulness, except for Jones. Although he joined in the laughter, he secretly felt a lot of pain over Sophia, which was made worse by the news that Mr. Blifil was coming to town (since he clearly understood the purpose of his visit). What added to his distress was that Mrs. Honour, who had promised to check on Sophia and give him an update the next evening, let him down.
In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected she would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia, and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains; or whether he still flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite overlooked by it; so that to any man extremely in love, may be applied what Addison says of Caesar,
In the situation he and his mistress were in at that moment, there was hardly any reason for him to expect good news; yet he was just as eager to see Mrs. Honour as if he thought she would bring him a letter from Sophia proposing a meeting, and he handled the disappointment poorly. Whether this impatience came from that natural weakness of the human mind, which craves to know the worst and makes uncertainty the most unbearable pain; or whether he still held onto some secret hope, we won't decide. But it could be the latter, as anyone who has loved knows. Of all the powers that this emotion has over our minds, one of the most remarkable is its ability to keep hope alive in the midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, even impossibilities, are easily ignored by it; so that the description Addison gives of Caesar can apply to any deeply in love person,
“The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”
“The Alps and Pyrenees fall down before him!”
Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs Honour, with which we shall present the reader verbatim et literatim.
Yet it's also true that the same passion can sometimes blow things out of proportion and create despair even in hopeful situations; however, these moments of coldness don’t last long for those in good health. What mood Jones was in, we leave to the reader’s imagination, as we have no clear information about it; but what we do know is that he had spent two hours waiting, and when he could no longer hide his discomfort, he went to his room, where his anxiety had almost driven him crazy, when the following letter from Mrs. Honour was delivered to him, which we present to the reader verbatim et literatim.
“SIR,
“I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,
“HONOUR BLACKMORE.” "HONOR BLACKMORE."
Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.
Jones had various thoughts about Lady Bellaston's actions; she really only wanted to keep a secret safe in her own home, ensuring it wouldn’t spread any further than it already had. More than anything, she wanted to keep it from Sophia. Although Sophia was practically the only person who wouldn’t have shared it, Lady Bellaston couldn't convince herself of that. Since she now hated Sophia with a fierce hatred, she assumed that Sophia must feel the same way towards her, even though that kind of emotion had never crossed Sophia's mind.
While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he should be able to resist.
While Jones was scaring himself with worries about a thousand terrible schemes and deep political plots that he thought were behind his promotion of Honor, Fortune, who had so far seemed like a complete enemy to his relationship with Sophia, tried a different approach to finally end it by putting a temptation in his path that seemed too hard to resist given his current desperate situation.
Chapter xi. — Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty, for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From her the following billet was brought to Jones:—
There was a woman named Mrs. Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lived, as she was close with the women there and a very good friend to Mrs. Miller. She was around thirty, though she claimed to be twenty-six; her looks were quite good, though she tended to be a bit on the heavier side. She had married young, arranged by her family, to an older Turkish merchant who, after amassing a great fortune, retired from trade. She lived with him for about twelve years without any shame, but it wasn't without its struggles, as she practiced a great deal of self-denial. Her virtue was ultimately rewarded when he passed away, leaving her quite wealthy. The first year of her widowhood was nearing its end, and she had spent it largely in seclusion, seeing just a few close friends and splitting her time between her prayers and the novels she loved so much. With her good health, warm nature, and strong religious beliefs, it became essential for her to remarry; she decided she would choose a second husband to please herself, just as she had done when selecting her first husband. It was from her that the following note was delivered to Jones:—
“SIR,
“From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
let this remain an eternal secret between you and
“ARABELLA HUNT.” “SIR,
From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too clearly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my words nor my actions would have ever admitted it, had the ladies of the household where you are staying not given me such a good impression of you, and shared such evidence of your virtue and goodness, that convinced me you are not only the most charming but also the most worthy of men. I also take comfort in hearing from them that neither my appearance, intelligence, nor character are unappealing to you. I have a fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me happy without you. In choosing to express my feelings, I know I will face criticism from society; but if I didn’t love you more than I fear the world, I wouldn’t be worthy of you. There is only one issue that holds me back: I’ve been informed that you are involved in a flirtation with a woman of high standing. If you think it’s worth sacrificing that for the chance to be with me, I am yours; if not, forget my vulnerability, and let this remain a secret between you and
“ARABELLA HUNT.”
At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning he had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense, from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could not think of it upon any account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows to Mrs Hunt:—
At the reading of this, Jones became extremely agitated. His finances were at a very low point, as the source from which he had been supported was now cut off. Of all the money he had received from Lady Bellaston, he had barely five guineas left; and that very morning, a tradesman had hounded him for twice that amount. His noble mistress was under her father's control, and he had little hope of ever getting her away from him. Relying on her for support from that little fortune she had independent of her father conflicted with both his pride and his love. This lady's wealth would have been very helpful to him, and he didn’t have any issues with her at all. In fact, he liked her as much as he liked any woman aside from Sophia. But abandoning Sophia and marrying someone else was unthinkable; he couldn't consider it for any reason. Yet, why shouldn't he, since it was clear she couldn't be his? Wouldn't it be kinder to her than to keep her stuck in a hopeless crush on him? Shouldn’t he do this for her sake? This idea lingered for a few moments, and he almost resolved to betray her out of a misguided sense of honor. However, that reasoning couldn't hold out for long against the natural feelings in his heart that said such a betrayal was treachery to love. Finally, he called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following to Mrs. Hunt:—
“MADAM,
“It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,
“T. JONES.” “Dear Madam, It would be a poor way to repay the kindness you've shown me to sacrifice any sense of honor for the chance to be with you. I would do it even if I wasn’t currently unattached, but I want to be honest with you. My heart is already taken by another woman, someone virtuous whom I can never leave, even if I realize I might never have her. I would never want to repay your kindness with the injury of offering you my hand when I can’t truly give you my heart. I would much rather go without than do that. Even if my beloved were married to someone else, I wouldn’t marry you unless my feelings for her had completely faded. You can trust that your secret is safe with me, just as it is within your own heart, as your most grateful and humble servant, “T. JONES.”
When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.
When our hero finished and sent the letter, he went to his writing desk, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and then walked around his room, feeling more satisfied than any Irishman ever had while winning a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.
Chapter xii. — A discovery made by Partridge.
While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been despatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. “I have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen him these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me.” “Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do you know of my Sophia?” “You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my face.”—“Confound your face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years.”—“Well, pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are resolved to make me mad I find.” “Not for the world,” answered Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.” “Well, but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw him. Non sum qualis eram. I have had troubles in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it will change the colour of a man's hair in a night. However, at last, know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?—O—well, we no sooner knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so we drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you the news.”
While Jones was feeling pleased with himself for being honest, Partridge bounced into the room, just like he always did when he thought he had good news. That morning, his master had sent him out to try, through Lady Bellaston’s servants or any other means, to find out where Sophia had been taken. Now he returned, with a joyful expression, telling our hero that he had found the lost girl. “I’ve seen, sir,” he said, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the servants the squire brought with him to the city. I recognized him right away, even though I hadn’t seen him in several years; but you know, sir, he’s quite a character, or to put it more neatly, he has a truly remarkable beard—the largest and blackest I’ve ever seen. It took Black George a little while to remember me, though.” “Well, but what is your good news?” Jones exclaimed; “What do you know about my Sophia?” “You’ll find out soon enough, sir,” Partridge replied, “I’m getting to it as fast as I can. You’re so impatient, sir; you’d want to jump to the end before we get there. Anyway, like I was saying, it took him some time to remember my face.” —“Forget your face!” Jones shouted, “What about my Sophia?” “Well, sir,” Partridge answered, “I don’t know anything more about Madam Sophia than what I’m about to tell you; and I would have told you everything before now if you hadn’t interrupted me; but if you keep looking so angry, you’ll scare all this out of my head, or, to put it more politely, out of my memory. I haven’t seen you this angry since the day we left Upton, which I’ll remember if I live to be a thousand.” —“Okay, just continue,” said Jones: “You seem determined to drive me crazy.” “Not at all,” Partridge replied, “I’ve suffered enough for that already; and, as I said, I’ll remember it as long as I live.” “Well, what about Black George?” Jones urged. “Right, as I was saying, it took him a long time to recognize me; I’ve changed a lot since I last saw him. Non sum qualis eram. Life’s troubles really change a person, and nothing ages someone like grief. I’ve heard that it can even turn a person’s hair gray overnight. But eventually, he did recognize me; that’s for sure, since we’re both the same age and went to the same charity school together. George was quite the dunce, but that doesn’t matter; not everyone succeeds in life based on their education. I certainly have my reasons to say so; but that’ll be the same in a thousand years. Anyway, where was I?—Oh right—well, as soon as we recognized each other, after a lot of hearty handshakes, we agreed to go to a pub and have a drink. Luckily, the beer was some of the best I’ve had since I’ve been in the city. Now, sir, here comes the important part; as soon as I mentioned you and told him that you and I came to town together and have been living together ever since, he ordered another drink and insisted on toasting to your health; and he drank to your health with such enthusiasm that I was thrilled to see there’s still so much gratitude left in the world. After we finished that drink, I said I’d buy one too, and we raised another toast to your health; and then I hurried home to share the news with you.”
“What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word of my Sophia!” “Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after him day and night.”
“What’s the news?” Jones exclaims. “You haven't mentioned a word about my Sophia!” “Wow! I almost forgot that. We talked a lot about young Madam Western, and George told me everything; Mr. Blifil is coming to town to marry her. He'd better hurry, I said, or someone else will get her before he does. And honestly, Mr. Seagrim, it’s a real shame if someone doesn’t end up with her because he definitely loves her more than any other woman in the world. I want both you and her to know that he isn’t after her for her money; I can assure you that there's another lady, someone of much higher quality and wealth than she can claim, who is so crazy about him that she chases him day and night.”
Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said, betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name: “Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is sincerely your friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you.”
Here, Jones got really upset with Partridge for what he called a betrayal. But Partridge replied that he hadn’t named anyone. “Besides, sir,” he said, “I can assure you that George is truly your friend and has wished Mr. Blifil ill more than once; in fact, he said he would do everything he could to help you, and I believe he will. Betray you, really? I doubt you have a better friend than George on this earth, besides me, or anyone who would go further to help you.”
“Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same house with Sophia?”
“Well,” says Jones, feeling a bit calmer, “you’re saying this guy, who I think is actually quite inclined to be my friend, lives in the same house as Sophia?”
“In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is one of the servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it was not for his black beard you would hardly know him.”
“In the same house!” replied Partridge; “well, sir, he’s one of the family’s servants, and I promise you, he’s dressed very well; if it weren’t for his black beard, you’d hardly recognize him.”
“One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.”
“One thing he can do for me,” says Jones, “is definitely deliver a letter to my Sophia.”
“You have hit the nail ad unguem” cries Partridge; “how came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning.”
“You’ve nailed it,” Partridge exclaims; “how did I not think of that? I’ll make sure he does it the very first time we bring it up.”
“Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for I suppose you know where to find him.”
“Well, then,” said Jones, “you can go for now, and I’ll write a letter that you can deliver to him tomorrow morning; I assume you know where to find him.”
“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him again; there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays in town.”
“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I will definitely find him again; there's no doubt about that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away for long. I'm sure he'll be there every day he’s in town.”
“So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries Jones.
“So you don't know the street where my Sophia is staying?” cries Jones.
“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.
“Of course, I do,” says Partridge.
“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.
“What’s the name of the street?” yells Jones.
“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.”
“The name, sir? Well, it’s right here, sir, just a couple of streets away. I don’t actually know the exact name; he never told me, and if I had asked, it would have raised some suspicion. No, no, sir, just leave that to me. I’m cleverer than that, I promise you.”
“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”
"You are quite clever, indeed," replied Jones; "however, I will write to my love, since I believe you will be clever enough to find him tomorrow at the pub."
And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.
And now, having sent away the wise Partridge, Mr. Jones sat down to write, which is where we will leave him for a while. And here we conclude the fifteenth book.
BOOK XVI.
CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
Chapter i. — Of prologues.
I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less pains write one of the books of this history than the prefatory chapter to each of them.
I’ve heard of a playwright who used to say he would rather write a play than a prologue; similarly, I feel I can write one of the books in this history with less effort than the introductory chapter for each of them.
To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the same three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to be represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of authors, who have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the same thing.
To be honest, I think a lot of strong curses have been directed at the author who first introduced the idea of adding a prologue to their play. Originally, the prologue was part of the piece itself, but in recent years, it often has so little connection to the actual drama that the prologue for one play could easily fit any other. Those written more recently all tend to cover the same three topics: criticizing the tastes of the audience, condemning all current authors, and praising the performance that’s about to start. The sentiments expressed in these prologues don’t vary much, and it’s hard for them to do so; I often marvel at the creativity of authors who manage to find so many different ways to say the same thing.
In like manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other history as to this.
In a similar way, I imagine some future historian (if anyone bothers to follow my style) will, after a lot of scratching their head, offer some kind thoughts about my memory for being the first to set up these initial chapters; most of which, like today's prologues, could easily be added to any other book in this history just as well as the one they introduce, or even to any other history instead of this one.
But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath long found in the other.
But no matter how much authors may be affected by either of these inventions, the reader will find enough benefit in one just as the audience has long found in the other.
First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full concert at the first rising of the curtain.
First, it’s well known that the prologue gives critics a chance to practice their hissing and to get their catcalls just right; as a result, I’ve seen those musical instruments so well prepped that they could perform in full concert as soon as the curtain goes up.
The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we have always taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
The same benefits can be gained from these chapters, where critics will always find something that can sharpen their insightful nature, making them more eager to critique the history itself. It’s clear how cleverly these chapters are designed for that admirable goal; we’ve made sure to include a bit of a sour or sharp element to enhance and energize their critical spirit.
Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.
Again, both lazy readers and viewers benefit greatly from this; since they are not required to either watch or read, both the play and the book are extended. As a result, they get an extra fifteen minutes to enjoy dinner, and with the book, they can start reading from the fourth or fifth page instead of the first. This is not a small detail for people who read just to say they’ve read something, which is a more common reason for reading than people usually think. Because of this, not just legal texts and quality literature, but also the works of Homer, Virgil, Swift, and Cervantes have often been skimmed through.
Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short.
Many other benefits come from both of these, but they are mostly so obvious that we won't take the time to list them right now; especially since we believe that the main achievement of both the prologue and the preface is that they are brief.
Chapter ii. — A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed situation of Sophia.
We must now convey the reader to Mr Western's lodgings, which were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited himself.
We now need to take the reader to Mr. Western's place, located in Piccadilly. He ended up there based on the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars near Hyde Park Corner. At the inn, which was the first one he saw when he arrived in town, he left his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he learned about, he settled in.
Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
When Sophia got out of the cab that took her from Lady Bellaston’s house, she wanted to go to her room, and her father quickly agreed, accompanying her himself. They had a brief conversation, not really worth going into detail about, where he strongly urged her to agree to marry Blifil, who he said would be in town in a few days. Instead of agreeing, she gave a firmer and more resolute refusal than she ever had before. This made her father so angry that after making many bitter promises to force her to marry him whether she liked it or not, he left her with harsh words and curses, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.
While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal, since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house.
While Sophia was left alone with nothing but the flickering fire and candlelight, the squire settled down to enjoy a bottle of wine with his parson and the landlord of the Hercules Pillars. The squire thought the landlord would be a great addition to their conversation and could fill them in on the latest news from town and how things were going; after all, he said, the landlord knows a lot since many of the local nobility keep their horses at his place.
In this agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.
In this pleasant setting, Mr. Western spent that evening and a good part of the next day, during which nothing of enough importance occurred to be included in this story. Throughout this time, Sophia was by herself because her father vowed she would never leave her room alive unless she agreed to marry Blifil. He also never allowed the door to be unlocked except to bring her food, and on those occasions, he always delivered it himself.
The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a gentleman was below to wait on him.
The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were having breakfast together with toast and a tankard, he was told that a gentleman was downstairs to see him.
“A gentleman!” quoth the squire, “who the devil can he be? Do, doctor, go down and see who 'tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to town yet.—Go down, do, and know what his business is.”
“A gentleman!” said the squire, “who the hell can he be? Come on, doctor, go downstairs and see who it is. Mr. Blifil can hardly have arrived in town yet. — Go down, please, and find out what he wants.”
The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army; that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver to none but Mr Western himself.
The doctor came back with news that it was a very well-dressed man, and from the ribbon in his hat, he figured he was an army officer; he said he had some specific business that only Mr. Western himself could hear.
“An officer!” cries the squire; “what can any such fellow have to do with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.—Let un come up then, if he must speak to me.”
“An officer!” the squire exclaims. “What does someone like that want with me? If he needs an order for baggage wagons, I’m not a justice of the peace here, and I can’t issue a warrant. Let him come up then, if he really wants to talk to me.”
A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with him, delivered himself as follows:—
A very polite man now entered the room; after greeting the squire and asking for a moment alone with him, he said the following:—
“Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after what past the other night.”
“Sir, I am here to see you at the request of my Lord Fellamar; but I bring a very different message than what I think you’re expecting after what happened the other night.”
“My lord who?” cries the squire; “I never heard the name o'un.”
"My lord who?" the squire exclaims; "I’ve never heard that name before."
“His lordship,” said the gentleman, “is willing to impute everything to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the footing of a lover.”
“Your lordship,” said the gentleman, “is ready to attribute everything to the effects of alcohol, and even a minor acknowledgment of that sort will fix everything; because he has such a strong attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person he would take offense from. It’s fortunate for both of you that he has shown enough public displays of his courage to handle a situation like this without risking any damage to his honor. All he asks is that you make some acknowledgment before me; the smallest one will do. He plans to come by this afternoon to pay his respects to you and to ask for your permission to visit the young lady as a suitor.”
“I don't understand much of what you say, sir,” said the squire; “but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be the case—you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl is disposed of already.”
“I don’t understand a lot of what you’re saying, sir,” replied the squire; “but I assume, from what you’re saying about my daughter, that this is the lord my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned and said something about him courting my daughter. If that’s the case—you can send my regards to his lordship and let him know the girl is already spoken for.”
“Perhaps, sir,” said the gentleman, “you are not sufficiently apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person, title, and fortune would be nowhere refused.”
"Maybe, sir," said the gentleman, "you're not fully aware of how significant this offer is. I think someone with such a title and wealth would be welcomed anywhere."
“Lookee, sir,” answered the squire; “to be very plain, my daughter is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them.”
“Look, sir,” the squire replied, “to be clear, my daughter is already engaged; but even if she weren't, I wouldn’t marry her off to a lord for any reason. I can’t stand lords; they’re just a bunch of courtiers and Hanoverians, and I want nothing to do with them.”
“Well, sir,” said the gentleman, “if that is your resolution, the message I am to deliver to you is that my lord desires the favour of your company this morning in Hyde Park.”
“Well, sir,” said the gentleman, “if that’s your decision, the message I need to deliver to you is that my lord would like to have your company this morning in Hyde Park.”
“You may tell my lord,” answered the squire, “that I am busy and cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir abroad on any account.”
“You can tell my lord,” the squire replied, “that I’m busy and can’t come. I have plenty to take care of at home and can’t go out for any reason.”
“I am sure, sir,” quoth the other, “you are too much a gentleman to send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way; but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered him.”
“I’m sure, sir,” the other replied, “you’re too much of a gentleman to send such a message; I’m convinced you wouldn’t want it said that after insulting a noble peer, you refuse to give him satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing to resolve things differently due to his great regard for the young lady, but unless he sees you as a father figure, his honor won't allow him to tolerate the insult that you must realize you’ve given him.”
“I offered him!” cries the squire; “it is a d—n'd lie! I never offered him anything.”
“I offered him!” the squire shouts; “that's a damn lie! I never offered him anything.”
Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr Western, than that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room, bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
Upon hearing this, the gentleman gave a quick verbal correction, and at the same time, he made some hand gestures to back it up. As soon as Mr. Western heard this, that esteemed squire started dancing around the room, shouting at the top of his lungs, as if he wanted to attract a bigger audience to watch his impressive moves.
The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the squire's vociferation, crying, “Bless me! sir, what's the matter?”—“Matter!” quoth the squire, “here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob and murder me—for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in his hand, when I wish I may be d—n'd if I gid un the least provocation.”
The parson, who had left a good amount of his drink unfinished, hadn’t gone far; he quickly responded to the squire's shouting, saying, “Oh my! What’s going on, sir?”—“What’s going on!” the squire exclaimed, “I think there’s a highway robber who wants to rob and kill me—he attacked me with that stick he’s holding, and I swear I did nothing to provoke him.”
“How, sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I lyed?”
“How, sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I was lying?”
“No, as I hope to be saved,” answered the squire, “—I believe I might say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord—but I never said the word, `you lie.'—I understand myself better, and you might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man. If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure.”
“No, as I hope to be saved,” replied the squire, “I could say it was a lie that I had insulted my lord—but I never said the words, ‘you lie.’ I know myself better, and you should have known yourself better than to attack a defenseless man. If I had a stick in my hand, you wouldn’t have dared to strike me. I would have knocked your lantern jaw into your ears. Come down to the yard right now, and I’ll fight you with sticks for a broken head, I will; or I’ll go into the empty room and box you for a full stomach. At the very least, I’m sure of that.”
The captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you.” At which words he withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure.
The captain, with some annoyance, replied, “I see, sir, you’re not worth my time, and I’ll let his lordship know you’re not worth his either. I regret that I’ve had to deal with you.” With that, he walked away, and the parson stepped in to stop the squire from holding him back, which he easily managed since the squire, despite making some efforts, didn’t seem too determined to succeed. However, once the captain left, the squire shouted a stream of curses and threats after him; but since these didn’t escape his lips until the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder as the officer got farther away, they never reached his ears, or at least didn’t delay his exit.
Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot, and afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had done before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of any harm happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for, except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his inclinations.
Poor Sophia, however, who, from her prison, heard all her father's cries from start to finish, began first to stomp her foot angrily, and then to scream as loudly as the old man had done before, though with a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced the squire and shifted all his attention to his daughter, whom he loved so deeply that even the slightest fear of her being harmed caused him intense pain; for, except for that one instance where her entire future happiness was at stake, she was the ultimate ruler of his affections.
Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by the hand, she cryed passionately, “O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you.” “No, no,” cries the squire, “no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me if I don't ha the la o' un.” “Pray, dear sir,” says she, “tell me what's the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?” “I don't know the name o' un,” answered Western; “some officer fellow, I suppose, that we are to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in the world.” “But, dear sir,” cries she, “what was the occasion of your quarrel?” “What should it be, Sophy,” answered the squire, “but about you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the death of your poor father at last. Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord knows who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I would not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your father's troubles; come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this day or two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the happiest woman; you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach and six at your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my estate—od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole.” “Will my papa be so kind,” says she, “as to hear me speak?”—“Why wout ask, Sophy?” cries he, “when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of the best pack of dogs in England.—Hear thee, my dear little girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live a moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don't, or you never could have run away and left your poor father, who hath no other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little Sophy.” At these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the tears streaming from hers) answered, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with pleasure, sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force my mind; nor can I ever.” Here the squire began to look wild, and the foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard out, and then proceeded: “If my father's life, his health, or any real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved daughter; may heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve you!—No, that most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake.”—“I tell thee, it will preserve me,” answers the father; “it will give me health, happiness, life, everything.—Upon my soul I shall die if dost refuse me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul.”—“Is it possible,” says she, “you can have such a desire to make me miserable?”—“I tell thee noa,” answered he loudly, “d—n me if there is a thing upon earth I would not do to see thee happy.”—“And will not my dear papa allow me to have the least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists in opinion, what must be my condition, when I shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth?” “Better think yourself so,” said he, “than know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond.” “If it will content you, sir,” said Sophia, “I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him, nor any other, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be again your poor Sophy, and my whole business and pleasure be, as it hath been, to please and divert you.” “Lookee, Sophy,” answered the squire, “I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would then have reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I'd have you to know I have a got more wisdom, and know more of the world, than to take the word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned.” “How, sir, have I deserved this want of confidence?” said she; “have I ever broke a single promise to you? or have I ever been found guilty of a falsehood from my cradle?” “Lookee, Sophy,” cries he; “that's neither here nor there. I am determined upon this match, and have him you shall, d—n me if shat unt. D—n me if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next morning.” At repeating which words he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair, and, had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps worse had followed.
Having calmed down after his anger towards the captain, swearing he would take legal action against him, the squire went upstairs to Sophia. As soon as he unlocked and opened the door, he found her pale and out of breath. However, the moment she saw her father, she gathered her composure and, grabbing his hand, cried out passionately, “Oh my dear sir, I’m almost scared to death! I hope to heaven that no harm has come to you.” “No, no,” replied the squire, “nothing serious. That rascal hasn’t hurt me much, but I swear I’ll have the law on him.” “Please, dear sir,” she said, “tell me what’s going on; who has insulted you?” “I don’t know his name,” answered Western; “some officer guy, I suppose, that we’re supposed to pay to beat us; but I’ll make him pay for this, if he has anything, which I doubt. Even though he was dressed really well, I wonder if he owns a single piece of land in the world.” “But, dear sir,” she cried, “what caused your quarrel?” “What else could it be, Sophy,” replied the squire, “but about you? All my troubles are about you; you’re going to be the death of your poor father. There’s a rogue lord, the Lord knows who, who has a fancy for you, and because I wouldn’t give him my consent, he sent me a challenge. Please, be a good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your father’s troubles; just consent to marry him; he’ll be in town in a day or two; just promise me you’ll marry him as soon as he arrives, and you’ll make me the happiest man in the world, and I’ll make you the happiest woman. You’ll have the finest clothes in London, the best jewels, and a coach and six at your command. I’ve already promised Allworthy to give up half my estate—good grief! I’d almost be willing to give up the whole thing.” “Will my papa be so kind,” she said, “as to hear me out?” “Why, of course, Sophy?” he exclaimed, “you know I’d rather hear your voice than the music of the best pack of dogs in England. Listen, my dear little girl! I hope I’ll hear you as long as I live; if I ever were to lose that pleasure, I wouldn’t care to live another moment. Indeed, Sophy, you don’t know how much I love you, truly you don’t, or you would never have run away and left your poor father, who has no other joy, no other comfort on earth, but his little Sophy.” At these words, tears filled his eyes; and Sophia (with tears streaming down her face) responded, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me dearly, and heaven is my witness to how sincerely I have returned your affection; nothing but the fear of being forced into the arms of this man could have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately that I would gladly sacrifice my life for his happiness; in fact, I tried to convince myself to accept a life of misery, to comply with your wishes. It was that resolution alone that I couldn’t force my mind to accept; and I know I never will.” At this, the squire began to look frantic, and foam gathered at his lips. Seeing this, Sophia begged him to let her finish, and continued: “If my father’s life, health, or any genuine happiness of his is at stake, here stands your resolute daughter; may heaven strike me down if there’s any misery I wouldn’t endure to protect you!—No, I would embrace that most detestable, most loathsome fate. I would marry Blifil for your sake.” “I tell you, it will save me,” replied the father; “it will give me health, happiness, life, everything. I swear I’ll die if you refuse me; my heart will break, I swear.” “Is it possible,” she said, “that you have such a desire to make me miserable?” “I tell you no,” he shouted, “damn me if there’s anything on earth I wouldn’t do to see you happy.” “And won’t my dear papa allow me even the slightest insight into what would make me so? If happiness is all about perspective, what will my state of mind be, knowing I’ll be the most miserable of wretches on earth?” “Better to think yourself so,” he said, “than know it by being married to a poor illegitimate vagabond.” “If it would make you happy, sir,” said Sophia, “I promise solemnly never to marry him, or anyone else, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be your poor Sophy again, and let my sole purpose and joy be to please and entertain you.” “Listen, Sophy,” replied the squire, “I won’t be fooled like this. Your Aunt Western would then have reason to think I’m the fool she believes me to be. No, no, Sophy, you should know I have more sense and understand the world better than to take a woman’s word on a matter involving a man.” “How, sir, have I earned this lack of trust?” she asked; “have I ever broken a single promise to you? Or have I ever been caught in a lie from my cradle?” “Listen, Sophy,” he shouted; “that doesn’t matter. I’m determined about this match, and you’ll marry him, damn me if you won’t. Damn me if you won’t, even if you hang yourself the next morning.” At these words, he clenched his fist, furrowed his brow, bit his lip, and shouted so loudly that the poor, terrified Sophia sank trembling into her chair, and had it not been for a flood of tears that immediately came to her relief, something worse might have happened.
Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewel of her condemned husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his debtor dragged to prison for £10, which, though a just debt, the wretch is wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more nearly, he felt the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor innocent, whom she hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at the first proposal of what is called seeing company. Indeed this resemblance would be exact, was it not that the bawd hath an interest in what she doth, and the father, though perhaps he may blindly think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his daughter to almost an equal prostitution.
Western saw his daughter's terrible condition with no more regret or guilt than the guard at Newgate feels watching a heartbroken wife say goodbye to her condemned husband. In fact, he regarded her with the same feelings as a decent tradesman who witnesses his debtor being taken to prison for £10, a debt that, while legitimate, the unfortunate person cannot pay. To be even more accurate, he felt the same lack of compassion as a madam when a poor innocent girl, whom she has lured into her grasp, convulses at just the mention of “seeing company.” This comparison might fit perfectly if not for the fact that the madam has a personal stake in her actions, while the father, despite possibly believing otherwise, has no real interest in pushing his daughter toward something so degrading.
In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room, and returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a violent rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred function to commit to paper.
In this state, he left his poor Sophia and, making a rather crude comment about the impact of tears, he locked the room and went back to the parson. The parson said everything he could to support the young lady, which, while it might not have been entirely what he was obligated to do, was enough to drive the squire into a furious rage and to express many inappropriate thoughts about the entire clergy, which we hold in too high regard to write down.
Chapter iii. — What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she did not think proper to give any offence; for, though she was not without some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose great sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had made so favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind of a gentleman.
The landlady of the house where the squire was staying had started to form a strange opinion about her guests pretty early on. However, since she was told that the squire was extremely wealthy, and she had made sure to charge an unusually high price for her rooms, she felt it was best not to offend him. Although she was somewhat worried about the poor confinement of Sophia, whose sweet nature and friendliness had been praised by the maid of the house and confirmed by all the squire's staff, her concern for her own interests outweighed any desire to upset someone she thought was a rather touchy gentleman.
Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to give her any kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.
Though Sophia ate very little, she was always served her meals; in fact, I believe that if she had desired any special treat, the squire, no matter how upset he was, would have gone to great lengths and spent whatever it took to get it for her. Though this may seem odd to some of my readers, he truly adored his daughter, and providing her with any kind of joy was the greatest satisfaction of his life.
The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet, the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key) attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she left the country, and she treated every servant with more respect than some persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back, saying, she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.
When dinner time came, Black George brought her a chicken, while the squire himself stood by the door, having sworn not to hand over the key. As George set down the dish, he exchanged a few words with Sophia (he hadn’t seen her since she left the countryside, and she treated every servant with more respect than some people show to those who are only slightly below them). Sophia wanted him to take the chicken back, saying she couldn’t eat, but George encouraged her to give it a try and especially recommended the eggs, claiming it was full of them.
All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a great favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns of the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to take many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he said, very desirous to see his young lady; he made therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he received only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.
All this time, the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a favorite with his boss because his job involved important matters, specifically regarding the game, and he was used to taking a lot of liberties. He had eagerly taken the dinner upstairs, saying he really wanted to see the young lady; he didn’t hesitate to keep his boss waiting for over ten minutes while they exchanged pleasantries, for which he only got a light-hearted scolding at the door when he came back.
The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care to supply her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all the servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she had scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.
The eggs from young hens, partridges, pheasants, etc., were, as George knew very well, Sophia's favorite treats. So, it was no surprise that he, being a really kind guy, made sure to get her this kind of delicacy when all the servants in the house were worried she would starve; she had hardly eaten a single bite in the last forty hours.
Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some little consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as full of eggs as George had reported it.
Though annoyance doesn’t affect everyone the same way, especially a widow, whose hunger can become sharper than the air on Bansted Downs or Salisbury Plain; still, the deepest sorrow, no matter what some might argue, will eventually lead to hunger. And Sophia, after a bit of thought, started to carve up the chicken, which she found to be as filled with eggs as George had said.
But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts all the laws of animal oeconomy, as to contain a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.
But if she was happy with these, it included something that would have thrilled the Royal Society even more; because if a three-legged bird is such a priceless curiosity, then how do we value a bird that completely defies all the rules of animal behavior by having a letter in its stomach? Ovid mentions a flower that Hyacinthus was transformed into, which bears letters on its petals and that Virgil pointed out as a miracle to the Royal Society of his time; but no era or country has ever noted a bird with a letter in its gut.
But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Académies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless enquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its passage into the fowl.
But even though a miracle like this could have attracted all the Académies des Sciences in Europe, leading to a pointless investigation; the reader, just by remembering the last conversation between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will easily understand where this letter came from and how it ended up in the fowl.
Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:—
Sophia, despite her long fast and her favorite dish being right in front of her, saw the letter and immediately grabbed it, tore it open, and read the following:—
“MADAM,
“Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and
with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful
consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do
myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs
me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a
greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my
presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any
relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful
observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the
most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you
are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,
to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to
which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world
with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,
on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature
reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if
there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace
of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for
ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no
compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender
bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than
myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first
wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if
I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my
second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal
mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,
Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
THOMAS JONES.” “MADAM,
“If I didn’t realize whom I’m writing to, I would try, no matter how hard it is, to express the horrors in my mind from the news I got from Mrs. Honour; but just as only someone with genuine compassion can understand the pain that comes with it, my beloved Sophia—who possesses this quality more than anyone—I’m sure you can grasp how much your Jones must have suffered during this sad time. Is there anything that could make my anguish worse than hearing about any misfortune that has come your way? Surely there is one thing, and I’m cursed with it. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful thought that I am the miserable cause of it. I might be giving myself too much credit here, but no one will envy me an honor that costs me so much. Please forgive me this boldness, and forgive me an even greater one, if I ask whether my advice, my help, my presence, my absence, my death, or my suffering can offer you any relief? Can my utmost admiration, the most attentive care, the most passionate love, the most tender compassion, and my complete submission to your wishes make up for what you have to give up for my happiness? If it can, run, my lovely angel, into the arms that are always ready to embrace and protect you; it doesn’t matter whether you come alone or bring the world's treasures with you, as that choice seems trivial to me. If, on the other hand, wisdom prevails and upon serious reflection you conclude that the sacrifice is too great; and if there’s no way to reconcile with your father and restore peace to your heart except by leaving me, I urge you to erase me from your thoughts forever, summon your strength, and let no pity for my suffering weigh on that tender heart. Believe me, madam, I love you so deeply that my greatest desire is for your happiness. My first wish (and forgive me for saying this) is to see you happy every single moment; my second wish is to hear that you are. But no misery on earth can compare to mine while I think you owe even a single unhappy moment to him who is,
Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
THOMAS JONES.”
What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader's imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at present: for this reason, among others, that she did not now write any, and that for several good causes, one of which was this, she had no paper, pen, nor ink.
What Sophia said, did, or thought about this letter, how many times she read it, or if she read it more than once, will be left to the reader's imagination. The answer may become clear later, but not right now: partly because she didn’t write anything in response, and also because she had no paper, pen, or ink.
In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not so soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.
In the evening, while Sophia was thinking about the letter she had received, or something else, a loud noise from below interrupted her thoughts. This noise was nothing more than an argument between two people. One of them, by his voice, she immediately recognized as her father; however, she didn’t recognize the sharper voice as belonging to her aunt Western, who had just arrived in town. After learning where her brother was staying from one of her servants who stopped at the Hercules Pillars, she drove straight to his place.
We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.
We will now say goodbye to Sophia and, with our usual politeness, go see her ladyship.
Chapter iv. — In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged) were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.
The squire and the parson (since the landlord was busy with something else) were smoking their pipes together when they first got word that the lady had arrived. As soon as the squire heard her name, he rushed downstairs to show her up the stairs; he really paid attention to such formalities, especially with his sister, whom he respected more than anyone else, even though he would never admit it, and he might not have even realized it himself.
Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself into a chair, began thus to harangue: “Well, surely, no one ever had such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot here before.” “I don't know,” cries the squire, “I think they do well enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among um.” “Well, and where's my niece?” says the lady; “have you been to wait upon Lady Bellaston yet?” “Ay, ay,” cries the squire, “your niece is safe enough; she is upstairs in chamber.” “How!” answered the lady, “is my niece in this house, and does she not know of my being here?” “No, nobody can well get to her,” says the squire, “for she is under lock and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her ever since; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you.” “Good heaven!” returned Mrs Western, “what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to town yourself; nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise me, brother, that you would take none of these headstrong measures? Was it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece to run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to oblige her to take such another step?” “Z—ds and the devil!” cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; “did ever mortal hear the like? when I expected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this manner!” “How, brother!” said the lady, “have I ever given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking up your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? We are as free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that freedom better. If you expect I should stay a moment longer in this wretched house, or that I should ever own you again as my relation, or that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist upon it that my niece be set at liberty this instant.” This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her back to the fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the head of her Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire was not proof against the awe which she inspired. “There,” he cried, throwing down the key, “there it is, do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till Blifil came to town, which can't be long; and now if any harm happens in the mean time, remember who is to be blamed for it.”
Mrs. Western arrived in the dining room, flopped into a chair, and started her rant: “Well, honestly, no one has ever had such an unbearable journey. I think the roads have gotten worse than ever with all these turnpike regulations. Goodness, brother, how could you end up in this dreadful place? I bet no one of any status has ever set foot here before.” “I don’t know,” the squire replied, “I think they’re doing just fine; the landlord recommended them. I figured since he knows most of the upper class, he could best show me where to find them.” “Well, where’s my niece?” the lady asked. “Have you checked in on Lady Bellaston yet?” “Oh yes,” the squire said, “your niece is perfectly fine; she’s upstairs in her room.” “What?!” the lady exclaimed, “My niece is in this house, and she doesn’t know I’m here?” “No, it’s hard for anyone to get to her,” the squire said, “because she’s locked away. I brought her from my lady cousin the first night I got to town, and I’ve been looking after her ever since; she’s as safe as a fox in a bag, I promise.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Western, “What do I hear? I anticipated all the trouble that would arise from allowing you to come to town! After all, it was your stubbornness, and I cannot take the blame for it. Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t take any rash actions? Wasn’t it those hasty decisions that made my niece run away from you back in the country? Are you trying to force her into another situation like that?” “D—n it!” shouted the squire, throwing his pipe down, “Has anyone ever heard such nonsense? I expected you to praise me for everything I’ve done, not to be attacked like this!” “How, brother?” the lady said, “Have I ever given you any reason to think I’d commend you for locking up your daughter? Haven’t I often told you that women in a free country shouldn’t be treated like that? We’re just as free as men, and if anything, we deserve that freedom even more. If you think I’ll stay even one more minute in this miserable house, or that I’ll ever acknowledge you as my relative again, or that I’ll involve myself with your family’s issues again, I insist you release my niece this instant.” She spoke with such authority, standing with her back to the fire, one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I doubt Thalestris at the head of her Amazons ever made a more imposing figure. It’s no wonder the poor squire couldn’t withstand the power she commanded. “Here,” he exclaimed, dropping the key, “do whatever you want. I only meant to keep her here until Blifil got to town, which can’t be long; and if anything goes wrong in the meantime, remember who’s to blame for it.”
“I will answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but I shall not intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that you will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you ratify these preliminaries, brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral state.”
“I’ll give my life for this,” Mrs. Western exclaimed, “but I won’t get involved unless you agree to one condition: you need to fully trust me with everything, without taking any action yourself, unless I eventually ask you to step in. If you accept these terms, brother, I will still try to protect your family’s honor; if not, I’ll stay neutral.”
“I pray you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit yourself this once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to perpetrate by more rigorous measures.”
“I ask you, good sir,” said the parson, “please allow yourself this once to listen to her ladyship: perhaps, by talking with young Madam Sophia, she will achieve more than you have been able to accomplish through harsher methods.”
“What, dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if thee dost begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.”
“What, are you talking to me?” the squire shouts. “If you start babbling, I’ll beat you up in a minute.”
“Fie, brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to a clergyman? Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever.”
“Come on, brother,” the lady replied, “is this how you speak to a clergyman? Mr. Supple is a sensible man, and he’s giving you great advice; I think everyone would agree with him. But I need to be clear: I expect an immediate answer to my straightforward proposals. Either give me your daughter, or you can keep her entirely under your surprising judgment. If not, then right here, in front of Mr. Supple, I will leave and cut ties with you and your family forever.”
“I pray you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let me supplicate you.”
“I ask you to let me be a mediator,” the parson pleads, “please allow me to beg you.”
“Why, there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire. “She may take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?”
“Look, the key is right there on the table,” says the squire. “She can pick it up if she wants to; who’s stopping her?”
“No, brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the formality of its being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the concessions stipulated.”
“No, brother,” replied the lady, “I insist on it being delivered to me formally, with a complete confirmation of all the agreed concessions.”
“Why then I will deliver it to you.—There 'tis,” cries the squire. “I am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to a time, without my ever zeeing her.”
“Why then I'll give it to you. There it is,” says the squire. “I’m sure, sister, you can’t say I’ve ever refused to trust my daughter with you. She has lived with you for a whole year and more at a time, without me ever seeing her.”
“And it would have been happy for her,” answered the lady, “if she had always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened under my eye.”
“And it would have been better for her,” replied the lady, “if she had always lived with me. Nothing like this would have happened while I was watching.”
“Ay, certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.”
“Yeah, for sure,” he exclaims, “I'm the only one to blame.”
“Why, you are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have been often obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so. However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders. Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore, insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past.”——
“Honestly, you're at fault, brother,” she replied. “I've had to tell you this many times, and I’ll keep having to do so. But I really hope you’ll change your ways now and learn from your past mistakes so you don’t mess up my best plans with your blunders. Really, brother, you’re not cut out for these dealings. Your entire approach to politics is off. So once again, I insist that you stay out of it. Just remember what has happened before.”---
“Z—ds and bl—d, sister,” cries the squire, “what would you have me say? You are enough to provoke the devil.”
“God damn it, sister,” cries the squire, “what do you want me to say? You’re enough to provoke the devil.”
“There, now,” said she, “just according to the old custom. I see, brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr Supple, who is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way.”
“There, now,” she said, “just like the old custom. I see, brother, there’s no point in talking to you. I’ll appeal to Mr. Supple, who is a sensible man, to see if I said anything that could upset anyone; but you’re so stubborn in every way.”
“Let me beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to irritate his worship.”
“Please, ma'am,” said the parson, “don't upset his worship.”
“Irritate him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a fool as himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of one woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now having summoned a servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.
“Irritate him?” said the lady. “Sure, you’re just as much of a fool as he is. Well, brother, since you’ve promised not to interfere, I’ll take charge of my niece again. Lord, have mercy on all matters managed by men! The mind of one woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now, having called a servant to guide her to Sophia, she left, taking the key with her.
She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door) ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, “Now one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last, for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live for ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will.”
She had barely left when the squire (after shutting the door) shouted, "Damn that woman!" along with a string of curses. He also blamed himself for ever considering her situation. But he added, “Now that I’ve been trapped in this for so long, it would be a shame to give it up now just because I can’t hold on a little longer. She can't live forever, and I know I'm set to inherit from the will.”
The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs Western returned with Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and the aunt acquainted Mr Western, “that she intended to take her niece with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother,” says she, “these rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.”
The parson really approved of this decision. Then the squire, having ordered another bottle—his usual way of dealing with anything that upset or pleased him—drank enough of this soothing drink to completely calm his anger, making his mood completely peaceful and relaxed by the time Mrs. Western returned with Sophia. The young lady was wearing her hat and cape, and her aunt informed Mr. Western, "I plan to take my niece back to my place because, honestly, brother, these rooms aren't suitable for anyone."
“Very well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please. The girl can never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me the justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back, that you was one of the most sensible women in the world.”
“Sure, ma'am,” said Western, “whatever you like. The girl couldn’t be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can honestly say that I’ve mentioned fifty times behind your back that you are one of the smartest women in the world.”
“To this,” cries the parson, “I am ready to bear testimony.”
“To this,” the parson exclaims, “I am ready to bear witness.”
“Nay, brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I'm sure, given you as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to reflect I never knew a man more reasonable.”
“Nah, brother,” says Mrs. Western, “I’ve always, I'm sure, given you a pretty good reputation. You have to admit you can be a bit too quick-tempered; but when you take the time to think things over, I’ve never known anyone more reasonable.”
“Why then, sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here's your good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do everything your aunt orders you.”
“Why then, sister, if you think that way,” said the squire, “here's to your good health with all my heart. I can be a bit hot-headed sometimes, but I refuse to hold any grudges. Sophy, be a good girl and do everything your aunt tells you.”
“I have not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western. “She hath had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when you set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent fellow with the odious Irish name—that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will not see her, for I am determined I will not.”
“I have no doubt about her,” Mrs. Western replied. “She has already had an example right in front of her with her cousin Harriet, who messed up her life by ignoring my advice. Oh brother, what do you think? You had barely left when you went to London, when who should show up but that rude guy with the awful Irish name—Fitzpatrick. He barged in on me without warning, or I wouldn't have let him in. He went on and on with some long, confusing story about his wife, and he forced me to listen; but I hardly said anything back and just handed him the letter from his wife, telling him to respond himself. I’m sure that jerk will try to track us down, but I beg you not to see her, because I’m determined not to.”
“I zee her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me. I'll ge no encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow, her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own family.”
“I see her!” replied the squire; “you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t give any support to such disobedient girls. It’s a good thing for the guy, her husband, that I wasn’t home. I swear he would have taken a dip in the horse pond, I promise you that. You see, Sophy, what disobedience leads to. You have an example in your own family.”
“Brother,” cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece by such odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?” “Well, well, I wull, I wull,” said the squire.
“Brother,” the aunt exclaims, “you don't need to offend my niece with such awful repeated comments. Why can't you just leave everything to me?” “Alright, alright, I will, I will,” said the squire.
And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.
And now Mrs. Western, fortunately for Sophia, ended the conversation by calling for chairs. I say fortunately, because if it had gone on much longer, new disagreements would likely have popped up between the brother and sister, who were only different because of their upbringing and gender; both were just as passionate and just as sure of themselves: they both had a deep affection for Sophia and shared a strong disdain for each other.
Chapter v. — In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.
The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her confinement:
The arrival of Black George in town, along with the help that grateful guy promised to provide for his old benefactor, really comforted Jones during all the worry and stress he had faced because of Sophia. Through George, he received the following reply to his letter from Sophia, who, now that she had her freedom back, was able to use pen, ink, and paper and wrote this the very evening she left her confinement:
“Sir,
“As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom
I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I
have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though
she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the
word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach
of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what
is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on
reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a
comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which
I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly
resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of
consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must
teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)
made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may
reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my
injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on
me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be
some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I
shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
your obliged humble servant,
Sophia Western.
“I charge you write to me no more—at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it.”[*]
[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
“Sir,
As I genuinely believe in your sincerity regarding your letters, I’m happy to inform you that some of my troubles are over, thanks to the arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I’m currently staying, and with whom I have all the freedom I could wish for. My aunt has insisted that I promise not to see or talk to anyone without her knowledge and consent. I have sworn to keep this promise faithfully; although she hasn’t explicitly forbidden me from writing, that must be an oversight, or perhaps it’s included in the term ‘conversing.’ However, since I can’t view this as anything but a violation of her generous trust in my honor, you shouldn’t expect that I will continue to write or receive letters without her approval. A promise holds great weight for me, and it covers all things implied as well as what’s explicitly stated; and this thought may, upon reflection, bring you some comfort. But why should I mention such comfort to you? Although there’s one area where I can never fully comply with my dear father, I am determined not to act against his wishes or take any significant steps without his consent. This firm belief should help you shift your thoughts away from what fate may have rendered impossible. This, I hope, will help reconcile Mr. Allworthy with you; and if so, I urge you to pursue it. Circumstances have imposed some obligations on me, and your good intentions likely even more. Perhaps, in time, fortune will be kinder to us both than it is now. Rest assured, I will always think of you as you deserve, and I am,
Sir,
your devoted humble servant,
Sophia Western.
I urge you to refrain from writing to me anymore—at least for now; and please accept this, which is of no use to me, but which I know you need, and I believe you only owe it to that fortune through which you found it.”[*]
[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was more pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much in love as was poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in direct opposition to it, and particularly in this, that it never flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.
A child who's just learned his letters would have spelled this letter out in less time than Jones took to read it. The feelings it stirred up were a mix of joy and sadness; kind of like what a good person feels when reading the will of a deceased friend, in which a large inheritance, made more welcome by his struggles, is left to him. Overall, though, he was more pleased than unhappy; and, in fact, the reader might wonder why he was unhappy at all; but the reader isn’t quite as in love as poor Jones was; and love is a condition that, while it can sometimes act like a wasting illness (which it can sometimes cause), in other cases directly contrasts with it, especially in that it never flatters itself or sees any symptoms in a positive light.
One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable circumstance was the reference which she made to her promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his letter, I very much question whether he could have heard a more afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to another, though the match had been never so great, and never so likely to end in making her completely happy. That refined degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with the utmost readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I have ever seen an instance of it.
One thing brought him complete satisfaction: his mistress had regained her freedom and was now with a woman who would at least ensure she was treated well. Another comforting detail was her mention of her promise never to marry anyone else; no matter how selfless he thought his feelings were, and despite all the generous gestures made in his letter, I really doubt there could have been more painful news for him than finding out that Sophia had married someone else, even if the match was fantastic and likely to make her completely happy. That refined kind of Platonic love that is totally detached from physical attraction and is, in fact, purely spiritual, is a gift that seems to belong solely to women; many of them I’ve heard say (and I’m sure it’s true) that they would be completely willing to give up a lover to a rival if it meant it was in that lover’s best interest. Therefore, I conclude that this kind of affection exists in nature, though I can’t say I’ve ever witnessed an example of it.
Mr Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.
Mr. Jones, after spending three hours reading and kissing the letter mentioned earlier, finally felt in a good mood because of that letter. He decided to go ahead with a plan he had made earlier. This was to take Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter to the gallery at the theater and to let Mr. Partridge join them. Since Jones genuinely appreciated humor, which many people just pretended to enjoy, he anticipated having a lot of fun listening to Partridge's critiques, which he expected to be the straightforward expressions of nature—unrefined, but also unspoiled by any artistic influence.
In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, “It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out.” While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs Miller, “Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service.” Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, “That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth.”
In the first row of the first gallery, Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge took their seats. Partridge immediately declared it was the best place he had ever been. When the first music started, he said, “It's amazing how so many fiddlers can play at the same time without getting in each other's way.” When the guy was lighting the upper candles, he shouted to Mrs. Miller, “Look, look, ma'am, it's just like the picture of the man at the end of the Book of Common Prayer before the Gunpowder Treason service.” He also couldn’t help but sigh when all the candles were lit, saying, “There are enough candles burned in one night to support an honest poor family for a whole year.”
As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, “What man that was in the strange dress; something,” said he, “like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” Jones answered, “That is the ghost.” To which Partridge replied with a smile, “Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, neither.” In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? “O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person.” “Why, who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thyself?” “Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such fool-hardiness!—Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.——Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil——for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.—Oh! here he is again.——No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions.” Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him.
As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, started, Partridge was completely focused and didn’t say a word until the ghost appeared; then he asked Jones, “Who was that guy in the weird costume? It looks a bit like something I’ve seen in a painting. Surely that’s not armor, right?” Jones replied, “That’s the ghost.” Partridge smiled and said, “Convince me of that, if you can. Even though I can’t say I've ever actually seen a ghost, I’d definitely recognize one better than that thing. No, no, sir, ghosts don’t show up in outfits like that.” This misunderstanding got a good laugh from those around Partridge, and he kept going until the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when he gave Mr. Garrick the credit he hadn’t given to Jones and trembled so violently that his knees knocked together. Jones asked him what was wrong and if he was afraid of the warrior on stage. “Oh my! Sir,” he said, “I see now it’s what you told me. I’m not scared of anything because I know it’s just a play. And if it really was a ghost, it couldn’t harm anyone from that distance, surrounded by so many people; but still, if I’m frightened, I’m not the only one.” “Well, who,” Jones exclaimed, “do you think is such a coward besides yourself?” “Hey, you can call me a coward if you want; but if that little guy on stage isn’t scared, I’ve never seen anyone scared in my life. Yeah, yeah: go on then! Of course! Who’s the fool now? Will you? For heaven’s sake, what foolishness!—Whatever happens, it’s good enough for you.——Follow you? I’d follow the devil just as easily. Maybe it is the devil——because they say he can take on any shape he likes.—Oh! here he is again.——No further! No, you’ve already gone far enough; farther than I’d go for all the king’s lands.” Jones tried to speak, but Partridge yelled, “Hush, hush! Dear sir, can’t you hear him?” And throughout the ghost’s entire speech, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, mouth open, experiencing the same emotions that Hamlet did.
When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible.” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.” “And dost thou imagine, then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that he was really frightened?” “Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been, had it been my own case?—But hush! O la! what noise is that? There he is again.——Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are.” Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?”
When the scene was over, Jones said, "Wow, Partridge, you surpass my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I thought possible." "Not at all, sir," replied Partridge, "if you're not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but it's only natural to be surprised by such things, even though I know there's nothing to them. It wasn't the ghost that surprised me either; I would have recognized that it was just a man in a weird costume. But when I saw the little man so scared himself, that’s what really got to me." "Do you think, then, Partridge," Jones said, "that he was actually scared?" "Not at all, sir," Partridge said. "Didn't you notice afterwards, when he realized it was his father's spirit and how he was murdered in the garden, that his fear gradually left him? He looked completely dumbfounded with sorrow, just like I would have been if it were my situation. But wait! Oh my, what noise is that? There he is again. —Well, honestly, even though I know there's nothing to it, I’m glad I’m not down there with those men." Then turning his gaze back to Hamlet, "Sure, you can draw your sword; what good is a sword against the power of the devil?"
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. “Well,” said he, “how people may be deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?” He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, “that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.”
During the second act, Partridge didn't say much. He was really impressed by the elegance of the dresses and couldn't help but comment on the king's expression. "Well," he said, "how easily people can be misled by appearances! Nulla fides fronti is definitely a true saying. Who would guess, just by looking at the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?" He then asked about the ghost, but Jones, who wanted to surprise him, didn't give him any more information, only saying, "You might see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.” “Indeed, you saw right,” answered Jones. “Well, well,” cries Partridge, “I know it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.—There, there—Ay, no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.——Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you.”
Partridge sat there, filled with anxiety about what was going to happen next; and now, when the ghost showed up again, Partridge shouted, “There, sir, what do you have to say now? Is he scared now or not? Just as scared as you think I am, and of course, everyone has some fears. I wouldn’t want to be in such a terrible state as that, what's-his-name, Squire Hamlet, for anything in the world. Goodness! Where did the spirit go? I swear I just saw him sink into the ground.” “Yes, you saw that correctly,” replied Jones. “Well, well,” said Partridge, “I know it’s just a play: and besides, if there were anything to this, Madam Miller wouldn’t be laughing so much; as for you, sir, I believe you wouldn’t be scared even if the devil himself was here. — There, there — No wonder you’re so upset, shake that vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she were my own mother, I would treat her the same way. Honestly, all respect for a mother is lost with such evil behavior. — Go on, I can’t stand the sight of you.”
Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs Miller, he asked her, “If she did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,” said he, “a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again.”
Our critic had been pretty quiet until the play that Hamlet presents to the king. He didn’t understand it at first until Jones explained it to him; but as soon as he got into it, he started to feel relieved that he had never murdered anyone. Then he turned to Mrs. Miller and asked her, “Don’t you think the king looks like he’s affected by this? Even though he’s a good actor and does everything he can to hide it. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for as much as that wicked man there, to be in a much higher position than he is. No wonder he ran away; from now on, I’ll never trust an innocent face again.”
The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, “That it was one of the most famous burial-places about town.” “No wonder then,” cries Partridge, “that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe.”—Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man, on any account.—He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit.”
The grave-digging scene next caught Partridge's attention, and he expressed a lot of surprise at the number of skulls scattered on the stage. To this, Jones replied, “That’s one of the most famous burial spots in town.” “No wonder,” exclaimed Partridge, “that the place is haunted. But I’ve never seen a worse grave-digger in my life. I had a sexton when I was a clerk who should have dug three graves while this guy is only digging one. The guy handles a shovel like it’s the first time he’s ever had one in his hands. Yeah, yeah, you’d rather sing than work, I bet.” When Hamlet picked up the skull, he said, “Well! It’s strange to see how fearless some people are. I could never bring myself to touch anything that belonged to a dead person, for any reason.—He seemed scared enough by the ghost, too, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit.”
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him, “Which of the players he had liked best?” To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, “The king, without doubt.” “Indeed, Mr Partridge,” says Mrs Miller, “you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage.” “He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.—Anybody may see he is an actor.”
Not much else worth remembering happened during the play. At the end, Jones asked him, “Which of the actors did you like best?” He replied, looking a bit annoyed by the question, “The king, without a doubt.” “Really, Mr. Partridge,” Mrs. Miller said, “you don't share the same opinion as the town; everyone agrees that Hamlet is played by the best actor to ever grace the stage.” “He the best actor!” Partridge exclaimed, sneering in disbelief, “I could act just as well as he does. I’m sure if I had seen a ghost, I would have reacted exactly the same way he did. And then, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you said he acted so brilliantly—well, honestly, any decent man with a mother like that would have done the same thing. I know you’re just joking with me, but honestly, madam, even though I've never been to a play in London, I've seen acting in the countryside, and for me, the king is the best; he pronounces all his words clearly and twice as loud as the others. Anyone can see he’s an actor.”
While Mrs Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady came up to Mr Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
While Mrs. Miller was chatting with Partridge, a lady approached Mr. Jones, who immediately recognized her as Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She mentioned that she had seen him from the other side of the gallery and took that chance to talk to him because she had something to say that could be very helpful for him. She then told him where she was staying and scheduled a meeting for the next morning; however, after thinking it over, she quickly changed it to the afternoon, at which time Jones agreed to meet her.
Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to anything that passed on the stage.
Thus ended the adventure at the theater, where Partridge had provided great amusement, not just to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to everyone within earshot, who paid more attention to what he said than to anything happening on stage.
He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying out, “Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.”
He didn't dare go to bed that entire night because he was scared of the ghost; for many nights after, he would sweat for two or three hours before falling asleep, feeling the same fears, and would wake up several times in a panic, crying out, “Lord have mercy on us! There it is.”
Chapter vi. — In which the history is obliged to look back.
It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when that superiority determines his preference.
It's nearly impossible for even the best parent to be completely fair to their children, even if no special qualities should influence their love; however, it's understandable if that special quality leads to a preference.
As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same excuse, from the superiority of her character.
As I look at all the characters in this story through the lens of my children, I have to admit I feel the same favoritism toward Sophia; and for that, I hope the reader will grant me the same justification, given her superior character.
This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine never suffers me to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance. I could now, therefore, return impatiently to enquire what hath happened to this lovely creature since her departure from her father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr Blifil.
This incredible affection I have for my heroine makes it hard for me to leave her for very long without feeling a lot of reluctance. Because of that, I could now impatiently rush back to find out what has happened to this lovely girl since she left her father's, but I have to make a quick visit to Mr. Blifil first.
Mr Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast upon the sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first hurry to go after her, had not once thought of sending any account of the discovery to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first inn he came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to him immediately, if he would come up after him to town.
Mr. Western, in the initial shock he felt upon receiving the sudden news about his daughter, and in his rush to go after her, had completely forgotten to inform Blifil about the discovery. However, it wasn’t long before he came to his senses and stopped at the first inn he encountered. He sent a messenger to let Blifil know that he had found Sophia and that he was determined to marry her to him right away, if Blifil would come to town to meet him.
As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind, which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident, could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by her having run away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he now proposed the gratification of a very strong passion besides avarice, by marrying this young lady, and this was hatred; for he concluded that matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying either hatred or love; and this opinion is very probably verified by much experience. To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary behaviour of married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to conclude that the generality seek the indulgence of the former passion only, in their union of everything but of hearts.
As Blifil’s love for Sophia was the intense kind that could only be diminished by losing her wealth or some similar misfortune, his desire to marry her didn’t change at all because she had run away, even though he had to take that personally. He readily accepted the opportunity. In fact, he now aimed to fulfill a strong desire beyond just greed by marrying this young woman, which was hatred; he believed that marriage provided an equal chance to satisfy either hatred or love, and this idea is likely supported by a lot of experience. To be honest, if we judge by the typical behavior of married couples towards each other, we might think that most just indulge their hatred in their union while neglecting love.
There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia (for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from him), the great aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be seriously concerned that he had been deceived into carrying matters so far. He by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who think it as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children in the affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their servants when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or decency at least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the contrary, as he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he thought every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and inviolate; and very wisely concluded, that the surest way to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous affection.
There was, however, one obstacle in his way, which came from Mr. Allworthy. That good man, when he learned about Sophia’s departure (for he couldn’t be kept in the dark about it or the reason behind it), became genuinely worried that he had been misled into pushing things too far. He didn’t agree at all with those parents who believe it's completely fine to ignore their children's feelings in matters of marriage, just as they would rarely check in with their servants before going on a trip. Legally or at least socially, they were often prevented from using outright force. On the other hand, since he considered the institution of marriage to be deeply sacred, he felt that every precaution was necessary to keep it holy and intact. He wisely concluded that the best way to ensure this was by building a foundation of prior affection.
Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been deceived himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing his addresses was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that the very appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius; but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be achieved.
Blifil quickly managed to soothe his uncle's anger over the deceit by making many promises and claims that he had been deceived himself, which aligned perfectly with the numerous statements from Western. However, persuading Allworthy to agree to renew his requests was clearly a tough challenge, enough to discourage someone less bold. But this young man was so confident in his own abilities that nothing involving cunning seemed difficult for him to accomplish.
Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and the hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He begged that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose, he might at least be at liberty to try all fair means for success. Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any other than the most gentle methods! “Besides, sir,” said he, “if they fail, you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your consent.” He urged the great and eager desire which Mr Western had for the match; and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to preserve so valuable a young lady was even an act of charity.
Here, he expressed the intensity of his feelings and his hopes of winning the lady over by being persistent. He asked that, since everything about his future happiness depended on this matter, he should at least be allowed to try all reasonable means to succeed. God forbid, he stated, that he should ever consider succeeding by anything other than the gentlest approaches! “Besides, sir,” he added, “if they don’t work, you can then (and that will be more than enough time) withdraw your approval.” He emphasized Mr. Western’s strong desire for the marriage and, finally, made great use of Jones's name, blaming him for everything that had happened and arguing that saving such a precious young lady from him was even a charitable act.
All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little stronger on the authority of parents than Mr Blifil himself had done. He ascribed the measures which Mr Blifil was desirous to take to Christian motives; “and though,” says he, “the good young gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his first and principal consideration.”
All these points were strongly supported by Thwackum, who emphasized the authority of parents more than Mr. Blifil had. He attributed Mr. Blifil's desired actions to Christian motives; “and even though,” he said, “the good young gentleman mentioned charity last, I’m almost convinced it is his primary concern.”
Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same tune, though in a different key, and would have discovered much moral fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the recovery of his health.
Square, if he had been there, would have sung along with the same message, just in a different way, and would have found a lot of moral value in what was happening: but he had gone to Bath to recover his health.
Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady: “But I declare,” said he, “I will never give my consent to any absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever have her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance.”
Allworthy, though somewhat hesitant, finally gave in to his nephew’s wishes. He agreed to go with him to London, where he would have the opportunity to make an honest effort to win the lady's heart: “But I swear,” he said, “I will never agree to any kind of force being used on her feelings, and you will never have her unless she willingly agrees.”
Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and thus is the prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the tenderness of the best of hearts.
Thus did Allworthy's affection for his nephew reveal that a stronger understanding can be overcome by a weaker one; and thus is the wisdom of the best minds often undermined by the kindness of the best hearts.
Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his uncle, rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as no immediate business required Mr Allworthy's presence in the country, and little preparation is necessary to men for a journey, they set out the very next day, and arrived in town that evening, when Mr Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at the play.
Blifil, having unexpectedly gained his uncle's approval, didn't stop until he accomplished his goal. Since Mr. Allworthy didn't have any pressing matters keeping him in the country and little preparation is needed for a trip, they left the very next day and reached the city that evening. Meanwhile, Mr. Jones, as we've seen, was enjoying himself with Partridge at the theater.
The morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr Western, by whom he was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the squire suffer the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he had, almost against his will, carried him to his sister.
The morning after he arrived, Mr. Blifil paid a visit to Mr. Western, who received him very kindly and graciously. Mr. Western gave him every possible assurance (maybe even more than was realistic) that he would soon be as happy as Sophia could make him; and the squire wouldn’t let the young man go back to his uncle until he had, almost reluctantly, taken him to see his sister.
Chapter vii. — In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr Blifil.
Mrs Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.
Mrs. Western was giving her niece a lecture on caution and marriage politics when her brother and Blifil barged in without the usual courtesy expected in visits. As soon as Sophia saw Blifil, she turned pale and nearly lost her senses; however, her aunt, on the other hand, flushed red and, fully in control of herself, started to talk to the squire.
“Brother,” said she, “I am astonished at your behaviour; will you never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants? Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of condition, without the least decency or notice?”——“Why, what a pox is the matter now?” quoth the squire; “one would think I had caught you at—“—“None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you,” answered she.——“You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see, support herself.——Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your spirits; for I see you have occasion.” At which words Sophia, who never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.
“Brother,” she said, “I’m shocked by your behavior; will you ever learn to be more respectful? Do you still treat every room like it’s yours or belongs to someone from your estate? Do you think you can invade the personal space of women of status without any decency or warning?”——“What the hell is going on now?” said the squire; “you’d think I caught you at—“—“None of your rudeness, please,” she replied.——“You’ve startled my poor niece so much that she can barely hold herself together.——Go on, my dear, step away and try to collect yourself; I can see you need to.” At those words, Sophia, who had never been more grateful for a command, quickly left the room.
“To be sure, sister,” cries the squire, “you are mad, when I have brought Mr Blifil here to court her, to force her away.”
“To be sure, sis,” the squire exclaims, “you must be crazy when I’ve brought Mr. Blifil here to pursue her and to take her away.”
“Sure, brother,” says she, “you are worse than mad, when you know in what situation affairs are, to——I am sure I ask Mr Blifil's pardon, but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see Mr Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him to proceed so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it.”
“Sure, brother,” she says, “you’re more than a little crazy when you know what’s going on to— I’m sure I apologize to Mr. Blifil, but he knows very well who to blame for such an unpleasant welcome. As for me, I’ll always be happy to see Mr. Blifil; but his own good judgment wouldn’t have let him act so hastily if you hadn’t pushed him into it.”
Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western, without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered, “Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr Blifil go to her.——He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost.”
Blifil bowed and stumbled over his words, looking foolish; but Western, without giving him a chance to gather his thoughts, replied, “Alright, I’ll take the blame if that’s what you want, I usually do; but come on, let’s get the girl back, or let Mr. Blifil go to her. He came up here for a reason, and we can’t waste any more time.”
“Brother,” cries Mrs Western, “Mr Blifil, I am confident, understands himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice contexture; and our spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed in a moment. Had you suffered Mr Blifil to have sent his compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting on her in the afternoon, I should possibly have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I despair of bringing about any such matter.”
"Brother," Mrs. Western exclaims, "I’m sure Mr. Blifil understands himself well enough not to think about seeing my niece again this morning, after what just happened. Women are delicate creatures; our feelings, when upset, can’t just be fixed in an instant. If you had let Mr. Blifil send his regards to my niece and ask to see her in the afternoon, I might have been able to convince her to meet him; but now I have no hope of making that happen."
“I am very sorry, madam,” cried Blifil, “that Mr Western's extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough acknowledge, should have occasioned—” “Indeed, sir,” said she, interrupting him, “you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well.”
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” shouted Blifil, “that Mr. Western’s incredible kindness toward me, which I can never thank him enough for, has caused—” “Honestly, sir,” she interrupted, “you don’t need to apologize; we all know my brother very well.”
“I don't care what anybody knows of me,” answered the squire;——“but when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come up on purpose, and so is Allworthy.”—“Brother,” said she, “whatever message Mr Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece shall be delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to make a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr Blifil at a proper time.”—“The devil she won't!” answered the squire.—“Odsbud!—Don't we know—I say nothing, but some volk are wiser than all the world.——If I might have had my will, she had not run away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is guone again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well she hates——” “No matter, brother,” replied Mrs Western, “I will not hear my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will pawn my whole reputation in the world on her conduct.——I shall be glad to see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have somewhat of importance to mention to you.—At present, Mr Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress.” “Well, but,” said the squire, “do appoint a time.” “Indeed,” said she, “I can appoint no time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon.”—“What the devil would you have me do?” cries the squire, turning to Blifil; “I can no more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will be in a better humour in the afternoon.”—“I am condemned, I see, sir, to misfortune,” answered Blifil; “but I shall always own my obligations to you.” He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs Western, who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they departed, the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should see his daughter in the afternoon.
“I don’t care what anyone knows about me,” replied the squire; “but when is he supposed to come and see her? I’m telling you, he came specifically for this, and so did Allworthy.” “Brother,” she said, “whatever message Mr. Blifil thinks is appropriate to send to my niece will be delivered to her; and I imagine she won’t need any guidance to respond properly. I’m sure she won’t refuse to see Mr. Blifil at the right time.” “No way she won’t!” replied the squire. “By God!—Don’t we know—I won’t say much, but some people think they know better than everyone else. If I had my way, she wouldn’t have run off before; and now I expect to hear any moment that she’s gone again. For as big of a fool as some people think I am, I know she hates—” “It doesn’t matter, brother,” Mrs. Western replied, “I won’t allow anyone to speak badly about my niece. It reflects poorly on my family. She brings honor to it, and I promise she will continue to do so. I would bet my entire reputation on her behavior. I’ll be happy to see you this afternoon, brother, as I have something important to discuss with you. Right now, Mr. Blifil, like you, must excuse me; I’m in a hurry to get ready.” “Well, but,” said the squire, “you have to set a time.” “Honestly,” she said, “I can’t set any time. I’m saying I’ll see you in the afternoon.” “What the hell do you want me to do?” the squire exclaimed, turning to Blifil. “I can’t change her mind any more than a beagle can catch an old hare. Maybe she’ll be in a better mood in the afternoon.” “I see, sir, I’m doomed to misfortune,” Blifil replied; “but I’ll always appreciate what you’ve done for me.” He then took a formal leave of Mrs. Western, who was equally formal in return; and then they left, the squire muttering to himself with an oath that Blifil would see his daughter in the afternoon.
If Mr Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was less. As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words which dropt from the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear when I have unfolded the several matters which will be contained in the following chapter.
If Mr. Western was not very happy with this meeting, Blifil was even less so. As for Mr. Western, he blamed his sister's entire behavior on her mood and her annoyance at the lack of formality during the visit. However, Blifil saw things more clearly. He suspected there was something more significant based on a few words that slipped from the lady. To be honest, he was right to suspect it, as will be revealed when I discuss the various issues that will be covered in the following chapter.
Chapter viii. — Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.
Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be plucked up by the rude hands of Mr Western. In the heat of resentment he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the captain had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he had received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the discharge of his duty, that, having after long enquiry found out the squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by that means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his lodgings.
Love had taken too strong a hold in Lord Fellamar's mind to be uprooted by Mr. Western's rough actions. In a moment of anger, he had given orders to Captain Egglane, but the captain had gone far beyond what was requested; however, it would not have been done at all if his lordship had been able to track down the captain after his meeting with Lady Bellaston, which was on the afternoon of the day after he was insulted. The captain was so dedicated to his task that, after a lengthy search, he located the squire's lodgings very late at night and stayed up all night at a tavern, determined not to miss the squire in the morning—consequently, he missed the cancellation that my lord had sent to his lodgings.
In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance of a most favourable reception from all the elders of the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober, and should be made acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew not what, procured himself tolerable cloaths, and past for a gentleman. “Now,” says she, “as I have, for the sake of my cousin, made it my business to enquire after this fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;” with which she then acquainted his lordship. “I am thinking, my lord,” added she “(for this fellow is too mean for your personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your lordship to contrive some method of having him pressed and sent on board a ship. Neither law nor conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise you, however well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in the streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the conscientious part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my cousin, it may probably be the means of preserving him from the gallows, and perhaps may make his fortune in an honest way.”
The next afternoon after Sophia's attempted assault, his lordship, as we noted, visited Lady Bellaston, who revealed enough about the squire's character that his lordship realized how ridiculous he had been to take offense at what he'd said, especially since he had honorable intentions toward his daughter. He then poured out his feelings to Lady Bellaston, who eagerly supported him, assuring him that he would be welcomed by all the family elders and even by the father himself once he was sober and understood the nature of the proposal for his daughter. The only risk, she mentioned, was the man she had previously talked about, who, despite being a beggar and a wanderer, had somehow managed to get decent clothes and was passing himself off as a gentleman. “Now,” she said, “since I've taken it upon myself to find out about this man for the sake of my cousin, I’ve luckily discovered where he’s staying,” which she then told his lordship. “I’m wondering, my lord,” she continued “(since this man is too insignificant for you to deal with personally), would it be possible for you to find a way to have him pressed into service and sent aboard a ship? There’s no law or moral obligation against this plan: I assure you, no matter how well-dressed, he is still just a vagabond and as suitable as any street ruffian for conscription; and as for the moral aspect, surely saving a young woman from such destruction is a commendable act; besides, as far as he’s concerned, unless he manages to win my cousin over (which God forbid), it might save him from the gallows and potentially lead to a decent life.”
Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which she was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do him the honour of immediately mentioning his proposals to the family; to whom he said he offered a carte blanche, and would settle his fortune in almost any manner they should require. And after uttering many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and departed, but not before he had received the strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing his person, where he should no longer be in a capacity of making any attempts to the ruin of the young lady.
Lord Fellamar sincerely thanked her ladyship for her involvement in the matter, which his entire future happiness depended on. He mentioned that he currently saw no objections to the urgent plan and would think about putting it into action. He then earnestly urged her ladyship to honor him by discussing his proposals with the family; he stated that he offered a carte blanche and would arrange his fortune in almost any way they wanted. After expressing his many ecstatic thoughts about Sophia, he took his leave but not before receiving a strong warning to watch out for Jones and to act quickly to secure his position, ensuring he would no longer be able to attempt to ruin the young lady.
The moment Mrs Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the prospect of making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than to a gentleman whom she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot; though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a refusal.
As soon as Mrs. Western arrived at her lodgings, she sent a card with her compliments to Lady Bellaston. The moment Lady Bellaston received it, she rushed to her cousin with the excitement of a lover, thrilled by this unexpected opportunity. She felt much happier about making the proposals to a woman of intelligence who understood the world, rather than to a man whom she referred to as Hottentot; although, in truth, she didn't think he would refuse.
The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials, fell to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as begun; for Mrs Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness of his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and the generosity of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit terms.
The two women greeted each other and quickly got to the point. The business was almost wrapped up as soon as it started; as soon as Mrs. Western heard the name Lord Fellamar, her face lit up with joy. However, when she learned about his intense feelings, the seriousness of his proposals, and the generosity of his offer, she openly expressed her complete satisfaction.
In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to Jones, and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs Western entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's management. She concluded, however, at last, with declaring her confidence in the good understanding of her niece, who, though she would not give up her affection in favour of Blifil, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple inclination to the addresses of a fine gentleman, who brings her both a title and a large estate: “For, indeed,” added she, “I must do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country gentlemen are, and hath nothing but his fortune to recommend him.”
As their conversation progressed, they began talking about Jones, and both cousins sadly expressed their concern over Sophia's unfortunate attachment to that young man. Mrs. Western completely blamed her brother's poor management for the situation. However, she ultimately concluded by expressing her confidence in her niece, who, although she wouldn't give up her feelings for Jones in favor of Blifil, will, I believe, soon be convinced to choose a simple preference for a charming gentleman who brings her both a title and a large estate: “For, honestly,” she added, “I must give Sophy credit to admit that this Blifil is quite an ugly fellow, as you know, Bellaston, like most country gentlemen, and has nothing to recommend him except his wealth.”
“Nay,” said Lady Bellaston, “I don't then so much wonder at my cousin; for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us. What do you think, Mrs Western—I shall certainly make you laugh; nay, I can hardly tell you myself for laughing—will you believe that the fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you should be inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own handwriting, I assure you.” She then delivered her cousin the letter with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this history.
“No,” said Lady Bellaston, “I’m not so surprised by my cousin anymore; I promise you this Jones is a very charming guy, and he has one quality that the men say is a big plus for us. What do you think, Mrs. Western—I’m sure I’ll make you laugh; in fact, I can barely tell you without cracking up—can you believe that this guy had the nerve to profess his love to me? But if you’re tempted to doubt it, here’s enough proof, his own handwriting, I assure you.” She then handed her cousin the letter with the marriage proposals, which, if the reader wants to see, can be found already recorded in the 15th book of this story.
“Upon my word I am astonished,” said Mrs Western; “this is, indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may possibly make some use of this letter.” “You have my full liberty,” cries Lady Bellaston, “to apply it to what purpose you please. However, I would not have it shewn to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you find occasion.” “Well, and how did you use the fellow?” returned Mrs Western. “Not as a husband,” said the lady; “I am not married, I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once already; and once, I think, is enough for any reasonable woman.”
“Honestly, I'm shocked,” said Mrs. Western; “this is definitely a display of confidence. With your permission, I might make some use of this letter.” “You have my complete permission,” shouted Lady Bellaston, “to use it however you want. But I wouldn’t want it shown to anyone except Miss Western, and only to her if you find it necessary.” “So, how did you deal with the guy?” asked Mrs. Western. “Not as a husband,” the woman replied; “I’m not married, I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I’ve already experienced that once; and once is enough for any sensible woman.”
This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to give it up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out of the way, and partly by having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was prepared to testify whatever she pleased.
This letter, Lady Bellaston believed, would definitely sway Sophia's opinion against Jones. She felt confident handing it over, partly because she hoped it would help get rid of him for good, and partly because she had the support of Honour, who, after talking to her, made Lady Bellaston believe she was ready to say whatever was needed.
But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which was so much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire such readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that women, notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, &c., in matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a misfortune to have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher than upon these disappointments; again, he will find it written much about the same place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the possession of a man, will go above halfway to the devil, to prevent any other woman from enjoying the same.
But maybe the reader is curious why Lady Bellaston, who truly disliked Sophia, would be so eager to support a match that greatly benefited the young lady. I would encourage such readers to take a close look at human nature—on almost the last page—and there they will find, in nearly unreadable text, that women, despite the ridiculous behavior of mothers, aunts, etc., in matters of marriage, genuinely see it as such a tragedy to have their romantic desires frustrated that they believe they shouldn't hold grudges beyond these disappointments; again, it will be noted around the same part that a woman who has once enjoyed having a man will go to great lengths to stop any other woman from experiencing the same.
If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will conceive she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I see no cause to suspect.
If he won't be satisfied with these reasons, I honestly admit I see no other motive for that lady's actions, unless we assume she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which I personally have no reason to believe.
Now this was the affair which Mrs Western was preparing to introduce to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love, and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her behaviour to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual with him, imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.
Now, this was the situation that Mrs. Western was getting ready to present to Sophia with some introductory talk about the foolishness of love and the practicality of legal prostitution for money when her brother and Blifil suddenly interrupted her. This interruption caused all the coldness in her interactions with Blifil, which the squire, as usual, blamed on the wrong reason. However, it made Blifil, who was much more sly, suspect the real truth.
Chapter ix. — In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.
The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr Jones, who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs Fitzpatrick; but before we relate the conversation which now past it may be proper, according to our method, to return a little back, and to account for so great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing her lodging principally to avoid Mr Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been seen, sought this interview.
The reader might now be glad to join us back with Mr. Jones, who, at the scheduled time, met with Mrs. Fitzpatrick. However, before we share the conversation that took place, it seems appropriate, following our approach, to briefly revisit what led to such a significant change in this lady's behavior. She had initially changed her accommodations primarily to avoid Mr. Jones, but as we have seen, she now actively sought out this meeting.
And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr Western was arrived in town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly, where she was received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was even threatened to be kicked out of doors. From hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she was well acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both, plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at the play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.
And here we need only to refer to what happened the day before, when, learning from Lady Bellaston that Mr. Western had arrived in town, she went to pay her respects to him at his place in Piccadilly. She was met with many rude insults too vulgar to repeat, and was even threatened with being kicked out. After that, an old servant of her Aunt Western, whom she knew well, took her to the lady’s lodgings, where she was treated not more kindly, but more politely; or to be honest, with rudeness in a different way. In short, she returned from both visits clearly convinced that her plan for reconciliation had failed and that she must give up any thoughts of achieving it by any means. From that moment on, only a desire for revenge filled her mind; and in that mood, when she ran into Jones at the play, an opportunity seemed to present itself to fulfill this purpose.
The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, in the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs Western had formerly shewn for Mr Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the disappointment of which Mrs Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no doubt but that the good lady would as easily listen to the addresses of Mr Jones as she had before done to the other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr Jones; and the advance which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how justly I will not say), was an argument rather in favour of her project than against it.
The reader should remember that Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in sharing her own story, revealed the affection Mrs. Western once had for Mr. Fitzpatrick at Bath, from which Mrs. Fitzpatrick derived the resentment her aunt expressed towards her. She was therefore confident that the kind lady would just as easily listen to Mr. Jones’s advances as she had to the previous suitor; after all, Mr. Jones clearly had the better looks. Additionally, she reasoned that the fact her aunt had aged since then (how accurately I won't say) actually supported her plan rather than opposing it.
Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr Jones in whose custody his mistress was, of which she thought him ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the younger, informing him at the same time of the success which Mr Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same stratagem.
So, when Jones attended, after having previously expressed her wish to help him, which she said came from a strong belief in how much it would please Sophia; and after offering some apologies for her earlier disappointment, and letting Mr. Jones know who was holding his mistress, which she thought he didn't know; she clearly outlined her plan to him and suggested that he pretend to pay attention to the older lady in order to gain easy access to the younger one, telling him at the same time about the success Mr. Fitzpatrick had previously achieved using the same tactic.
Mr Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions towards him which she had expressed, and indeed testified, by this proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case in regard to Mr Fitzpatrick, he said, he was afraid Miss Western would never agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter detestation of all fallacy as from her avowed duty to her aunt.
Mr. Jones thanked the lady sincerely for her kind intentions towards him, which she had shown through her proposal. However, he also mentioned his doubts about succeeding due to the lady's awareness of his feelings for her niece, a situation that wasn’t true for Mr. Fitzpatrick. He expressed concern that Miss Western would never agree to such a deception, both because of her complete disdain for all dishonesty and her clear sense of duty to her aunt.
Mrs Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a tacit rebuke on the other.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a bit irritated by this; and really, if it can’t be called a slip of the tongue, it was a small breach of politeness on Jones's part, something he likely wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t been so excited about praising Sophia that he lost all sense of decorum; because this compliment to one cousin was more than just an unspoken criticism of the other.
“Indeed, sir,” answered the lady, with some warmth, “I cannot think there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my aunt, I must say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship. Can't you pretend that the despair of possessing her niece, from her being promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to be such a simpleton as to have the least scruple on such an account, or to conceive any harm in punishing one of these haggs for the many mischiefs they bring upon families by their tragi-comic passions; for which I think it is a pity they are not punishable by law. I had no such scruple myself; and yet I hope my cousin Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she cannot detest every real species of falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she deserve any. However, sir, I have given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have the less opinion of your understanding—that's all.”
“Absolutely, sir,” the lady replied with some enthusiasm, “I can't imagine anything easier than fooling an old woman with a declaration of love when she's got a romantic nature; and even though she's my aunt, I must say there’s never been a more greedy one than her ladyship. Can't you act like your desire for her niece, since she's promised to Blifil, has made you think about her instead? As for my cousin Sophia, I can't believe she'd be naive enough to have the slightest issue with it or think there's anything wrong with punishing one of these old hags for the trouble they cause families with their dramatic feelings; honestly, I think it's a shame they're not punishable by law. I certainly had no such hesitation myself; yet I hope my cousin Sophia won’t take it as an insult when I say she couldn’t despise any kind of real deceit more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, honestly, I feel no obligation, nor does she merit any. Still, sir, I’ve given you my advice; if you choose not to follow it, I’ll think less of your judgment—that's all.”
Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his utmost power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper instead of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have the good-nature which Mrs Fitzpatrick displayed to Jones, by saying, with a smile, “You need attempt no more excuses; for I can easily forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of fondness for his mistress.”
Jones now clearly recognized the mistake he had made and put in all his effort to fix it; however, he only stumbled and babbled nonsense and contradictions. Honestly, it’s often safer to deal with the aftermath of the first mistake than to try to correct it; because in those attempts, we usually end up making things worse instead of getting ourselves out of the mess. And not many people would have the patience that Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed to Jones, saying with a smile, “You don’t need to make any more excuses; I can easily forgive a true lover, regardless of the consequences of his affection for his girlfriend.”
She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it, omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject; for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the execution of a favourite scheme.
She then restated her proposal and passionately advocated for it, leaving out no argument her imagination could come up with on the topic; she was so furious with her aunt that almost nothing could give her more satisfaction than revealing her flaws; and, like any determined woman, she saw no obstacles in carrying out a plan she loved.
Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not, indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the motives which induced Mrs Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that so divine a young lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man; nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to wish she should. He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have not at present leisure to insert.
Jones, however, continued to decline the proposal, which had virtually no chance of success. He easily understood why Mrs. Fitzpatrick was so eager to push her advice. He admitted that he had a deep and passionate affection for Sophia; however, he felt so acutely aware of the disparity in their circumstances that he could never allow himself to hope that such a remarkable young woman would consider someone as unworthy as him; in fact, he insisted that he could barely even wish for her to do so. He finished with a declaration of noble feelings, which we don’t have the time to include right now.
There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too general terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never detach it from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling principle, they are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with; and, though the property of others, convey it to their own use. In the company of these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of another woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what do I deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a degree?
There are some remarkable women (because I can’t speak too broadly here) who are so self-focused that they can't separate themselves from any topic. Since vanity is a major driving force for them, they tend to grab onto any compliment they encounter and, even though it belongs to someone else, turn it into a reflection of themselves. In the presence of these women, it’s impossible to say anything nice about another woman that they won’t relate back to themselves; in fact, they often enhance the praise they take for themselves. For example, if another woman's beauty, wit, grace, or good humor deserves recognition, they think, what do I deserve, who possess those qualities to a much greater extent?
To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor Sophia had formerly done.
To these women, a man often makes a good impression while praising another woman; and as he shares his passion and kind thoughts for his mistress, they’re thinking about what a great partner he would be for them, especially since he can feel such affection for someone of lesser worth. Strange as it may seem, I have witnessed many such instances beyond Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who was genuinely experiencing all of this and was now starting to develop feelings for Mr. Jones, which she understood much faster than poor Sophia had previously done.
To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.
Honestly, perfect beauty in both men and women is more captivating than most people realize. While some of us are okay with less attractive options and are taught (just like children who recite without understanding) to look down on physical appearance and to appreciate deeper qualities, I’ve always noticed that when faced with true beauty, those deeper qualities only shine with a brilliance that resembles the stars after the sun rises.
When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have become the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs Fitzpatrick heaved a deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better than you, Mr Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both.”
When Jones finished his outbursts, many of which could have come straight from Oroöndates himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick let out a deep sigh. She shifted her gaze away from Jones, who she had been staring at for a while, and looked down at the ground. She said, “Honestly, Mr. Jones, I feel for you; but it’s a tragedy when such kindness is wasted on those who don’t appreciate it. I know my cousin better than you do, Mr. Jones, and I have to say, any woman who doesn’t respond to such passion and such a person is not deserving of either.”
“Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can't mean——” “Mean!” cries Mrs Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean; there is something, I think, in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet with it in men, and fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who can overlook such merit.”
“Of course, ma’am,” said Jones, “you can’t be—” “Be!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “I don’t even know what I mean; there’s something, I think, so enchanting about genuine tenderness; few women ever experience it in men, and even fewer know how to appreciate it when they do. I never heard such genuinely noble thoughts, and I can’t explain why, but you make me want to believe you. She must be the most despicable of women to overlook such worth.”
The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion into Jones which we don't care to convey in direct words to the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, “I am afraid, madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;” and offered to take his leave.
The way everything was said made Jones suspicious in a way we prefer not to express directly to the reader. Instead of responding, he said, “I’m afraid, ma’am, that I've overstayed my visit;” and offered to leave.
“Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick.—“Indeed I pity you, Mr Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I have mentioned—I am convinced you will approve it—and let me see you again as soon as you can.—To-morrow morning if you will, or at least some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day.”
“Not at all, sir,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick replied. “Honestly, I feel for you, Mr. Jones; I really do. But if you decide to go, think about the plan I mentioned—I’m sure you’ll like it—and please come see me again as soon as you can. Tomorrow morning if you’d like, or at least sometime tomorrow. I’ll be home all day.”
Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully retired; nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
Jones, after many thanks, politely took his leave; and Mrs. Fitzpatrick couldn't help giving him a parting glance, which, if he hadn’t understood anything, he would truly lack the ability to read the language of the eyes. In reality, it solidified his decision to never return to her; because, despite his previous flaws in this story, his thoughts were now completely focused on Sophia, and I believe no woman on earth could now sway him into being unfaithful.
Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in sorrowful notes to record.
Fortune, however, who was not on his side, decided that she wouldn’t give him a second chance, so she made the most of this situation; and as a result, created the tragic event that we are now sad to recount.
Chapter x. — The consequence of the preceding visit.
Mr Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set forward to London.
Mr. Fitzpatrick received the letter mentioned earlier from Mrs. Western, which informed him of where his wife had gone. He went straight back to Bath, and the next day he headed to London.
The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the room with Mrs Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a character of Mr Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
The reader has been frequently reminded about this gentleman's jealous nature. He might also recall the suspicion he had about Jones at Upton when he found him in the room with Mrs. Waters. Although enough evidence later emerged to completely dispel that suspicion, now the flattering comments about Mr. Jones from his wife led him to remember that she was at the inn at the same time. This mixed up a bunch of details in a mind that wasn't exactly the clearest, leading to the emergence of that green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespeare in his tragedy Othello.
And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, and had just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr Jones was issuing from it.
And now, as he was asking in the street about his wife and had just gotten directions to the door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was coming out of it.
Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? “for I am sure,” said he, “you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of it.”
Fitzpatrick couldn't remember Jones's face yet, but when he saw a young, well-dressed guy coming from his wife, he walked straight up to him and asked what he had been doing in that house. "I'm sure," he said, "you must have been in there since I saw you come out."
Jones answered very modestly, “That he had been visiting a lady there.” To which Fitzpatrick replied, “What business have you with the lady?” Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice, features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out——“Ha, my good friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago.”
Jones replied quite modestly, “I was visiting a lady there.” To which Fitzpatrick said, “What do you need with the lady?” At this, Jones, who now clearly remembered the voice, features, and even the coat of the gentleman, exclaimed, “Aha, my good friend! Give me your hand; I hope there’s no bad blood left between us over that small mistake from so long ago.”
“Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don't know your name nor your face.” “Indeed, sir,” said Jones, “neither have I the pleasure of knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle.”
“Honestly, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don't know your name or your face.” “Actually, sir,” replied Jones, “I don’t have the pleasure of knowing your name either, but I definitely remember seeing your face before at Upton, where a silly argument took place between us. If it hasn’t been resolved yet, let’s settle it over a drink.”
“At Upton!” cried the other;——“Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name is Jones?” “Indeed,” answered he, “it is.”—“O! upon my soul,” cries Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man I wanted to meet.—Upon my soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another.” And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, which was the only science he understood.
“At Upton!” shouted the other; “Wow! I swear your name is Jones?” “Actually,” he replied, “it is.” “Oh! I swear,” exclaimed Fitzpatrick, “you’re exactly the person I was hoping to meet. I’ll definitely share a bottle with you shortly; but first, let me give you a solid whack on the head. There you go, you rascal. I swear, if you don’t give me satisfaction for that hit, I’ll hit you again.” Then, drawing his sword, he got into a defensive stance, which was the only skill he knew.
Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, “I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.”
Jones was a bit taken aback by the unexpected hit, but after a moment, he gathered himself and also drew his weapon. Even though he didn’t know anything about fencing, he charged at Fitzpatrick with enough confidence to break through his guard and stabbed him with half of his sword. The moment Fitzpatrick felt the hit, he stepped back, lowered the tip of his sword, and leaning on it, exclaimed, “I’m satisfied enough: I’m a dead man.”
“I hope not,” cries Jones, “but whatever be the consequence, you must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.” At this instant a number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the wounded gentleman.
“I hope not,” Jones shouted, “but whatever happens, you have to realize you brought this on yourself.” Just then, a group of guys charged in and grabbed Jones, who told them he wouldn’t fight back and pleaded with at least some of them to look after the injured gentleman.
“Ay,” cries one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman will be taken care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” “D—n me, Jack,” said another, “he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port now;” and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs Fitzpatrick, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened.
“Hey,” shouts one of the guys, “the injured guy will be well taken care of; I guess he doesn’t have many hours left. As for you, sir, you have at least a month ahead of you.” “Damn it, Jack,” says another, “he’s messed up his trip; he’s headed to a different destination now;” and many other jokes like that were made at our poor Jones's expense by these guys, who were actually the crew hired by Lord Fellamar and had followed him to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s house, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate incident happened.
The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded that his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to his custody.
The officer in charge of this gang wisely decided that his main job now was to hand over his prisoner to the local authorities. He instructed that the prisoner be taken to a bar, where he called for a police officer and turned the prisoner over to him.
The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing that the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to enquire after the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered, “Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind.”
The constable, seeing Mr. Jones well-dressed and hearing that the incident occurred during a duel, treated him with great respect. At his request, he sent a messenger to check on the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern being attended to by a surgeon. The report that came back was that the wound was definitely fatal, and there was no hope for survival. The constable then informed Jones that he needed to go before a justice. He replied, "Wherever you want; I don’t care what happens to me. Even though I’m sure I’m not guilty of murder in the eyes of the law, the burden of having caused someone’s death is overwhelming for me."
Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who dressed Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
Jones was taken in front of the judge, where the surgeon who treated Mr. Fitzpatrick testified that he believed the wound to be fatal; as a result, the prisoner was sent to the Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so Jones decided to wait until the next morning to call for Partridge. Since he couldn't sleep until seven, it was nearly midnight before the poor guy, who was very worried about not hearing from his master for so long, received a message that nearly overwhelmed him when he heard it.
He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now arrived that Mr Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the hands of Black George.
He walked into the Gatehouse with shaking knees and a racing heart, and as soon as he was in front of Jones, he started crying about the bad luck he had faced, glancing around in sheer panic; because now that the news had come that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor guy feared every second that his ghost would appear in the room. Finally, he handed him a letter that he almost forgot to deliver, which had come from Sophia through Black George.
Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:—
Jones quickly sent everyone out of the room, and, having eagerly opened the letter, read as follows:—
“You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to
Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am
convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that
it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was
under such concern on my account.—I leave you to comment on this
fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned
to
“S. W.” “You owe me this response because of an accident that surprises me. My aunt just showed me a letter from you to Lady Bellaston, which includes a marriage proposal. I’m convinced it’s in your own handwriting; what surprises me even more is that it's dated right when you would have me believe you were so concerned about me. I’ll leave you to think about that. All I want is for your name to never be mentioned to
“S. W.”
Of the present situation of Mr Jones's mind, and of the pangs with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.
Of Mr. Jones's current state of mind and the struggles he was facing, we can't explain it better than to say that his misery was so intense that even Thwackum might have felt sorry for him. However, as bad as things are, we'll leave him in this situation for now, just like his good side (if he truly had one) seems to have done. And with that, we conclude the sixteenth book of our story.
BOOK XVII.
CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — Containing a portion of introductory writing.
When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he can, or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that their work is come to a period.
When a comic writer has made his main characters as happy as possible, or when a tragic writer has brought them to the lowest point of human suffering, both conclude their work is finished and that their story has reached a conclusion.
Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we were very nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult for the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contrived much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman would hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at present be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy but a murder or two and a few moral sentences!
If we were telling a tragic story, you have to understand that we were very close to that point, as it would be hard for the devil, or anyone acting on his behalf, to come up with greater torments for poor Jones than what we left him in the last chapter. And as for Sophia, a kind-hearted woman wouldn't wish any more distress on a rival than what she must be feeling right now. So what’s left to finish the tragedy? Maybe a murder or two and a few moral lessons!
But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress, and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much harder task; a task indeed so hard that we do not undertake to execute it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end—either Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his imprudence, by which if a man doth not become felon to the world, he is at least a felo de se; so destitute is he now of friends, and so persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to any good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think he ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.
But getting our favorites out of their current pain and distress and finally landing them on the shore of happiness seems like a much tougher task; a task so tough that we don’t even try to accomplish it. As for Sophia, it’s likely that we’ll eventually find her a good husband somewhere—either Blifil, or my lord, or someone else; but poor Jones is in such deep trouble right now because of his recklessness, that if a man doesn’t become a criminal in the eyes of the world, he at least becomes a felo de se; he’s so friendless and so hounded by enemies that we’re almost hopeless about helping him at all; and if our reader enjoys watching executions, I think he should hurry up and get a front-row seat at Tyburn.
This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have unfortunately made our heroe, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance with which we are entrusted, upon condition that we use it only on very important occasions. If he doth not therefore find some natural means of fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will do no violence to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.
I promise that, despite any affection we might seem to have for this rogue, whom we've unfortunately made our hero, we won’t give him any of the supernatural help we’re supposed to reserve for truly important situations. If he doesn’t find a way to get himself out of his troubles naturally, we won’t compromise the truth and dignity of history for him. We would rather say he was hanged at Tyburn (which is very likely) than lose our integrity or shock our readers’ faith.
In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of delivering a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one world to another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed modern can deliver him from a jail.
In this respect, the ancients had a significant advantage over the moderns. Their mythology, which was believed by the general public more firmly than any religion is today, always provided a chance to rescue a beloved hero. Their gods were always at the writer's side, ready to carry out any of his plans; and the more extraordinary the story, the more surprise and delight it brought to the gullible reader. Those writers could easily transport a hero from one country to another, or even from one world to another, and bring him back again, much more easily than a modern writer can free someone from a jail.
The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their tales from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have none of these helps. To natural means alone we are confined; let us try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor Jones; though to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear that he doth not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more shocking piece of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the unopened leaves of fate.
The Arabs and Persians had the same benefit in telling their stories about genies and fairies, which they believe in as part of their faith based on the Koran. But we don’t have any of those advantages. We’re limited to natural means; let’s see what can be done for poor Jones using just those means. To be honest, something in my gut tells me he doesn’t yet know the worst of his situation, and that a more shocking piece of news than anything he’s heard so far is waiting for him in the unopened pages of fate.
Chapter ii. — The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to make one of the company.
Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had just sat down for breakfast when Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to join them.
He had not been long seated before he began as follows: “Good Lord! my dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever having shewn any kindness to such a villain.” “What is the matter, child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have shewn kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the vices of its objects.” “O, sir!” returned Blifil, “it is not without the secret direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon earth.” “By all that's sacred 'tis false,” cries Mrs Miller. “Mr Jones is no villain. He is one of the worthiest creatures breathing; and if any other person had called him villain, I would have thrown all this boiling water in his face.” Mr Allworthy looked very much amazed at this behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak, before, turning to him, she cried, “I hope you will not be angry with me; I would not offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear him called so.” “I must own, madam,” said Allworthy, very gravely, “I am a little surprized to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not know.” “O! I do know him, Mr Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do; I should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my little family; we have all reason to bless him while we live.—And I pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such.” “You surprize me, madam, still more,” said Allworthy; “sure you must mean some other. It is impossible you should have any such obligations to the man my nephew mentions.” “Too surely,” answered she, “I have obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused, grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all goodness and honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things I have heard you say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully called him fellow.—Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a kinder appellation from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful things which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him on his knees, imploring all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I do not love that child there better than he loves you.”
He hadn’t been seated long before he started, “Oh my goodness, my dear uncle, guess what happened? I’m actually scared to tell you because I don’t want to remind you of ever being kind to such a jerk.” “What’s going on, dear?” asked the uncle. “I worry that I’ve been kind to unworthy people more than once in my life. But charity doesn’t take on the faults of those it helps.” “Oh, sir!” Blifil replied, “It’s no coincidence that you mention adoption. Your adopted son, that Jones, that scoundrel you took in, has turned out to be one of the worst villains on earth.” “By everything that’s holy, that’s not true,” Mrs. Miller exclaimed. “Mr. Jones is not a villain. He’s one of the best people alive, and if anyone else had called him a villain, I would have thrown this boiling water in their face.” Mr. Allworthy looked shocked by her outburst. But she didn’t let him speak before adding, “I hope you won’t be angry with me; I wouldn’t want to upset you for anything, but I simply couldn’t stand to hear him called that.” “I have to say, ma’am,” said Allworthy very seriously, “I’m a bit surprised to hear you defending someone you don’t know so passionately.” “Oh, I do know him, Mr. Allworthy,” she said, “I definitely do; I would be the worst of all ingrates if I denied it. Oh! He has saved me and my little family; we have every reason to be grateful for him as long as we live. And I pray that Heaven blesses him and changes the hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I feel, I see, that he has them.” “You really surprise me even more, ma’am,” said Allworthy; “you must mean someone else. There’s no way you could have any such obligations to the man my nephew mentioned.” “Unfortunately, I do,” she replied, “I owe him the greatest and softest obligations. He has been the savior of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he has been horribly misrepresented to you; I know he has, or you, who I know to be so good and honorable, wouldn’t have disdainfully called him a fellow after all the kind things I’ve heard you say about this poor helpless child. Truly, my best friend, he deserves a kinder title from you if you had heard all the good, kind, and grateful things he’s said about you. He never speaks your name without a kind of adoration. In this very room, I’ve seen him on his knees, begging for Heaven's blessings upon you. I don’t love that child there more than he loves you.”
“I see, sir, now,” said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers with which the devil marks his best beloved, “Mrs Miller really doth know him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of your acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been very free with it, but I forgive him.” “And the Lord forgive you, sir!” said Mrs Miller; “we have all sins enough to stand in need of his forgiveness.”
“I see now, sir,” Blifil said with one of those grinning sneers that signify the devil's favorite, “Mrs. Miller really does know him. I guess you’ll find she’s not the only one you’re connected to that he’s talked about you to. As for my reputation, I can tell from some hints she’s dropped that he’s been pretty open about it, but I forgive him.” “And may the Lord forgive you, sir!” Mrs. Miller replied; “we all have enough sins to need his forgiveness.”
“Upon my word, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “I do not take this behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs Miller, the young man who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate for the ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much baseness and ingratitude.”
“Honestly, Mrs. Miller,” said Allworthy, “I really don't appreciate your behavior toward my nephew; and I assure you, any negative comments you make about him can only originate from that most despicable of men, and they would only serve, if it were possible, to increase my anger toward him. I must say, Mrs. Miller, the young man standing here has always been the strongest supporter of the ungrateful person whose cause you defend. I think when you hear this directly from me, you'll be shocked by such disgrace and ingratitude.”
“You are deceived, sir,” answered Mrs Miller; “if they were the last words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were deceived; and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have deceived you! I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but they are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which he may, nay, which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should not, they are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest hearts that ever man was blest with.”
“You're mistaken, sir,” Mrs. Miller replied. “If these were the last words I ever spoke, I'd still say you're mistaken; and I’ll say it again, may the Lord forgive those who have misled you! I’m not claiming the young man is perfect; he has his flaws, but they’re all just the flaws of youth and recklessness—flaws that he might, no, that I'm sure he will, outgrow. And if he doesn’t, those flaws are far outweighed by one of the most kind, caring, and honest hearts anyone could ever be blessed with.”
“Indeed, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been related of you, I should not have believed it.” “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you will believe everything I have said, I am sure you will: and when you have heard the story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you will be so far from being offended, that you will own (I know your justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part than I have.”
“Honestly, Mrs. Miller,” said Allworthy, “if this had been about you, I wouldn’t have believed it.” “Honestly, sir,” she replied, “you will believe everything I’ve said, I’m sure of it: and when you hear the story I have to tell you (and I will tell you everything), you’ll be so far from being upset that you’ll admit (I know your fairness well) that I would have had to be the most despicable and ungrateful person if I had acted any differently than I have.”
“Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to hear any good excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his story without interruption. He would not have introduced a matter of slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this story will cure you of your mistake.”
“Well, ma'am,” said Allworthy, “I’d really like to hear any good explanation for behavior that, I must admit, I think needs one. Now, ma'am, could you please let my nephew continue his story without interruptions? He wouldn’t have brought up something trivial with such an introduction. Maybe this story will even set you straight on your misunderstanding.”
Mrs Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr Blifil began thus: “I am sure, sir, if you don't think proper to resent the ill-usage of Mrs Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands.” “Well, child,” said Allworthy, “but what is this new instance? What hath he done of late?” “What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding all Mrs Miller hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should never have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal from the whole world. In short he hath killed a man; I will not say murdered—for perhaps it may not be so construed in law, and I hope the best for his sake.”
Mrs. Miller showed signs of submitting, and then Mr. Blifil began speaking: “I believe, sir, if you don’t think it’s right to address how Mrs. Miller has been mistreated, I can easily overlook what affects me personally. I believe your kindness doesn’t deserve this disrespect from her.” “Well, my child,” said Allworthy, “but what’s this new situation? What has he done recently?” “What?” exclaimed Blifil, “despite everything Mrs. Miller has said, I’m very sorry to inform you, and it’s something you should never have heard from me, but it’s impossible to hide from everyone. In short, he’s killed a man; I won’t call it murder—perhaps it doesn’t fit the legal definition, and I hope for the best for his sake.”
Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to Mrs Miller, he cried, “Well, madam, what say you now?”
Allworthy looked shocked and crossed himself; then, turning to Mrs. Miller, he exclaimed, “Well, ma’am, what do you have to say now?”
“Why, I say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more concerned at anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man, whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the house, and every one who came near it.”
“Honestly, sir,” she replied, “I’ve never been more worried about anything in my life. But if what you're saying is true, I believe that the man, whoever he is, is at fault. There are plenty of troublemakers in this town who take pleasure in provoking young gentlemen. It would take the greatest provocation to drive him to that; of all the gentlemen I've ever had in my house, he was the kindest and sweetest. Everyone in the house adored him, as did everyone who came near.”
While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door interrupted their conversation, and prevented her from proceeding further, or from receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this was a visitor to Mr Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the melancholy news she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife, and not only gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with her himself.
While she was talking, a loud banging on the door interrupted their conversation and stopped her from continuing or getting any response; she thought it was a visitor for Mr. Allworthy, so she quickly left, taking her little girl with her. The girl's eyes were puffy from crying over the sad news she heard about Jones, who used to call her his little wife. He not only gave her lots of toys but also spent hours playing with her.
Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances, in relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear trivial, will, we hope, at least pardon them, as we are never prolix on such occasions.
Some readers might be glad to learn about these small details, and in sharing them, we take a cue from Plutarch, one of the best historians among us. Others might find them unimportant, but we hope they can at least forgive us, as we don’t tend to go on at length about these things.
Chapter iii. — The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning the paternal authority.
Mrs Miller had not long left the room when Mr Western entered; but not before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen; for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in the squire; and they were moreover farther encouraged by his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling, which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed many hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into the room; swearing that all the Londoners were like the court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. “D—n me,” says he, “if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase.”
Mrs. Miller had just left the room when Mr. Western walked in, but not before a small argument had taken place between him and the chairmen. The guys who picked him up at the Hercules Pillars had no hope of getting any future business from the squire, and they felt more emboldened by his generosity (since he had given them sixpence more than their fare). So, they boldly asked for another shilling, which made the squire so angry that he hurled a bunch of curses at them as he left the door and kept his anger even after entering the room. He swore that all Londoners were like the court, only interested in ripping off country gentlemen. "Damn it," he said, "I'd rather walk in the rain than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They’ve jostled me more in one mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox hunt."
When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same passionate tone on another. “There,” says he, “there is fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a badger at last!”
When his anger calmed down a bit, he switched back to the same passionate tone about something else. “Look,” he said, “there's some great progress happening now. The hounds have finally changed; and when we thought we were dealing with a fox, darn it, it turns out to be a badger after all!”
“Pray, my good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your metaphors, and speak a little plainer.” “Why, then,” says the squire, “to tell you plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover.”
“Come on, my good neighbor,” said Allworthy, “drop the metaphors and speak a bit more clearly.” “Alright, then,” replied the squire, “to put it simply, we’ve been worried all this time about some unknown bastard child, I have no idea whose. And now here’s a damned son of a lord, who might be a bastard too for all I care, because he will never get a daughter of mine with my approval. They’ve drained the country dry, but they won’t drain me. My land will never be shipped off to Hanover.”
“You surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy. “Why, zounds! I am surprized myself,” answered the squire. “I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was had into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catherine, and my lady I don't know who; d—n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of hoop-petticoat b—s! D—n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his own dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mortal was ever run in such a manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to clap back, another snapped me. `O! certainly one of the greatest matches in England,' says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); `A very advantageous offer indeed,' cries another cousin (for you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o' um before). `Surely,' says that fat a—se b—, my Lady Bellaston, `cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer.'”
“You surprise me a lot, my good friend,” said Allworthy. “Wow! I'm surprised myself,” replied the squire. “I went to see Sister Western last night, just as she asked, and I found myself in a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and Lady Betty, and Lady Catherine, and some lady I don't even recognize; damn it, if you ever catch me in such a crowd of women in hoop skirts! Damn it, I’d rather be chased by my own dogs, like Acton, that story says was turned into a hare and his own dogs killed and ate him. Goodness, no one has ever been chased like that; if I dodged one way, one grabbed me; if I tried to go back, another one snapped at me. ‘Oh! definitely one of the greatest matches in England,’ says one cousin (here he tried to mimic them); ‘A very advantageous offer indeed,’ exclaims another cousin (you should know they’re all my cousins, though I’ve never seen half of them before). ‘Surely,’ says that fat woman, my Lady Bellaston, ‘cousin, you must be out of your mind to think of turning down such an offer.’”
“Now I begin to understand,” says Allworthy; “some person hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family approve, but is not to your liking.”
“Now I get it,” says Allworthy; “someone has made a proposal to Miss Western that the ladies of the family support, but it doesn’t sit well with you.”
“My liking!” said Western, “how the devil should it? I tell you it is a lord, and those are always volks whom you know I always resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years' purchase now for a bit of land, which one o' um had a mind to put into a park, only because I would have no dealings with lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben't I engaged to you, and did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised?”
“My liking!” said Western, “how on earth could it? I’m telling you it’s a lord, and I’ve always said I wanted nothing to do with those people. Didn’t I turn down an offer for forty years' worth of rent for a piece of land that one of them wanted to turn into a park, just because I wouldn’t deal with lords? Do you really think I would marry my daughter to one? Besides, am I not committed to you, and have I ever backed out of a deal once I had promised?”
“As to that point, neighbour,” said Allworthy, “I entirely release you from any engagement. No contract can be binding between parties who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it.”
“As for that point, neighbor,” said Allworthy, “I completely release you from any obligation. No contract can be binding between parties who don’t have the full authority to make it at the time, nor can they ever gain the power to fulfill it afterwards.”
“Slud! then,” answered Western, “I tell you I have power, and I will fulfil it. Come along with me directly to Doctors' Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force, and she shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives.”
“Slud! then,” answered Western, “I’m telling you I have the power, and I’m going to use it. Come with me right now to Doctors' Commons, and I’ll get a license; then I’ll go to my sister and take that girl by force, and she’ll have to come with me, or I’ll lock her up and keep her on bread and water for as long as she lives.”
“Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “shall I beg you will hear my full sentiments on this matter?”—“Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will,” answered he. “Why, then, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I can truly say, without a compliment either to you or the young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly neighbours, and between whom there had always existed so mutual an intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of all who knew her, but my own observation assured me that she would be an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels, which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes observation; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use negatives on this occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is called repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit, much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience, the affectation of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness of a teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only, desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr Thwackum and Mr Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness, `You will pardon me, good Mr Allworthy; I am sure you cannot in earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree.' Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered with the same good humour, `I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront neither so much as to give my judgment on his side.' Indeed, she always shewed the highest deference to the understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to the making a good wife. I shall only add, that as she is most apparently void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real.”
“Mr. Western,” said Allworthy, “can I take a moment to share my thoughts on this matter?”—“Sure, go ahead,” he replied. “Well, sir,” Allworthy continued, “I genuinely say, without any flattery for either you or the young lady, that when this match was suggested, I embraced it eagerly and wholeheartedly, out of respect for both of you. An alliance between two families so close together, who have always had such mutual interaction and harmony, seemed like a very desirable event; and concerning the young lady, not only the shared opinion of everyone who knows her but also my own observations tell me that she would be an invaluable treasure to a good husband. I won’t mention her personal qualities, which are undoubtedly impressive; her kindness, her charitable nature, her modesty are too well known to require any praise: but she possesses one trait that was highly present in that best of women, now one of the foremost angels, which, since it isn't flashy, often goes unnoticed; so subtle it is that I struggle to find the right word for it. I can only express this negatively. I’ve never heard anything rude, or what is called witty banter, from her; no pretensions to humor, let alone that type of knowledge that only comes from extensive learning and life experience, the affectation of which in a young woman is as ridiculous as any of the antics of an ape. No authoritarian sentiments, no judgmental opinions, no deep critiques. Whenever I’ve seen her with men, she has been entirely attentive, with the modesty of a learner, not the boldness of a teacher. You’ll forgive me, but once, just to test her, I asked her opinion on a point debated between Mr. Thwackum and Mr. Square. She responded sweetly, ‘Please forgive me, dear Mr. Allworthy; I’m sure you can’t seriously believe I’m capable of deciding any matter where such gentlemen disagree.’ Thwackum and Square, both confident they would receive a favorable answer, urged her to share her thoughts. She replied with the same good humor, ‘I must absolutely decline: for I won’t insult either by taking a side.’ Indeed, she always showed the utmost respect for the opinions of men; a quality that is absolutely essential for being a good wife. I’ll only add that since she clearly lacks all affectation, this respect must be genuine.”
Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full of tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don't be chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d—n me, shat ha her, if she was twenty times as good.”
Here Blifil sighed bitterly; at which point Western, whose eyes were full of tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don't be so timid, because damn it, I love her, even if she were twenty times better.”
“Remember your promise, sir,” cried Allworthy, “I was not to be interrupted.” “Well, shat unt,” answered the squire; “I won't speak another word.”
“Remember your promise, sir,” shouted Allworthy, “I was not to be interrupted.” “Well, shut up,” replied the squire; “I won't say another word.”
“Now, my good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have dwelt so long on the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is really advantageous on my nephew's side) might not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my family; but though I may wish for many good things, I would not, therefore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of them. Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or approbation, is an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws of our country could restrain it; but a good conscience is never lawless in the worst regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the neglect of legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of that kind; for, is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that state against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be accountable to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the matrimonial duties in an adequate manner is no easy task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while we at the same time deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear her very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal? I must speak very plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are accessories to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, and of course must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their punishment; but if they could avoid this, good heaven! is there a soul who can bear the thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child?
“Now, my good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have talked for so long about the qualities of this young lady, partly because I genuinely admire her character, and partly because the match is actually beneficial for my nephew, so I wouldn’t want anyone to think that gaining a favorable situation was my main reason for being so eager to accept the proposal. Truly, I wish to welcome such a valuable person into my family; however, just because I desire many good things doesn’t mean I would steal them or commit any acts of violence or injustice to obtain them. Forcing a woman into marriage against her will or approval is such an act of injustice and oppression that I wish our country’s laws could prevent it; but a good conscience doesn’t rely on laws in the worst of situations and will create its own rules when the lawmakers fail to do so. This situation is surely one of those; for isn’t it cruel, even immoral, to force a woman into such a state against her will, where she will be held accountable in the most serious and terrifying court of judgment, risking her soul? Fulfilling the duties of marriage adequately is no easy task, and should we really impose this burden on a woman while simultaneously denying her any support that might help her handle it? Should we rip her heart out while requiring her to commit to duties that demand a whole heart? I must be very straightforward here. I believe parents who behave this way are complicit in all the wrong their children go on to do, and consequently, they should expect to share in the punishment from a just judge; but if they could avoid this, good heavens! Is there anyone who can bear the thought of having contributed to the damnation of their child?
“For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure you I shall always retain the most grateful sense of it.”
“For these reasons, my dear neighbor, since it seems that this young lady is unfortunately not interested in my nephew, I must turn down any further consideration of the honor you meant for him, though I assure you I will always be very grateful for it.”
“Well, sir,” said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips the moment they were uncorked), “you cannot say but I have heard you out, and now I expect you'll hear me; and if I don't answer every word on't, why then I'll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I desire you to answer me one question—Did not I beget her? did not I beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my own child? and if I am to govern her in other matters, surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all this while? Am I desiring her to do anything for me? to give me anything?—Zu much on t'other side, that I am only desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t'other half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her happy? It's enough to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to marry myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber; but, on the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my land in such a manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro' woman upon earth would ha me. What the devil in hell can I do more? I contribute to her damnation!—Zounds! I'd zee all the world d—n'd bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr Allworthy, you must excuse me, but I am surprized to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense.”
“Well, sir,” said Western (the words pouring out as soon as he started), “you can’t say I haven’t listened to you, and now I expect you’ll listen to me; and if I don’t address every single point, then I’ll agree to drop it. First, I want you to answer me one question—Didn’t I father her? answer me that. They say it’s a wise father who knows his own child, but I know I have the best claim to her because I raised her. But I believe you’ll agree that I am her father, and if I am, shouldn’t I be able to govern my own child? I ask you that, shouldn’t I be able to govern my own child? And if I can govern her in other matters, surely I can govern her in this one, which affects her most. And what do I want all this time? Am I asking her to do anything for me? To give me anything?—Too much from the other side; I’m only asking her to take half my estate now and the other half when I die. Well, and what’s it all for? To make her happy! It’s enough to drive anyone mad to hear people talk; if I were going to get married myself, then she’d have reason to cry and complain; but, on the contrary, haven’t I offered to tie up my land in such a way that I couldn’t marry even if I wanted to, since no decent woman on earth would have me? What the hell more can I do? I contribute to her ruin!—Damn it! I’d see the whole world damned before I let her little finger get hurt. Indeed, Mr. Allworthy, you must excuse me, but I’m surprised to hear you speak this way, and I have to say, however you take it, that I thought you had more sense.”
Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if he would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.
Allworthy only smiled at this remark; he couldn't, even if he wanted to, express any hint of malice or disdain in that smile. His smiles at foolishness were like those we can imagine angels giving to the ridiculousness of humanity.
Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. “As to using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any one, much less on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I have read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not hope then by such perseverance at last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these matters; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, and declare that she thought children inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will of their parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart.”
Blifil now wanted to be allowed to say a few words. “As for using any violence on the young lady, I can assure you I will never agree to that. My conscience won’t let me harm anyone, especially not a lady for whom, despite how cruel she is to me, I will always hold the purest and sincerest affection. However, I have read that women are rarely able to resist persistence. So why shouldn't I hope that with such persistence, I can eventually win her favor, in which I might have no rivals in the future? As for this lord, Mr. Western is kind enough to prefer me over him; and surely, sir, you can’t deny that a parent at least has a say in these matters. In fact, I’ve heard this young lady herself say more than once that she thinks children are inexcusable for marrying against their parents' wishes. Moreover, even though the other ladies in the family seem to support my lord's claims, I don't see that the lady herself is inclined to encourage him; alas! I know too well she isn't; I'm acutely aware that the most wicked of men remains at the forefront of her heart.”
“Ay, ay, so he does,” cries Western.
“Ay, ay, he really does,” shouts Western.
“But surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears of this murder which he hath committed, if the law should spare his life——”
“But surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears about this murder he committed, if the law spares his life—”
“What's that?” cries Western. “Murder! hath he committed a murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged?—Tol de rol, tol lol de rol.” Here he fell a singing and capering about the room.
“What's that?” yells Western. “Murder! Has he committed murder, and is there any hope of seeing him hanged?—Tol de rol, tol lol de rol.” Then he started singing and dancing around the room.
“Child,” says Allworthy, “this unhappy passion of yours distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair thing to promote your success.”
“Child,” says Allworthy, “this unfortunate crush of yours really upsets me. I genuinely feel sorry for you and would do anything reasonable to help you succeed.”
“I desire no more,” cries Blifil; “I am convinced my dear uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I myself would accept of more.”
“I don’t want anything more,” Blifil exclaims; “I believe my dear uncle thinks more highly of me than to believe I would accept anything else.”
“Lookee,” says Allworthy, “you have my leave to write, to visit, if she will permit it—but I insist on no thoughts of violence. I will have no confinement, nothing of that kind attempted.”
“Listen,” says Allworthy, “you have my permission to write and to visit, if she allows it—but I won’t tolerate any thoughts of violence. I won’t allow any confinement or anything like that to be attempted.”
“Well, well,” cries the squire, “nothing of that kind shall be attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will effect; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way—Tol lol de rol! I never heard better news in my life—I warrant everything goes to my mind.—Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent Parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left at an inn there, and I would not lose it for the world; for it is an old acquaintance of above twenty years' standing. I can tell you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely.”
“Well, well,” the squire says, “we won’t try anything like that; let’s see what good methods can do for a bit longer. And if we just get rid of this guy—Tol lol de rol! I’ve never heard better news in my life—I’m sure everything will go my way. Please, dear Allworthy, come and have dinner with me at the Hercules Pillars: I’ve ordered a roasted shoulder of mutton, a spare rib of pork, and a fowl with egg sauce. It will just be the two of us, unless we decide to invite the landlord; I’ve sent Parson Supple down to Basingstoke to grab my tobacco box that I left at an inn there, and I wouldn’t lose it for anything; it’s an old friend I’ve had for over twenty years. I can tell you the landlord is a really funny guy, you’ll like him a lot.”
Mr Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the speedy tragical end of poor Jones.
Mr. Allworthy finally accepted the invitation, and shortly afterward, the squire left, singing and dancing at the prospect of witnessing the swift and dramatic downfall of poor Jones.
When he was gone, Mr Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with much gravity. He told his nephew, “He wished with all his heart he would endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot,” says he, “flatter you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that aversion in a woman may be conquered by perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but the usual triumphs gained by perseverance in a lover are over caprice, prudence, affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites women not over-warm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity by prolonging the time of courtship, even when they are well enough pleased with the object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to make him a very pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, will rather gather strength than be conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you have for this fine young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its object, and is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only foundation of matrimonial felicity. To admire, to like, and to long for the possession of a beautiful woman, without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is, I am afraid, too natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only; at least, I am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are assured hates us is not in human nature. Examine your heart, therefore, thoroughly, my good boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least suspicion of this kind, I am sure your own virtue and religion will impel you to drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your good sense will soon enable you to do it without pain.”
When he left, Mr. Allworthy brought up the same topic again with a serious tone. He said to his nephew, “I really wish you would try to overcome a passion that I can't,” he admitted, “flatter you with any hopes of succeeding. It's definitely a common misconception that a woman's aversion can be overcome with persistence. Indifference might sometimes give way to it, but usually, the victories a lover achieves through perseverance are over things like unpredictability, caution, pretentiousness, and often a level of carelessness that leads women, who aren’t particularly passionate, to stretch out the courtship process to feed their vanity, even when they’re decently pleased with the suitor, and decide (if they ever decide at all) to offer him a rather paltry reward in the end. However, a deep-seated dislike, which I fear this is, is more likely to grow stronger over time rather than be overcome. Additionally, my dear, I have another concern that you need to understand. I worry that this passion you have for this lovely young woman is too focused on her beauty and is not worthy of the true love that is the foundation of a happy marriage. To admire, to like, and to desire a beautiful woman without consideration for her feelings toward us is, I’m afraid, all too common; but love, I believe, is only born from love itself; at the very least, I’m quite sure that loving someone who we know despises us isn’t part of human nature. So, take a good look at your heart, my dear boy, and if, after examining it, you have even the slightest suspicion of such a feeling, I’m confident your own morals and beliefs will drive you to rid yourself of such a harmful passion, and your good sense will soon help you do it without pain.”
The reader may pretty well guess Blifil's answer; but, if he should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our history now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear to be absent from Sophia.
The reader can probably guess Blifil's answer; but if he's unsure, we don't have the time to explain it right now, as our story is moving on to more significant matters, and we can no longer stay away from Sophia.
Chapter iv. — An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs after her; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own eating.
The lowing cow and the bleating sheep, in herds and flocks, can stroll safely and unnoticed through the fields. These animals are certainly destined to be hunted by humans eventually; however, they are allowed to enjoy their freedom for many years without disturbance. But if a fat doe is spotted having escaped from the woods and resting in a field or grove, the whole community quickly becomes alarmed, and everyone is eager to send their dogs after her; and if she is kept safe by the kind squire, it’s only so he can save her for his own dinner.
I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty much the same situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to one of their own chusing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without disturbance or controul.
I often think of a stylish and wealthy young woman, when she first steps away from the safety of her childhood, as being in a situation much like this doe. The town immediately bursts into chaos; she is chased from park to theater, from court to social gatherings, and from those gatherings back to her own room, rarely escaping a single season from the grips of some predator or another. If her friends protect her from some, it’s only to hand her over to one of their choosing, often someone more unpleasant to her than the others. Meanwhile, whole groups of other women wander freely and mostly unnoticed through the park, the theater, the opera, and social events. Although they often end up facing the same fate eventually, they enjoy a long period of freedom without interference or control.
Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, she was no less assiduous in teizing her, than her father had been before.
Of all these role models, none experienced more of this suffering than poor Sophia. Her unfortunate fate wasn’t satisfied with everything she had already endured because of Blifil; it now sent her another tormentor, who seemed likely to bother her just as much as the last one. Although her aunt was less aggressive, she was just as persistent in pestering her as her father had been before.
The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, “That she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first opportunity of leaving her alone with him.” “If you do, madam,” answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I shall take the first opportunity of leaving him by himself.” “How! madam!” cries the aunt; “is this the return you make me for my kindness in relieving you from your confinement at your father's?” “You know, madam,” said Sophia, “the cause of that confinement was a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I detested; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in another equally bad?” “And do you think then, madam,” answered Mrs Western, “that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,” cries Sophia; “and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure.” “Then my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?” “None, upon my honour,” said Sophia. “A pincushion upon my coach would please me just as well.” “Never mention honour,” cries the aunt. “It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advantage of ours.” “Surely,” says Sophia, “I am born deficient, and have not the senses with which other people are blessed; there must be certainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.”
The servants had hardly left after dinner when Mrs. Western, who had shared the situation with Sophia, informed her, “I expect his lordship this very afternoon and plan to find the first chance to leave you alone with him.” “If you do, ma'am,” Sophia replied, a bit defiantly, “I'll take the first chance to leave him by himself.” “What! ma'am!” exclaimed her aunt; “is this how you repay my kindness in getting you out of your confinement at your father's?” “You know, ma'am,” Sophia said, “the reason for that confinement was my refusal to accept a man I detested. Will my dear aunt, who has saved me from that misery, throw me into another equally bad situation?” “And do you really think, ma'am,” Mrs. Western replied, “that there’s no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr. Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,” Sophia shot back; “and if I must be forced to choose one, I would definitely prefer to sacrifice myself for my father's wishes.” “Then it seems,” said her aunt, “my wishes have very little weight with you; but that won’t change my mind. I act from higher motives. I’m thinking about elevating my family and ennobling yourself. Don’t you have any sense of ambition? Isn’t there any appeal in the idea of having a coronet on your carriage?” “None, I swear,” said Sophia. “A pincushion on my carriage would please me just as much.” “Never mention honor,” cried the aunt. “That doesn’t suit someone like you. I regret, niece, that you force me to say this, but I can't stand your lowly attitude; you don’t have any of the Western blood in you. But regardless of how mean and base your views are, you won't tarnish mine. I will never let the world say I encouraged you to turn down one of the best matches in England; a match that, apart from its wealth, would bring honor to almost any family, and indeed has a title that surpasses ours.” “Surely,” said Sophia, “I must be lacking, for I don't seem to have the senses others are blessed with; there must be some sense that appreciates the pleasures of appearance and status, which I lack; because surely humanity wouldn’t work so hard, nor sacrifice so much to obtain, nor would they be so proud and elated with what seems to me, as it does to you, the most trivial of trifles.”
“No, no, miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as many senses as other people; but I assure you you are not born with a sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor see your face again.” Sophia stood a few moments silent after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cryed, “Do with me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?” “My dear niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline.” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it never to see his face again.” “But, child, dear child,” said the aunt, “be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?” “I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection,” answered Sophia. “What?” cries the aunt; “I remember none.” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner.” “Indeed, child,” answered she, “I never heard you, or did not understand you:—but what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast at this moment.” “Indeed!” said Mrs Western. “Yes, indeed, madam,” answered Sophia; “my father luckily came in at that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded to.” “I am astonished and confounded,” cries the aunt. “No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation against him.” “I hope, madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true.” “I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present,” returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no dishonourable design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he hath not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. I don't know; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have soon been brought to endure so much.” “You will pardon me, dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make one observation: you own you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them.” “You say true, dear Sophy,” answered she; “I had once the offer of a title.” “Why, then,” said Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse this once?” “It is true, child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good an offer; that is, not so very, very good an offer.”—“Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered itself.” “I own it was not,” said she. “Well, madam,” continued Sophia, “and why may not I expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair.” “Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” cries the aunt, “what would you have me say?” “Why, I only beg that I may not be left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company.” “Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the human form.” Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs Western never once offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be improper to so forward a lover.
“No, no, miss,” the aunt shouted. “You have as many senses as anyone else, but I assure you, you weren’t born with enough understanding to make a fool of me or expose my actions to the world. So I’m telling you this on my word, and you know how firm my decisions are. Unless you agree to meet his lordship this afternoon, I will personally hand you over to my brother tomorrow morning and will never interfere with you again or see your face.” Sophia stood silent for a moment after this speech, delivered in a very angry and firm tone. Then, bursting into tears, she cried, “Do whatever you want with me, madam; I am the most miserable wretch on earth. If my dear aunt abandons me, where will I find a protector?” “My dear niece,” she said, “you’ll have a very good protector in his lordship; one that nothing but your obsession with that vile fellow Jones could make you refuse.” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “you are mistaken. How can you think that after what you’ve shown me, if I ever had such thoughts, I wouldn’t banish them for good? If it will satisfy you, I’ll take an oath never to see him again.” “But, child, dear child,” said the aunt, “be reasonable; can you think of even one objection?” “I believe I’ve already given you a sufficient objection,” answered Sophia. “What?” cried the aunt. “I remember none.” “Surely, madam,” said Sophia, “I told you he treated me in the rudest and most vile manner.” “Indeed, child,” the aunt replied, “I either didn’t hear you or didn’t understand you:—but what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?” “Honestly, madam,” said Sophia, “I’m almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down onto the settee, thrust his hand into my bosom, and kissed it so violently that I still have a mark on my left breast.” “Really!” said Mrs. Western. “Yes, truly, madam,” Sophia answered; “my father happened to walk in at that moment, or who knows what else he would have done.” “I’m shocked and bewildered,” cried the aunt. “No woman in the Western family has ever been treated like that. I would have torn a prince’s eyes out if he had attempted such liberties with me. It’s impossible! Surely, Sophia, you must be making this up to provoke my anger against him.” “I hope, madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an opinion of me to think I’m capable of lying. I swear it’s true.” “I would have stabbed him in the heart had I been there,” replied the aunt. “Yet surely he had no dishonorable intentions; it’s impossible! He wouldn’t dare: besides, his proposals show he doesn’t, since they are not only honorable but generous. I don’t know; this age allows too many freedoms. A distant greeting is all I would have permitted before marriage. I’ve had lovers before—not too long ago either; several lovers, though I never agreed to marry, and I never encouraged any freedoms. It’s a silly custom, and I’ve never agreed to it. No man kissed me beyond my cheek. It's as much as you can give to a husband; and honestly, had I ever been persuaded to marry, I doubt I would have accepted much more.” “Pardon me, dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make one point: you admit you’ve had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you deny it. You turned them all down, and I’m sure there was at least one title among them.” “You’re right, dear Sophy,” she replied; “I once had the offer of a title.” “Then why,” said Sophia, “won’t you allow me to refuse this once?” “It’s true, child,” said she, “I have turned down an offer of a title, but it wasn’t as good an offer; that is, not as very, very good an offer.” “Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you’ve received very great proposals from wealthy men. It wasn’t the first, second, or third advantageous match that came your way.” “I admit it wasn’t,” she agreed. “Well, madam,” Sophia continued, “why can’t I expect to have a second one, perhaps better than this? You’re still a young woman, and I’m sure you're not the type to settle for the first man of fortune or title. I’m a very young woman, so surely I shouldn’t despair.” “Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” the aunt cried, “what do you want me to say?” “I only ask that you don’t leave me alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I’ll agree if you think I should see him in your company after everything that’s happened.” “Well, I will grant it,” the aunt replied. “Sophy, you know I love you and can't deny you anything. You know how easygoing I am; I haven’t always been this way. I was once thought to be cruel; by the men, that is. They used to call me the cruel Parthenissa. I’ve broken many a window that had poems for the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never as beautiful as you, and yet I had something of your charm back then. I’ve changed a bit. Kingdoms and states, as Cicero says in his letters, change, and so must the human form.” Thus, she went on for nearly half an hour about herself, her conquests, and her cruelty until my lord arrived, who after a long visit, during which Mrs. Western never once offered to leave the room, departed, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece. Sophia had put her aunt in such a good mood that she agreed to almost everything her niece said and accepted that a bit of distance might not be inappropriate for such a forward suitor.
Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation that can be well imagined.
Thus, Sophia, through a bit of clever flattery, which surely no one will blame her for, managed to gain a bit of relief for herself and, at the very least, postponed the inevitable. Now that we see our heroine in a better position than she has been in for quite some time, let's check in on Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most miserable situation imaginable.
Chapter v. — Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
When Mr Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr Western, Mrs Miller set forwards to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he had known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same house with Mr Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction on account of Mr Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could, she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where Mr Nightingale was arrived before her.
When Mr. Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs. Miller headed to her son-in-law's place to inform him about the incident involving his friend Jones. However, he already knew about it from Partridge, since Jones had been given a room in the same house as Mr. Nightingale after leaving Mrs. Miller. The kind woman found her daughter in deep distress over Mr. Jones. After comforting her as best as she could, she set off for the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where Mr. Nightingale had arrived before her.
The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so extremely delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is more than compensated by bringing this comfort with it. Nor are instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient which fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid, turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within my observation have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
The strength and reliability of a true friend is such a comfort to anyone in distress that even if the distress is only temporary and can be eased, the support that comes with it more than makes up for the trouble. And it's not as rare as some superficial and careless observers claim. Honestly, lack of compassion isn't one of our main flaws. The dark trait that taints our character is envy. Because of this, I'm afraid we often look up at those who are clearly greater, better, wiser, or happier than we are with some level of spite, while we usually look down at the poor and miserable with enough kindness and sympathy. In fact, I've noticed that most of the issues I've seen in friendships are rooted in envy alone: a truly wicked vice; yet it's one that very few are completely free from. But that's enough about a topic that could lead me off track.
Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose any future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For Partridge, though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity; and though fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his master, yet the world, I believe, could not have bribed him to desert his cause.
Whether it was that Fate was worried Jones might break under the weight of his struggles, and that she might lose future chances to torment him, or whether she genuinely eased up on her harshness towards him, she seemed to lighten her pursuit a bit by sending him the company of two loyal friends, and perhaps more unusually, a loyal servant. Because Partridge, despite his many flaws, was not lacking in loyalty; and even though his fear kept him from being hanged for his master, I truly believe no amount of money could have tempted him to abandon his cause.
While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitzpatrick was still alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, “My dear Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which, whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you, and in which your conscience cannot accuse you of having been the least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the coroner's inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial, yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a shilling.” “Come, come, Mr Jones,” says Mrs Miller, “chear yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told Mr Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done with him.”
While Jones was feeling really pleased in front of his friends, Partridge brought news that Mr. Fitzpatrick was still alive, although the doctor said he had very little hope. At this, Jones let out a deep sigh, and Nightingale said to him, “My dear Tom, why are you torturing yourself over an incident that, no matter what happens, poses no danger to you, and for which you can't blame yourself at all? If the guy dies, what have you done other than take the life of a thug in self-defense? The coroner’s inquest will definitely see it that way, and you’ll be easily released on bail; even though you’ll have to go through the formalities of a trial, it’s a trial that many would stand up for you for just a dollar.” “Come on, Mr. Jones,” says Mrs. Miller, “cheer up. I always knew you couldn’t be the one who started this, and I told Mr. Allworthy the same thing, and he’ll admit it too, before I’m done with him.”
Jones gravely answered, “That whatever might be his fate, he should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest kind——O! Mrs Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth.” “That must be a mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, come; I know more than you imagine” (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); “and I have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he hath of the lady.”
Jones replied seriously, “No matter what happens to me, I’ll always regret the fact that I took the life of one of my fellow humans; that’s one of the worst things that could ever happen to me. But I have another loss that’s even more painful—oh, Mrs. Miller, I’ve lost what I cherished most in the world.” “That must be a woman,” Mrs. Miller said; “but come on, I know more than you think” (because Partridge had already spilled the beans); “and I’ve heard more than you realize. Things are actually looking better than you believe, and I wouldn’t give Blifil a penny for his chances with her.”
“Indeed, my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you are an entire stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no danger from Blifil. I have undone myself.” “Don't despair,” replied Mrs Miller; “you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty. My son, my dear Mr Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me say.”
“Of course, my dear friend, of course,” Jones replied. “You have no idea what’s behind my sorrow. If you knew the story, you’d see there’s no comfort for me. I don’t fear Blifil. I’ve ruined myself.” “Don’t lose hope,” Mrs. Miller said. “You have no idea what a woman is capable of; if there’s anything I can do, I promise I will help you. It’s my responsibility. My son, my dear Mr. Nightingale, who kindly tells me he feels indebted to you for the same reason, knows it’s my duty. Should I go speak to the lady myself? I’ll say whatever you want me to say.”
“Thou best of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand, “talk not of obligations to me;—but as you have been so kind to mention it, there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever acknowledge your goodness.”
“Best of women,” Jones exclaims, taking her hand, “don’t mention any obligations to me; but since you’ve been so generous to bring it up, there’s a favor that might be within your ability. I see you know the lady (I’m not sure how you found that out) who is very dear to me. If you could manage to deliver this” (handing her a paper from his pocket), “I’ll be forever grateful for your kindness.”
“Give it me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her own possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear from every one she is.”
“Give it to me,” said Mrs. Miller. “If I don’t see it in her possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Take heart, my good young man! Be smart enough to learn from past mistakes, and I promise everything will be fine, and I will see you happy with the most charming young lady in the world, as everyone says she is.”
“Believe me, madam,” said he, “I do not speak the common cant of one in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious character, nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it.”
“Believe me, ma'am,” he said, “I'm not using the usual excuses of someone in my unfortunate situation. Before this terrible event happened, I had decided to leave behind a life that I had come to recognize as both wrong and foolish. I assure you, despite the chaos I have sadly caused in your home, for which I sincerely apologize, I am not a lost cause. Even though I've been pushed into wrongdoing, I do not accept a bad reputation, and I will not, from this moment on, live up to it.”
Mrs Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now the remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that good woman and Mr Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs Miller to deliver his letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means to accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on pain of having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any answer. He was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so warm an advocate to Mr Allworthy himself in this good woman, who was, in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.
Mrs. Miller was really pleased with these declarations and was completely convinced of their sincerity. The rest of the conversation was spent trying to uplift Mr. Jones, who was feeling down, with both Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale working together. They ended up making him feel much better and more satisfied than he had been. A big part of this positive change came from Mrs. Miller’s kind offer to deliver his letter to Sophia, something he thought he’d never be able to do. When Black George brought back the last message from Sophia, he told Partridge that she had strictly ordered him, under the threat of it being revealed to her father, not to bring back any reply. He was also quite happy to discover that he had such a strong supporter in this wonderful woman when it came to Mr. Allworthy, who truly was one of the best people around.
After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to return to him soon; during which Mrs Miller said she hoped to bring him some good news from his mistress, and Mr Nightingale promised to enquire into the state of Mr Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise to find out some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.
After about an hour’s visit from the lady (since Nightingale had been with him much longer), they both said their goodbyes, promising to come back soon. During this, Mrs. Miller mentioned that she hoped to bring him some good news from his mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised to check on Mr. Fitzpatrick's wound and also to find out about some of the people who were there at the encounter.
The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we likewise shall now attend her.
The first of these went straight to find Sophia, and we will now follow her there too.
Chapter vi. — In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.
Getting to see the young lady wasn't hard at all; since she now had a great relationship with her aunt, she was completely free to welcome any visitors she wanted.
Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs Miller was immediately admitted.
Sophia was getting dressed when she was informed that there was a woman downstairs to see her. Since she wasn't afraid or embarrassed to meet anyone of her own gender, Mrs. Miller was let in right away.
Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to each other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know you, madam.” “No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give you this trouble, I hope——” “Pray, what is your business, madam?” said Sophia, with a little emotion. “Madam, we are not alone,” replied Mrs Miller, in a low voice. “Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.
Curtsies and the usual formalities between unfamiliar women having passed, Sophia said, “I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you, ma'am.” “No, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Miller, “and I must apologize for intruding. But once you know what has brought me here, I hope—” “May I ask what your business is, ma'am?” said Sophia, with a hint of emotion. “Ma'am, we aren’t alone,” Mrs. Miller responded quietly. “Betty, please leave,” Sophia said.
When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and after some hesitation, said—“I could not conceive, madam, from your appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.—Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter stranger to me.”
When Betty left, Mrs. Miller said, “A very unhappy young man asked me to give you this letter.” Sophia turned pale when she saw the handwriting, fully recognizing it, and after a moment of hesitation, replied, “I couldn’t have imagined, ma'am, from your appearance, that your business was of such a kind. Whoever this letter is from, I won’t open it. I would hate to have an unfair suspicion of anyone, but you are a complete stranger to me.”
“If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “I will acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.” “I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia; “but I must insist on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it you.”
“If you could be patient, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Miller, “I’ll tell you who I am and how I got that letter.” “I have no interest in knowing anything, ma'am,” Sophia exclaimed; “but I must insist that you return that letter to the person who gave it to you.”
Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it is surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of this person. I would not think, madam”—“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller, “you shall not think anything but the truth. I will tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best-natured creature that ever was born.”—She then began and related the story of Mr Anderson.—After this she cried, “This, madam, this is his goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath preserved my child.”—Here, after shedding some tears, she related everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances which would have most reflected on her daughter, and concluded with saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and worthiest of all human beings.”
Mrs. Miller then dropped to her knees and passionately begged for her sympathy, to which Sophia replied, “It’s surprising that you’re so deeply concerned about this person. I wouldn’t think, ma'am—” “No, ma'am,” Mrs. Miller interjected, “you will only think the truth. I will tell you everything, and you won’t be surprised that I care. He is the kindest person you could ever meet.” She then began to tell the story of Mr. Anderson. After this, she exclaimed, “This, ma'am, this shows his goodness; but I have even deeper reasons to be grateful to him. He has saved my child.” Here, after shedding some tears, she shared all the details of that event, leaving out only those parts that would cast her daughter in a negative light, and concluded, “Now, ma'am, you can decide whether I can ever do enough for such a kind, good, and generous young man; he truly is the best and most worthy of all human beings.”
The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and cried, “I know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be blamed—But what service can my reading this letter do your friend, since I am resolved never——” Mrs Miller fell again to her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said, carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you will force it upon me.—Certainly you may leave it whether I will or no.” What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually understood this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.
The changes in Sophia's expression had mostly been against her, making her face pale; but now she blushed even redder than vermilion and said, “I don’t know what to say; surely nothing that comes from gratitude can be wrong—But how can reading this letter help your friend, since I’m determined never to——” Mrs. Miller pleaded with her again, asking for forgiveness, but she said she couldn’t take it back. “Well, ma'am,” Sophia replied, “I can't help it if you insist on giving it to me. You can leave it here whether I want it or not.” Whether Sophia had any real intention or not, I won't speculate; however, Mrs. Miller took this as a suggestion and soon placed the letter on the table before leaving, after first asking for permission to visit Sophia again, which received no clear answer.
The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.
The letter sat on the table only until Mrs. Miller was out of sight; then Sophia opened it and read it.
This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to her presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady Bellaston in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than to marry Lady Bellaston.
This letter did very little to help his situation; it was mostly just him confessing his own unworthiness and expressing his deep despair, along with serious promises of his unwavering loyalty to Sophia. He claimed he hoped to prove this to her if he ever had the honor of seeing her again. He believed he could explain the letter to Lady Bellaston in a way that wouldn’t earn his forgiveness, but he at least hoped to receive mercy from her. He ended by swearing that marrying Lady Bellaston was the furthest thing from his mind.
Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to bestow on any other person.
Though Sophia read the letter twice with great focus, she still couldn't figure out what he meant; she couldn't come up with any way to excuse Jones. She remained quite upset with him, but honestly, Lady Bellaston absorbed so much of her anger that her gentle nature had little left to give to anyone else.
That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt Western, and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment, to go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum. Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but would not disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting illness, she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered into her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went, resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent mistress of repartee.
That lady was unfortunately having dinner that very day with her aunt Western, and in the afternoon, the three of them were scheduled to go together to the opera and then to Lady Thomas Hatchet's gathering. Sophia would have happily skipped all of it, but she didn’t want to upset her aunt; as for pretending to be sick, she had no idea how to do that, so it never even crossed her mind. When she was dressed, she went downstairs, determined to face all the challenges of the day, and it turned out to be a very unpleasant one; Lady Bellaston took every chance, very politely and sneakily, to insult her. Sophia's low spirits made it hard for her to respond, and to be honest, she was, at best, not very good at witty comebacks.
Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia was the company of Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum. And though both places were too publick to admit of any particularities, and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women, which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man whom they know to have pretensions to them which they are disinclined to favour.
Another misfortune that hit poor Sophia was the company of Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera and who accompanied her to the dance. Although both places were too public for any particular interactions, and she was somewhat distracted by the music at the opera and the cards at the dance, she still couldn't enjoy herself with him. There’s something delicate in women that makes it hard for them to feel at ease around a man they know has intentions toward them that they don’t want to encourage.
Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a moment describe it.
Having mentioned a drum twice in this chapter, a term that we hope future generations won't interpret in the way we are using it here, we will, despite our current urgency, take a moment to explain the type of entertainment referred to, especially since we can do so quickly.
A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by it.
A gathering, then, is a group of well-dressed people of all genders, most of whom are playing cards, while the rest are just hanging out; and the host takes on the role of a landlady at an inn, proudly counting her guests, even though, unlike a typical landlady, she doesn’t always profit from it.
No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined entirely to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!
It's no surprise that so much alcohol is needed to keep any excitement alive in these dull situations, which is why we constantly hear fashionable people complaining about the lack of it; this complaint is limited to the upper class. We can only imagine how unbearable this cycle of nonsense must have been for Sophia at that moment; how hard it must have been for her to put on a cheerful face when her heart felt nothing but deep sorrow, and every thought was filled with painful ideas!
Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable we fear of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers us, is now arrived at the eve of some great event.
Night, however, finally brought her back to her pillow, where we will leave her to try to calm her sadness, though we’re afraid she won’t find any real rest, and we will continue our story, which, something tells us, is now on the brink of a significant event.
Chapter vii. — A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
Mrs Miller had a long discourse with Mr Allworthy, at his return from dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones's having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their separation; and with the distresses to which that loss had subjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she had to Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with regard to her daughter; for though she had the utmost confidence in Mr Allworthy, and though there could be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which was unhappily known to more than half a dozen, yet she could not prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which reflected most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered that part of her evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the girl was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard.
Mrs. Miller had a long conversation with Mr. Allworthy when he returned from dinner, during which she informed him that Jones had unfortunately lost everything he had given him at their parting, and about the struggles that loss had caused him; she had received a detailed account from the trustworthy Partridge. She then explained her obligations to Jones, though she wasn't fully open about her daughter; even though she had complete trust in Mr. Allworthy, and it was clear that keeping such a matter secret was impossible since it was known to several people, she couldn’t bring herself to mention the details that would cast a shadow on poor Nancy's reputation. She withheld that part of her testimony as carefully as if she were before a judge, and the girl were now on trial for the murder of an illegitimate child.
Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not to have the least mixture of good in them. “However,” says he, “I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but must insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I promise you, it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to take the measures I have taken.” “Well, sir,” says she, “I make not the least doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and natural colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man deserves better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless.”
Allworthy said that there are very few people who are completely evil without any bit of good in them. “However,” he continued, “I can't deny that you owe something to the guy, as bad as he is, so I will overlook what has happened so far, but I must insist that you never mention his name to me again; I assure you, I decided to take the steps I did based on the clearest and most straightforward evidence.” “Well, sir,” she replied, “I have no doubt that time will reveal everything in its true light, and you’ll see that this poor young man deserves better from you than some others who shall remain unnamed.”
“Madam,” cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, “I will not hear any reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the worthiest and best of men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too long concealing facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the wretch to this good young man is what I most resent; for, madam, I have the greatest reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my favour, and to have disinherited him.”
“Ma'am,” Allworthy said, a bit annoyed, “I won’t listen to any criticism about my nephew, and if you say anything more like that, I’ll leave your house right away. He is the most worthy and best of men; and I’ll say it again, he has shown this man too much loyalty by keeping the worst facts hidden for too long. What I’m most upset about is the betrayal from that scoundrel towards this good young man; because, ma'am, I have strong reasons to believe he was plotting to take my nephew’s place and cut him out.”
“I am sure, sir,” answered Mrs Miller, a little frightened (for, though Mr Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), “I shall never speak against any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure, sir, such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How often have I heard you call him your son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a parent? Nay, sir, I cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many good things you have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them, for I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own cause. They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life, I must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready to plunge into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have loved, and I shall ever love.”
“I’m sure, sir,” Mrs. Miller replied, a bit scared (because even though Mr. Allworthy had the kindest smile, his frown was intimidating), “I would never speak ill of any gentleman you hold in high regard. Such behavior wouldn’t suit me, especially when that gentleman is your closest relative. But, sir, please don't be upset with me; you really mustn't, for my good wishes for this poor wretch. I can call him that now, even though you would have been angry if I had ever spoken of him disrespectfully. How many times have I heard you refer to him as your son? How often have you talked to me about him with all the affection of a parent? Honestly, sir, I can’t forget all the kind things you’ve said about his looks, his talents, and his virtues; about his good nature and generosity. I really can’t forget them because I’ve seen them for myself. They’ve helped my family. Please forgive my tears, sir, you truly must. When I think about the harsh turn of fate this poor young man, to whom I owe so much, has faced; when I consider the loss of your favor, which I know meant more to him than his life, I have to mourn for him. Even if you held a dagger to my heart, I’d still grieve for the suffering of one whom you have loved, and whom I will always love.”
Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to be with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs Miller by the hand, he said very affectionately to her, “Come, madam, let us consider a little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantageous to her, but you know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's reconciliation. I know Mr Nightingale very well, and have formerly had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an only son, and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you.”
Allworthy was quite moved by this speech, but it didn’t seem to be out of anger; after a brief silence, he took Mrs. Miller by the hand and said to her very warmly, “Come on, let’s think a bit about your daughter. I can’t blame you for being happy about a match that seems beneficial for her, but you know this benefit largely depends on the father reconciling. I am familiar with Mr. Nightingale and have dealt with him before; I will pay him a visit and try to help you with this. I believe he is a practical man, but since this is his only son, and the situation is now beyond repair, maybe he can be reasoned with over time. I promise you I will do everything I can to assist you.”
Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy for this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, “to whom,” said she, “I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present trouble.” Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was too good a man to be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now actuated Mrs Miller; and indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have been a little softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice itself could not have derived from an evil motive.
The poor woman expressed her gratitude to Allworthy many times for his kind and generous offer, and she couldn’t help but take this chance to thank Jones again, saying, “To whom,” she said, “I owe the chance to give you, sir, this present trouble.” Allworthy gently interrupted her, but he was too good a man to be truly upset by the effects of such a noble principle motivating Mrs. Miller. In fact, if this new situation hadn’t reignited his previous anger towards Jones, he might have softened a bit towards him due to the report of an action that even malice couldn’t twist into something evil.
Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller had been above an hour together, when their conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and another person, which other person was no less than Mr Dowling, the attorney, who was now become a great favourite with Mr Blifil, and whom Mr Allworthy, at the desire of his nephew, had made his steward; and had likewise recommended him to Mr Western, from whom the attorney received a promise of being promoted to the same office upon the first vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in transacting some affairs which the squire then had in London in relation to a mortgage.
Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had been talking for over an hour when their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Blifil and another person, who turned out to be Mr. Dowling, the attorney. He had now become a favorite of Mr. Blifil, and at his nephew's request, Mr. Allworthy had made him his steward. Mr. Allworthy had also recommended him to Mr. Western, who promised to promote him to the same position as soon as there was a vacancy. In the meantime, he was handling some tasks for the squire that involved a mortgage in London.
This was the principal affair which then brought Mr Dowling to town; therefore he took the same opportunity to charge himself with some money for Mr Allworthy, and to make a report to him of some other business; in all which, as it was of much too dull a nature to find any place in this history, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and their lawyer concerned, and resort to other matters.
This was the main concern that brought Mr. Dowling to town; so he decided to use this chance to handle some money for Mr. Allworthy and to update him on other business. Since this was much too boring to include in this story, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and their lawyer to it and move on to different topics.
Chapter viii. — Containing various matters.
Before we return to Mr Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia.
Before we go back to Mr. Jones, let's take one more look at Sophia.
Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour by those soothing methods which we have before related, she had not brought her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar. This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the preceding evening, that she was well satisfied from the conduct of Sophia, and from her carriage to his lordship, that all delays would be dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to press the match forward with such rapidity that the young lady should have no time to reflect, and be obliged to consent while she scarce knew what she did; in which manner, she said, one-half of the marriages among people of condition were brought about. A fact very probably true, and to which, I suppose, is owing the mutual tenderness which afterwards exists among so many happy couples.
Even though that young lady had put her aunt in a good mood with the soothing methods we mentioned before, she hadn’t changed her enthusiasm for the match with Lord Fellamar at all. This enthusiasm was now intensified by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the night before that she was convinced from Sophia’s behavior and her interactions with his lordship that any delays would be risky, and that the only way to succeed was to push the match forward so quickly that the young lady wouldn’t have time to think about it and would have to agree before she really knew what was happening. She claimed that this was how half of the marriages among people of status happened. This is likely true, and I suppose it explains the mutual affection that exists between so many happy couples later on.
A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar; and both these so readily embraced the advice that the very next day was, at his lordship's request, appointed by Mrs Western for a private interview between the young parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon in such high terms, that, after having urged everything she possibly could invent against it without the least effect, she at last agreed to give the highest instance of complacence which any young lady can give, and consented to see his lordship.
A similar hint was dropped by the same lady to Lord Fellamar, and they both eagerly took the advice. So, the very next day, at his lordship's request, Mrs. Western set up a private meeting between the young couple. Sophia's aunt informed her about this, stressing it so much that, after trying everything she could think of against it without any success, Sophia finally agreed to give the greatest sign of compliance that any young lady can give and consented to meet his lordship.
As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we shall be excused from reciting the whole that past at this interview; in which, after his lordship had made many declarations of the most pure and ardent passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she at last collected all the spirits she could raise, and with a trembling low voice said, “My lord, you must be yourself conscious whether your former behaviour to me hath been consistent with the professions you now make.” “Is there,” answered he, “no way by which I can atone for madness? what I did I am afraid must have too plainly convinced you, that the violence of love had deprived me of my senses.” “Indeed, my lord,” said she, “it is in your power to give me a proof of an affection which I much rather wish to encourage, and to which I should think myself more beholden.” “Name it, madam,” said my lord, very warmly. “My lord,” says she, looking down upon her fan, “I know you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion of yours hath made me.” “Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?” says he. “Yes, my lord,” answered Sophia, “all professions of love to those whom we persecute are most insulting pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution: nay, it is taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy situation.” “Most lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me,” cries he, “of taking an ungenerous advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are directed to your honour and interest, and while I have no view, no hope, no ambition, but to throw myself, honour, fortune, everything at your feet.” “My lord,” says she, “it is that fortune and those honours which gave you the advantage of which I complain. These are the charms which have seduced my relations, but to me they are things indifferent. If your lordship will merit my gratitude, there is but one way.” “Pardon me, divine creature,” said he, “there can be none. All I can do for you is so much your due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there is no room for your gratitude.” “Indeed, my lord,” answered she, “you may obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish which it is in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, for sure to a generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let me beseech you, then, to cease a pursuit in which you can never have any success. For your own sake as well as mine I entreat this favour; for sure you are too noble to have any pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature. What can your lordship propose but uneasiness to yourself, by a perseverance, which, upon my honour, upon my soul, cannot, shall not prevail with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to.” Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said—“Is it then, madam, that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect there is some other?” Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, “My lord, I shall not be accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged to your lordship for the generous offer you have made; I own it is beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.” Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but he concluded his ranting speech with saying, “That if she had pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist.” Perhaps my lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we cannot else well account for the indignation with which he inspired Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he had given her.
Since conversations like this aren’t very entertaining, we’ll skip recounting everything that happened during this meeting. After his lordship expressed his intense and pure feelings for the quietly blushing Sophia, she finally gathered her courage and, in a trembling voice, said, “My lord, you must realize whether your earlier behavior towards me matches the declarations you’re making now.” “Is there,” he replied, “no way for me to make up for my foolishness? What I did must have made it clear that the strength of my love drove me to madness.” “Indeed, my lord,” she said, “you can show me proof of the affection I’d prefer to encourage, and I’d feel more thankful for that.” “Just name it, madam,” he responded eagerly. “My lord,” she said, glancing down at her fan, “you must understand how uncomfortable your so-called passion has made me.” “Can you really be so cruel as to call it fake?” he exclaimed. “Yes, my lord,” she replied, “all declarations of love towards those we pursue can be very insulting. Your pursuit of me feels like cruel harassment; it’s taking unfair advantage of my unfortunate situation.” “Most lovely, most enchanting charmer, don’t accuse me,” he exclaimed, “of taking unfair advantage when all my thoughts are directed toward your honor and well-being, with no hopes, ambitions, or desires except to lay everything—my honor, my fortune, everything—at your feet.” “My lord,” she responded, “it’s that fortune and those honors that have given you the advantage I complain about. Those are the things that have seduced my relatives; they mean nothing to me. If you want to earn my gratitude, there’s only one way.” “Forgive me, divine being,” he said, “there is none. Everything I can do for you is completely due to you, and it brings me so much pleasure that there’s no room for your gratitude.” “Indeed, my lord,” she replied, “you can earn my gratitude, my good opinion, every positive thought and wish I can give; in fact, it would be easy, for someone with a generous heart must find it easy to grant my request. So, I ask you to stop a pursuit in which you can never succeed. For your sake as well as mine, I beg you for this favor; surely, you’re too noble to take pleasure in tormenting a distressed soul. What can you achieve by persisting, but increased discomfort for yourself, when I assure you, on my honor, on my soul, that it won’t, and can’t, ever succeed with me, no matter what struggles you might cause me.” At this, my lord let out a deep sigh and then said, “Am I truly so unfortunate as to be the target of your dislike and ridicule? Or may I be pardoned if I suspect it’s something else?” He hesitated, and Sophia replied with determination, “My lord, I don’t owe you an explanation for my actions. I’m grateful for the generous offer you’ve made; I admit it’s beyond what I deserve or expected. However, I hope you won’t press me for my reasons when I say I cannot accept it.” Lord Fellamar responded in a way we don’t completely understand, perhaps not entirely coherent or grammatically correct, but he ended his speech by saying that if she had already committed herself to someone else, no matter how unhappy it made him, he felt honor-bound to withdraw. Perhaps he placed too much emphasis on the word “gentleman,” as it’s hard to explain the indignation this sparked in Sophia, who seemed very upset by some offense he had caused her.
While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the flames bursting from her eyes. “I am ashamed,” says she, “my lord, of the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship we are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western, the family expect a different behaviour from you.” Here my lord interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into a chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.
While she was speaking, her voice louder than usual, Mrs. Western walked into the room, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing. “I’m ashamed,” she said, “my lord, of the reception you received. I assure you, we all appreciate the honor you’ve given us; and I must say, Miss Western, the family expects better behavior from you.” Here, my lord stepped in to defend the young lady, but it was no use; the aunt continued until Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, sank into a chair, and broke down in tears.
The remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western and his lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece should and would consent to all he wished. “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason.”
The rest of the conversation between Mrs. Western and his lordship, until he finally left, was filled with his bitter complaints and her strong reassurances that her niece would agree to everything he wanted. “Honestly, my lord,” she said, “the girl has had a silly upbringing, not suited to her status or her family. Her father, I regret to say, is to blame for everything. The girl has ridiculous country ideas about being shy. That’s all it is, my lord, I swear; I believe she has a good head on her shoulders and can be reasoned with.”
This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some time before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many expressions of thanks to Mrs Western, many ardent professions of passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances of perseverance, which Mrs Western highly encouraged, took his leave for this time.
This last speech was made without Sophia present; she had left the room some time earlier, showing more emotion than she ever had before. Now, his lordship, after many thanks to Mrs. Western, proclaiming his unbreakable passion, and assuring his determination—encouraged by Mrs. Western—took his leave for the moment.
Before we relate what now passed between Mrs Western and Sophia, it may be proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened, and which had occasioned the return of Mrs Western with so much fury, as we have seen.
Before we discuss what happened between Mrs. Western and Sophia, it’s important to mention an unfortunate accident that occurred and caused Mrs. Western to return in such a rage, as we've observed.
The reader then must know that the maid who at present attended on Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some time in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible girl, and had received the strictest instructions to watch her young lady very carefully. These instructions, we are sorry to say, were communicated to her by Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new mistress.
The reader should know that the maid currently attending to Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some time as a personal groomer. She was a very perceptive girl and had been given strict instructions to keep a close eye on her young lady. Unfortunately, these instructions were passed on to her by Mrs. Honour, who had gained Lady Bellaston’s favor to such an extent that the strong affection the good waiting-woman once felt for Sophia was completely overshadowed by her deep loyalty to her new mistress.
Now, when Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the girl), returning to her young lady, found her very attentively engaged in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed on that occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which the girl entertained; but indeed they had yet a stronger foundation, for she had overheard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and Mrs Miller.
Now, after Mrs. Miller left, Betty (that was the girl's name) went back to her young lady and found her deeply focused on reading a long letter. The visible emotions she showed at that moment could easily explain some of the suspicions the girl had; but in fact, there was an even stronger reason for her doubts, as she had overheard the entire conversation that took place between Sophia and Mrs. Miller.
Mrs Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after receiving many commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she should introduce her to Mrs Western herself.
Mrs. Western was informed of all this by Betty, who, after receiving several praises and some rewards for her loyalty, was instructed that if the woman who delivered the letter returned, she should introduce her to Mrs. Western in person.
Unluckily, Mrs Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances relating to what had past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and so pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the letter and relating to Jones.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Miller came back right when Sophia was with his lordship. Betty, following instructions, sent her straight to the aunt, who, knowing so much about what had happened the day before, easily convinced the poor woman that Sophia had shared the entire story; and so she extracted everything she knew about the letter and about Jones.
This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was one of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything which is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive nor defensive weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be imposed upon by any one who will only be at the expense of a little falshood for that purpose. Mrs Western, having drained Mrs Miller of all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances that Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the letter, nor ever receive another; nor did she suffer her to depart without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to which she could afford no better name than that of procuress.—This discovery had greatly discomposed her temper, when, coming into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very warmly protesting against his lordship's addresses. At which the rage already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in a most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what past at that time till his lordship's departure.
This poor soul could really be called pure simplicity. She was one of those people who tend to believe everything they’re told; nature didn’t arm her with the ability to be deceptive or defensive, so she was easily deceived by anyone willing to spend a little effort on lies. After getting everything Mrs. Miller knew out of her—which wasn’t much, but enough to make the aunt suspicious—Mrs. Western sent her away with assurances that Sophia wouldn’t see her, that she wouldn’t reply to the letter, nor would she get another one; she also didn’t let her leave without giving a lengthy lecture on the merits of a role she could only call that of a go-between. This realization really upset her mood, and when she entered the room next to the one where the lovers were, she overheard Sophia passionately refusing his lordship’s advances. That ignited the anger she already felt, and she stormed into the room with her niece in a furious manner, as we’ve already described, along with what happened at that time until his lordship left.
No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western returned to Sophia, whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in conversing with a man with whom she had offered but the day before to bind herself in the most solemn oath never more to have any conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such conversation. “How, how! Miss Western,” said the aunt; “will you deny your receiving a letter from him yesterday?” “A letter, madam!” answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. “It is not very well bred, miss,” replies the aunt, “to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing it me immediately.” “I scorn a lie, madam,” said Sophia; “I did receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and, indeed, I may say, against my consent.” “Indeed, indeed, miss,” cries the aunt, “you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it at all; but where is the letter? for I will see it.”
As soon as Lord Fellamar left, Mrs. Western returned to Sophia and harshly criticized her for betraying the trust placed in her and for her betrayal in talking to a man with whom she had sworn just the day before to never have any further conversation. Sophia insisted that she hadn't had any such conversation. “What do you mean, Miss Western?” said her aunt. “Are you going to deny you got a letter from him yesterday?” “A letter, ma'am!” replied Sophia, somewhat surprised. “It's not very polite, miss,” the aunt said, “to repeat my words. I said a letter, and I insist that you show it to me immediately.” “I won't lie, ma'am,” Sophia said. “I did receive a letter, but it was not requested by me and, in fact, I can say it was against my will.” “Honestly, miss,” the aunt exclaimed, “you should be ashamed to admit you received it at all; but where is the letter? I want to see it.”
To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned an answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring she had not the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this short question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, or no? to which she received the strongest negative. Mrs Western then replied with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early the next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.
To this urgent demand, Sophia hesitated for a moment before responding, and finally just said she didn’t have the letter in her pocket, which was true. Her aunt, losing all patience, then asked her niece a simple question: did she intend to marry Lord Fellamar or not? Sophia firmly replied no. Mrs. Western then swore, or something close to it, that she would return her to her father first thing the next morning.
Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following manner:—“Why, madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all? Consider how cruel you would have thought it in your own case, and how much kinder your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never marry contrary to my father's consent, nor without asking yours——And when I ask the consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force some other marriage upon me.” “Can I bear to hear this,” cries Mrs Western, “from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her pocket?” “I have no such letter, I promise you,” answered Sophia; “and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you any further disturbance.” “How, Miss Western!” said the aunt, “have you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to own your affection for such a villain to my face?” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “you put a very strange construction on my words.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” cries the lady, “I shall not bear this usage; you have learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined you by this false system of education; and, please heaven, he shall have the comfort of its fruits; for once more I declare to you, that to-morrow morning I will carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces from the field, and remain henceforth, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be regulated by my measures; so prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning you shall evacuate this house.”
Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following way: “Why, madam, must I be forced to marry at all? Think about how cruel you would have found it in your own situation, and how much kinder your parents were in letting you keep your freedom. What have I done to lose this freedom? I will never marry against my father's wishes, nor without asking for yours—And when I improperly seek the consent of either, then it will be time enough to force another marriage on me.” “Can I stand to hear this,” cries Mrs. Western, “from a girl who has a letter from a murderer in her pocket?” “I have no such letter, I promise you,” answered Sophia; “and if he is a murderer, he will soon be unable to give you any more trouble.” “How, Miss Western!” said the aunt, “do you have the nerve to speak of him like this; to admit your feelings for such a villain to my face?” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “you have taken a very strange interpretation of my words.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” exclaims the lady, “I will not tolerate this behavior; you have learned this way of treating me from your father; he has taught you to lie to me. He has completely ruined you with this false system of education; and, God willing, he will face the consequences; for I declare once more that tomorrow morning I will take you back. I will pull all my forces from the field and remain, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of complete neutrality. You are both too clever to be guided by my decisions; so get ready, because tomorrow morning you will leave this house.”
Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she said. In this resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.
Sophia protested as much as she could, but her aunt ignored everything she said. So, for now, we must leave her in this state, as there seems to be no hope of getting her to change her mind.
Chapter ix. — What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
Mr Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time employed in his service.
Mr. Jones spent around twenty-four lonely hours by himself, except for some company from Partridge, before Mr. Nightingale came back; not that this fine young man had abandoned or forgotten his friend; in fact, he had been mostly busy helping him during that time.
He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went in search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place, till at last he found two of them drinking together, with a third person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.
He had learned, after asking around, that the only people who witnessed the start of the unfortunate conflict were a crew from a warship that was docked at Deptford. So, he headed to Deptford to find this crew, only to be told that the men he was looking for had all gone ashore. He then tracked them down from place to place until he finally found two of them drinking together, along with a third person, at a roadside tavern near Aldersgate.
Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale, taking Jones by the hand, cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too much dejected at what I am going to tell you——I am sorry I am the messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you.” “I guess already what that bad news is,” cries Jones. “The poor gentleman then is dead.”—“I hope not,” answered Nightingale. “He was alive this morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as you told it, your own remorse would be all you would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I entreat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to yourself.”
Nightingale wanted to talk to Jones alone (since Partridge was in the room when he arrived). As soon as they were by themselves, Nightingale took Jones by the hand and said, “Come on, my brave friend, don't be too down about what I'm about to tell you. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I feel it's my duty to let you know.” “I think I already know what that bad news is,” Jones replied. “The poor gentleman is dead.” —“I hope not,” Nightingale said. “He was alive this morning; although I won't sugarcoat it, I fear, from what I've heard, that his wound is fatal. But if everything happened exactly as you described, the only remorse you should worry about is your own, whatever may happen. But forgive me, my dear Tom, if I urge you to be honest with your friends about everything. If you hide anything from us, you'll only be hurting yourself.”
“What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said Jones, “to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?” “Have patience,” cries Nightingale, “and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not relate the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it.” “Why, what do they say?” cries Jones. “Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were at too great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you: but they both agree that the first blow was given by you.” “Then, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “they injure me. He not only struck me first, but struck me without the least provocation. What should induce those villains to accuse me falsely?” “Nay, that I cannot guess,” said Nightingale, “and if you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your friend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belie you, what reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several times, and so did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you; for he begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by their evidence upon oath. For heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would not shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law, whatever verbal provocations may have been given you.” “Alas! my friend,” cries Jones, “what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I merit.”
“What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said Jones, “to accuse me with such a cruel suspicion?” “Be patient,” replied Nightingale, “and I’ll explain everything. After searching thoroughly, I finally found two guys who witnessed this unfortunate incident, and I regret to say they don’t tell the story in your favor as much as you’ve recounted it.” “What do they say?” asked Jones. “Honestly, it’s tough for me to repeat because I’m worried about the impact it may have on you. They claim they were too far away to hear any conversation between you, but they both agree that you threw the first punch.” “Then, I swear,” said Jones, “they are wronging me. He didn’t just hit me first, but did so without any provocation. What could lead those scoundrels to falsely accuse me?” “I can’t guess that,” Nightingale replied, “and if you and I, being your loyal friend, can’t figure out a reason for their lies, what reasons would an unbiased court of law have to not believe them? I asked them repeatedly, and so did another gentleman who was there—a sailor, I believe—who genuinely tried to help you; he urged them to remember that a man's life was at stake and asked them again and again if they were sure, to which they both confirmed they were and would stand by their testimony under oath. For heaven’s sake, my dear friend, gather yourself; if this turns out to be true, you’ll need to think wisely about protecting your interests. I don’t want to alarm you, but you know the harshness of the law, regardless of any verbal provocations you may have faced.” “Oh! my friend,” exclaimed Jones, “what leverage do I have as such a miserable being? Besides, do you honestly think I would want to live with the label of a murderer? If I had any friends (which, sadly, I do not), could I possibly have the nerve to ask them to speak up for a man guilty of the worst crime imaginable? Believe me, I have no such hope; however, I put some faith in a higher authority that will, without a doubt, provide me with all the protection I deserve.”
He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the truth of what he had at first asserted.
He then finished with many serious and passionate declarations of the truth of what he had initially claimed.
The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline to credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he cried out most heroically, “Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as to what shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least, will be believed, so far as to justify his character.”
The faith of Nightingale was once again shaken and began to lean towards believing his friend when Mrs. Miller arrived and made a sorrowful report about the outcome of her mission. When Jones heard this, he exclaimed heroically, “Well, my friend, I now don’t care what happens, at least regarding my life; and if it’s Heaven’s will that I must atone for the blood I’ve spilled, I hope that one day Divine Goodness will allow my honor to be restored, and that the words of a dying man will at least be believed enough to justify his character.”
A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends, at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will, therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak with him when he was at leisure.
A very sad scene just occurred between the prisoner and his friends, and since not many readers would have liked to witness it, I doubt many will want to hear about it in detail. So, let’s move on to the moment when the jailer entered and told Jones that there was a lady outside who wanted to speak with him when he had a moment.
Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, “He knew no lady in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there.” However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the lady admitted.
Jones expressed his surprise at the message. He said, “I don’t know any lady in the world I could possibly expect to see there.” However, since he didn’t see any reason to refuse seeing anyone, Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale soon took their leave, and he instructed to have the lady admitted.
If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order to cure the surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the arrival of this lady.
If Jones was surprised by the news of a visit from a lady, how shocked was he when he found out this lady was none other than Mrs. Waters! We'll leave him in this state of astonishment for a moment to let the reader's surprise sink in, who will likely also be quite curious about the arrival of this lady.
Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was, he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath.
Who Mrs. Waters was, the reader likely knows; what she was, he must be completely aware of. He will therefore be happy to recall that this lady left Upton in the same coach as Mr. Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and traveled to Bath with them.
Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs Waters on the road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any scruple accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady continued together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife they arrived together in town.
Now there was a certain position that Mr. Fitzpatrick had available at that time, specifically that of a wife, because the woman who had recently held that role had either resigned or simply abandoned her responsibilities. So, after thoroughly checking with Mrs. Waters along the way, Mr. Fitzpatrick found her very suitable for the job, which he immediately offered to her upon their arrival in Bath. She accepted without any hesitation. This gentleman and lady stayed together as husband and wife during their entire time in Bath, and as husband and wife, they arrived together in town.
Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged her office, that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say; but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons who think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore which she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.
Whether Mr. Fitzpatrick was so wise that he wouldn't let go of one good thing until he had another secured, which he only had a chance of getting back at the moment; or whether Mrs. Waters had done her job so well that he planned to keep her as his main support and make his wife (as often happens) just her backup, I won't say; but it's clear that he never mentioned his wife to her, never shared with her the letter he received from Mrs. Western, nor did he ever hint at his intention of getting back together with his wife, much less did he ever mention Jones's name. For, although he planned to confront him whenever they crossed paths, he didn't follow the lead of those wise individuals who think of a wife, mother, sister, or sometimes the whole family, as the safest support in such situations. Therefore, the first time she learned about all this was when he told her himself, after he was brought home from the tavern where his wound had been treated.
As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart had received a wound, which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was she acquainted that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the first opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of his nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.
Since Mr. Fitzpatrick didn’t have the clearest way of telling a story at any time, and was possibly a bit more confused than usual, it took her some time to realize that the guy who had given him this wound was the same person who had hurt her heart. Although it wasn’t a fatal injury, it was still deep enough to leave a significant scar. But as soon as she found out that Mr. Jones himself was the one who had been locked up in the Gatehouse for this alleged murder, she quickly made sure Mr. Fitzpatrick was taken care of by his nurse and rushed off to see the conqueror.
She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, “Nay, I do not wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me; for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any lady, unless a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have been in such a place.” “Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal habitations.” “I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I can hardly persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why, your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can be the matter with you?” “I thought, madam,” said Jones, “as you knew of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason.” “Pugh!” says she, “you have pinked a man in a duel, that's all.” Jones exprest some indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, “Well, then, sir, if you take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more honour from curing him: but the king's surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life.” Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report; upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame.”
She walked into the room with a cheerful attitude, which was immediately dampened by the sad look on poor Jones's face. He flinched and crossed himself when he saw her. She then said, “Well, I’m not surprised you’re shocked; I know you didn’t expect to see me, since most gentlemen around here don’t get visits from any ladies, except their wives. You clearly see the hold you have over me, Mr. Jones. Honestly, I never thought that when we parted at Upton, our next meeting would be here.” “Truly, madam,” Jones replied, “I have to consider this visit kind; few people will keep company with the miserable, especially in such gloomy places.” “I swear, Mr. Jones,” she exclaimed, “I can hardly believe you’re the same charming guy I saw at Upton. Your face looks worse than any dungeon in existence. What’s wrong with you?” “I assumed, madam,” replied Jones, “since you knew I was here, you were aware of the unfortunate reason.” “Oh, come on!” she said, “you just wounded a man in a duel, that’s all.” Jones expressed some displeasure at her casualness and spoke with deep regret about what had happened. She responded, “Well then, if you’re so troubled by it, let me ease your mind; the gentleman is not dead, and I’m pretty sure he’s not in any danger of dying. The first surgeon who treated him was a young guy who seemed eager to make it sound as bad as possible to earn more credit for curing him, but the king's surgeon saw him later and said unless he develops a fever—of which there are currently no signs—there’s no serious risk to his life.” Jones’s face lit up with relief at this news, prompting her to confirm its accuracy, adding, “By the most incredible coincidence, I’m staying at the same place, and I’ve seen the gentleman. I promise you he speaks well of you and says, whatever the outcome, that he was entirely at fault, and you are in no way to blame.”
Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well knew before, as who Mr Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars, concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.
Jones expressed his complete satisfaction with the update that Mrs. Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things she already knew, such as who Mr. Fitzpatrick was and the reason for his resentment, etc. He also shared several facts she didn’t know, like the incident with the muff and other details, only leaving out Sophia's name. He then lamented the foolishness and wrongdoings he had committed; each one, he said, had led to such negative consequences that it would be unforgivable not to take heed and avoid those bad habits in the future. He concluded by assuring her of his intention to not sin again, for fear that something worse might happen to him.
Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the devil when he was sick, and told him, “She doubted not but shortly to see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then,” says she, “I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.”
Mrs. Waters playfully mocked all of this, suggesting it was just a result of feeling down and being cooped up. She shared some clever jokes about the devil when he was unwell and told him, “I have no doubt we’ll soon see you free and as lively as ever; and then,” she said, “I’m sure your conscience will be rid of all these worries it’s been stressing over.”
Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be treated with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest of this conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview, conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of him.
She said many more things like this, some of which, in the eyes of some readers, wouldn’t reflect well on her; plus, we're not entirely sure that Jones's responses wouldn't be mocked by others. So, we’ll skip the rest of this conversation and just note that it ended with complete innocence and pleased Jones more than the lady. He was overjoyed by the news she brought him, while she was not as happy with the remorseful behavior of a man she had initially seen very differently than she now did.
Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of the ensuing book.
The sadness caused by Mr. Nightingale's report was mostly gone; however, the gloom that Mrs. Miller had cast upon him still lingered. Her account matched perfectly with the words of Sophia in her letter, leaving him with no doubt that she had shared his letter with her aunt and had made a firm decision to leave him. The anguish this thought brought him was only matched by a piece of news that fate still had in store for him, which we will share in the second chapter of the upcoming book.
BOOK XVIII.
CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i. — A farewel to the reader.
We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who have passed several days in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour; since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
We’ve now reached, dear reader, the final part of our long journey. Having traveled together through so many pages, let’s treat each other like fellow travelers in a coach who have spent several days in each other’s company. Despite any arguments or minor disagreements we may have had along the way, we usually make up in the end and get back into our vehicle with cheerfulness and good humor; since after this last trip, it might just be that we, like them, never meet again.
As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and serious.
As I've started this comparison, let me take it a bit further. In this final book, I'm going to mimic the good group I talked about in their last trip. It's well known that all jokes and playful teasing are set aside at this point; whatever roles the travelers took on for fun along the way are now dropped, and the conversation is typically straightforward and serious.
In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only; and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story.
In the same way, if I've occasionally added some humor for your enjoyment throughout this work, I’m going to stop that now. The wide range of topics I need to include in this book doesn’t leave space for any of those funny comments I've made before, which might have sometimes kept you from dozing off when sleep was starting to take over. In this final book, you won’t find much (if anything) of that kind. It will be straightforward storytelling only; and honestly, after you read about the many significant events this book will cover, you might think the number of pages isn’t enough to tell the whole story.
And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence.
And now, my friend, I want to take this chance (as I might not get another) to sincerely wish you well. If I’ve been an entertaining companion to you, I promise that’s what I aimed for. If I’ve offended you in any way, it was truly unintentional. Some things I’ve mentioned might have struck a chord with you or your friends, but I assure you they weren’t aimed at you or them. I’m sure you’ve heard, among other tales about me, that you were going to travel with a really scummy guy; but whoever told you that did me a disservice. No one dislikes and disapproves of scurrility more than I do, nor has anyone had more reason to—because I’ve been treated with plenty of it myself. Even worse, I’ve had some of the hurtful writings from those very people falsely attributed to me, when in their other works, they’ve attacked me with the harshest words.
All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries.
All these works, however, I’m pretty sure, will be forgotten long before you read this page; for no matter how brief my own contributions may be, they will likely outlast their frail creator and the mediocre works of his harsh peers.
Chapter ii. — Containing a very tragical incident.
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a spectre himself.
While Jones was lost in those uncomfortable thoughts we left him struggling with, Partridge stumbled into the room, his face whiter than ashes, his eyes wide and staring, his hair standing on end, and his body shaking. In short, he looked like he had seen a ghost, or like he might as well be a ghost himself.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was the matter?
Jones, who was rarely scared, couldn't help but feel a bit shocked by this sudden appearance. He even changed color slightly, and his voice faltered a bit as he asked, "What’s the matter?"
“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. “The matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was that woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was, Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?” said he, trembling.—“I am afraid what past between us is no secret,” said Jones.—“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir, answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge; “but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own mother.”
“I hope you’re not mad at me, sir,” Partridge said. “Honestly, I didn’t eavesdrop, but I had to stay in the other room. I really wish I had been a hundred miles away rather than hear what I heard.” “What’s wrong?” Jones asked. “What’s wrong, sir? Oh my God!” Partridge replied, “Was that woman who just left the same one you were with at Upton?” “She was, Partridge,” Jones exclaimed. “And did you really go to bed with that woman?” he asked, trembling. “I’m afraid what happened between us isn’t a secret,” Jones said. “Please, for heaven’s sake, just tell me,” Partridge cried. “You know I did,” Jones replied. “Then, God have mercy on your soul and forgive you,” Partridge exclaimed; “but as sure as I’m standing here alive, you’ve been in bed with your own mother.”
Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how! what's this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I have not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most certainly true.—That woman who now went out is your own mother. How unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived to bring about this wickedness.”
At these words, Jones instantly became an even bigger picture of horror than Partridge himself. He was, in fact, speechless from shock for a while, and both of them stood staring at each other in disbelief. Finally, he managed to speak, albeit with a shaky voice, and said, “What? What do you mean?” “Well, sir,” Partridge replied, “I don’t have the breath to explain it fully right now, but what I’ve said is absolutely true. That woman who just left is your mother. How unfortunate for you that I didn’t see her at that moment to stop it! Surely the devil himself must have orchestrated this terrible situation.”
“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses! And was Mrs Waters, then—but why do I ask? for thou must certainly know her—If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to me. O good Heavens! incest——with a mother! To what am I reserved!” He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never stop messing with me until she drives me crazy. But why do I blame Fortune? I’m the one causing all my misery. All the terrible things that have happened to me are just the results of my own stupidity and bad actions. What you’ve told me, Partridge, has nearly made me lose my mind! And was Mrs. Waters, then—but why do I even ask? You must know her—If you care about me at all, or even have any pity, please bring this miserable woman back to me. Oh good heavens! Incest—with a mother! What have I gotten myself into!” He then fell into the most violent and frantic fits of grief and despair, and Partridge said he wouldn’t leave him; but eventually, after letting out his initial burst of emotion, he started to calm down a bit. Then, after telling Partridge that he would find this wretched woman in the same house where the injured gentleman was staying, he sent him to look for her.
If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between Partridge and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered by the accurate eye, in this our history.
If the reader would like to refresh their memory by looking back at the scene in Upton, in the ninth book, they will likely appreciate the many strange occurrences that unfortunately stopped any meeting between Partridge and Mrs. Waters when she spent a whole day there with Mr. Jones. We often see this kind of thing in life, where significant events arise from a series of small circumstances; and more than one example of this can be noticed by a keen observer in our story.
After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition before he received the following letter:
After searching for two or three hours with no luck, Partridge came back to his master without having found Mrs. Waters. Jones, feeling desperate about the delay, was almost beside himself when Partridge reported back to him. However, he didn't stay in that state for long before he received the following letter:
“SIR,
“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr
Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the
reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it
was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
sincerely your unfortunate
“J. WATERS.” “P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr
Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not
among the number.” “Sir,
Since I left you, I've met a man who shared some surprising and concerning information about you. However, I don’t have the time right now to discuss something so important, so you’ll have to hold off on your curiosity until our next meeting, which will be the first chance I get to see you. Oh, Mr. Jones, I never imagined that when I passed that happy day at Upton—one that now seems likely to ruin all my future happiness—I would owe such perfect joy to you. Know that I will always sincerely remain your unfortunate
“J. Waters.” “P.S. Please try to find some comfort, as Mr. Fitzpatrick is in no danger; so, whatever other serious mistakes you may need to atone for, you can be assured that taking a life isn't one of them.”
Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties). Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both their countenances. While they both remained speechless the turnkey entered the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a man without desired to speak with him. This person was presently introduced, and was no other than Black George.
Jones read the letter and then dropped it, unable to hold on to it and barely able to use any of his faculties. Partridge picked it up, and after getting a silent nod of consent, read it too; it had just as strong an effect on him. A pencil, not a pen, would better capture the horror expressed on their faces. While they both stood there speechless, the turnkey entered the room and, ignoring the evident distress on their faces, informed Jones that someone outside wanted to talk to him. The person was soon introduced, and it was none other than Black George.
As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened, which was reported in the very worst light in Mr Western's family; he concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition, and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones.
Since George wasn't as used to scenes of horror as the turnkey was, he quickly noticed the panic on Jones's face. He attributed this to the accident, which was being talked about in the worst possible way in Mr. Western's family. He assumed that the gentleman was dead and that Mr. Jones was on his way to a disgraceful end. This thought troubled him a lot because George was naturally compassionate, and despite a small falling out he had been tempted to cause, he generally recognized the kindness Mr. Jones had shown him in the past.
The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is heartily at your service.”
The poor guy could hardly hold back tears at the moment. He told Jones he felt really sorry for his troubles and asked him to think about whether he could help in any way. "Maybe, sir," he said, "you might need a bit of money right now; if you do, what little I have is completely at your service."
Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks for the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least want of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give. “Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.” “You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your power to do him any good.” “You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say, Mr George?” cried Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned? My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and swore she should be her own mistress, and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought this news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it.” Mr Jones assured George that it did greatly please him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.
Jones shook his hand warmly and thanked him for the kind offer, but replied, “I really don’t need that at all.” George then started to insist on his help even more passionately. Jones thanked him again, assuring him that he wanted nothing anyone could provide. “Come on, my good master,” George said, “don’t take it so seriously. Things could turn out better than you think. You’re not the first gentleman to have killed a man and still come through it.” “You’re missing the point, George,” Partridge interjected. “The gentleman isn’t dead, nor is he likely to die. Don't bother my master right now; he’s worried about something you can’t help with.” “You don’t know what I might be able to do, Mr. Partridge,” George replied. “If he’s upset about my young lady, I have some news for my master.” “What do you mean, Mr. George?” Jones exclaimed. “Has something happened regarding my Sophia? My Sophia! How can a wretch like me even mention her?” “I still have hope she'll be yours,” George answered. “Actually, I do have news about her. Madam Western just brought Madam Sophia home, and there was a huge scene. I couldn’t get all the details, but my master was extremely angry, and so was Madam Western. I heard her say as she left for her carriage that she’d never step foot in the master’s house again. I’m not sure what happened, but everything was quiet when I left. However, Robin, who was serving at supper, said he hadn’t seen the squire in such good spirits with young madam for a long time. He kissed her several times and declared she could do as she pleased, that he wouldn’t confine her anymore. I thought this news would make you happy, so I rushed out, even though it was late, to tell you.” Mr. Jones assured George that it delighted him; although he would never dare to lift his eyes to that incomparable creature again, nothing could soothe his misery more than the knowledge of her well-being.
The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore, forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
The rest of the conversation during the visit isn't important enough to share here. So, we hope the reader will overlook this sudden stop and will be interested to learn how the squire's strong goodwill toward his daughter came to be.
Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began to set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of his daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion, and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience nor his prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe it never once occurred to her memory at this time.
Mrs. Western, upon arriving at her brother's place, started to outline the great honors and benefits the family would gain from her niece's match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had flatly rejected. When the squire sided with his daughter over the refusal, Mrs. Western became extremely angry, and her outburst irritated the squire so much that he could no longer stay patient or level-headed. This led to such a heated argument between them that even the discussions at Billingsgate couldn't compare. In the midst of this shouting match, Mrs. Western left and, as a result, didn’t have the chance to tell her brother about the letter Sophia received, which could have potentially led to bad consequences; but honestly, I think it didn’t even cross her mind at that moment.
When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an entire relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once more gave a loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affectionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not like, to have obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole business of her life to oblige him, and would never marry any man against his consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and went to bed completely drunk.
When Mrs. Western left, Sophia, who had been quiet until then, both out of necessity and choice, started to return the favor her father had done her by supporting him against her aunt. This was the first time she did this, and it was extremely pleasing to the squire. He also recalled that Mr. Allworthy had emphasized a complete renunciation of all violent actions; and since he had no doubt that Jones would end up hanged, he was confident that he could win over his daughter through kindness. So, he once again let his natural affection for her show, which had such an impact on Sophia's dutiful, grateful, tender, and loving heart that, if her honor—given to Jones—and perhaps something else he was involved in had been set aside, I seriously doubt she wouldn't have sacrificed herself for a man she didn’t care for just to please her father. She promised him that pleasing him would be her main focus in life and that she would never marry anyone without his approval, which brought the old man so close to his greatest happiness that he decided to take it a step further and went to bed completely drunk.
Chapter iii. — Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he made on that occasion.
The morning after these things had happened, Mr Allworthy went, according to his promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three hours, he at last prevailed with him to consent to see his son.
The morning after these events, Mr. Allworthy kept his promise and went to visit old Nightingale. His influence was so strong that after sitting with him for three hours, he finally convinced him to agree to see his son.
Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed of those strange chances whence very good and grave men have concluded that Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret villany, in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty, however warily they tread in those of vice.
Here, an unusual accident occurred; one of those strange events that have led serious and thoughtful people to believe that Providence often intervenes to reveal the most hidden wickedness, warning people not to stray from the path of honesty, no matter how carefully they walk in the ways of vice.
Mr Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr Nightingale's, saw Black George; he took no notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he had perceived him.
Mr. Allworthy, when he walked into Mr. Nightingale's place, saw Black George; he ignored him, and Black George didn't think he had been noticed.
However, when their conversation on the principal point was over, Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and upon what business he came to his house? “Yes,” answered Nightingale, “I know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow he is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up £500 from renting a very small estate of £30 a year.” “And is this the story which he hath told you?” cries Allworthy. “Nay, it is true, I promise you,” said Nightingale, “for I have the money now in my own hands, in five bank-bills, which I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some purchase in the north of England.” The bank-bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy's desire than he blessed himself at the strangeness of the discovery. He presently told Nightingale that these bank-bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him with the whole affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of business than highwaymen, gamesters, and other thieves of that kind, so there are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of gamesters, &c., as usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind; whether it be that the one way of cheating is a discountenance or reflection upon the other, or that money, which is the common mistress of all cheats, makes them regard each other in the light of rivals; but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he exclaimed against the fellow in terms much severer than the justice and honesty of Allworthy had bestowed on him.
However, once their conversation on the main topic was finished, Allworthy asked Nightingale if he knew a guy named George Seagrim and why he had come to his house. “Yes,” Nightingale replied, “I know him quite well, and he's a really remarkable guy who, in these times, has managed to save up £500 from renting a very small estate that only brings in £30 a year.” “Is this what he told you?” Allworthy exclaimed. “No, it's true, I swear,” Nightingale said, “because I have the money right here in five banknotes, which I plan to invest either in a mortgage or in some property up north.” As soon as he produced the banknotes at Allworthy's request, Allworthy couldn't believe the strange twist of fate. He quickly told Nightingale that these banknotes used to belong to him and then explained the entire situation. Just as there are no people who complain more about the scams in business than highwaymen, gamblers, and other similar thieves, it's also true that usurers, brokers, and other thieves of that kind often yell the loudest against the frauds of gamblers, whether it's because one form of cheating casts a shadow on the other or because money, which is the universal lure for all con artists, makes them view each other as rivals. But as soon as Nightingale heard the story, he lashed out against the guy in much harsher terms than Allworthy's sense of justice and honesty warranted.
Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret till he should hear farther from him; and, if he should in the meantime see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice to him of the discovery which he had made. He then returned to his lodgings, where he found Mrs Miller in a very dejected condition, on account of the information she had received from her son-in-law. Mr Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told her that he had much good news to communicate; and, with little further preface, acquainted her that he had brought Mr Nightingale to consent to see his son, and did not in the least doubt to effect a perfect reconciliation between them; though he found the father more sowered by another accident of the same kind which had happened in his family. He then mentioned the running away of the uncle's daughter, which he had been told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs Miller and her son-in-law did not yet know.
Allworthy asked Nightingale to keep both the money and the secret until he heard more from him. He also requested that if Nightingale happened to see the guy in the meantime, he shouldn't mention anything about the discovery. After that, he went back to his place, where he found Mrs. Miller looking very upset because of what her son-in-law had told her. Mr. Allworthy, feeling quite cheerful, told her that he had good news to share. With just a little more introduction, he revealed that he had convinced Mr. Nightingale to agree to meet his son and felt confident that they would reconcile perfectly, although he noticed that the father was still upset due to another similar incident in his family. He then mentioned the uncle's daughter running away, which he had heard from the old gentleman, something Mrs. Miller and her son-in-law were not yet aware of.
The reader may suppose Mrs Miller received this account with great thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but so uncommon was her friendship to Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness she suffered for his sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at hearing a piece of news tending so much to the happiness of her own family; nor whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the obligations she had to Jones, did not hurt as well as please her; when her grateful heart said to her, “While my own family is happy, how miserable is the poor creature to whose generosity we owe the beginning of all this happiness!”
The reader might think Mrs. Miller received this news with great gratitude and joy, but her friendship with Jones was so unique that I’m not sure if the worry she felt for him outweighed her happiness about the news that was so beneficial to her own family. I also wonder if this news, which reminded her of the debt she owed to Jones, didn’t cause her both pain and pleasure when her thankful heart told her, “While my family is happy, how miserable must that poor soul be, the one to whose kindness we owe all this happiness!”
Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I may use that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had still something more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure. “I think,” said he, “I have discovered a pretty considerable treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps, indeed, his present situation may be such that it will be of no service to him.” The latter part of the speech gave Mrs Miller to understand who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, “I hope not, sir.” “I hope so too,” cries Allworthy, “with all my heart; but my nephew told me this morning he had heard a very bad account of the affair.”——“Good Heaven! sir,” said she—“Well, I must not speak, and yet it is certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one's tongue when one hears.”—“Madam,” said Allworthy, “you may say whatever you please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against any one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be heartily pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, and particularly of this sad affair. You can testify the affection I have formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured me for loving him so much. I did not withdraw that affection from him without thinking I had the justest cause. Believe me, Mrs Miller, I should be glad to find I have been mistaken.” Mrs Miller was going eagerly to reply, when a servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with her immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew, and was told that he had been for some time in his room with the gentleman who used to come to him, and whom Mr Allworthy guessing rightly to be Mr Dowling, he desired presently to speak with him.
Allworthy, after giving her a moment to digest this news (if I can use that term), told her he had something else to share that he thought would make her happy. “I believe,” he said, “I’ve found a significant treasure belonging to your friend, the young gentleman; but perhaps his current situation means it won’t be useful to him.” The second part of his statement made Mrs. Miller realize who he was referring to, and she sighed, “I hope not, sir.” “I hope so too,” Allworthy exclaimed, “with all my heart; but my nephew mentioned this morning that he had heard some very bad news about the situation.”——“Good heavens! sir,” she responded—“Well, I shouldn't say anything, yet it’s really frustrating to have to keep quiet when you hear something.” “Madam,” Allworthy said, “you can say whatever you want; you know me well enough not to think I have a bias against anyone. As for that young man, I can assure you I would be genuinely pleased to find out he’s innocent of everything, especially this unfortunate matter. You know about the fondness I used to have for him. I know people criticized me for caring about him so much. I didn’t withdraw my affection lightly; I believed I had a valid reason. Believe me, Mrs. Miller, I would be happy to find out I was wrong.” Mrs. Miller was about to respond eagerly when a servant informed her that a gentleman outside wanted to speak with her immediately. Allworthy then asked about his nephew and was told that he had been in his room for some time with the gentleman who usually visited him, and Mr. Allworthy, guessing correctly that it was Mr. Dowling, requested to speak with him right away.
When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the bank-notes to him, without mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a person might be punished. To which Dowling answered, “He thought he might be indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of some nicety, it would be proper to go to counsel. He said he was to attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr Western's, and if Mr Allworthy pleased he would lay the case before them.” This was agreed to; and then Mrs Miller, opening the door, cried, “I ask pardon, I did not know you had company;” but Allworthy desired her to come in, saying he had finished his business. Upon which Mr Dowling withdrew, and Mrs Miller introduced Mr Nightingale the younger, to return thanks for the great kindness done him by Allworthy: but she had scarce patience to let the young gentleman finish his speech before she interrupted him, saying, “O sir! Mr Nightingale brings great news about poor Mr Jones: he hath been to see the wounded gentleman, who is out of all danger of death, and, what is more, declares he fell upon poor Mr Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, sir, you would not have Mr Jones be a coward. If I was a man myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw my sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr Allworthy, tell him all yourself.” Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs Miller had said; and concluded with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the best-natured fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs Miller again begged him to relate all the many dutiful expressions he had heard him make use of towards Mr Allworthy. “To say the utmost good of Mr Allworthy,” cries Nightingale, “is doing no more than strict justice, and can have no merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man can be more sensible of the obligations he hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. Indeed, sir, I am convinced the weight of your displeasure is the heaviest burthen he lies under. He hath often lamented it to me, and hath as often protested in the most solemn manner he hath never been intentionally guilty of any offence towards you; nay, he hath sworn he would rather die a thousand deaths than he would have his conscience upbraid him with one disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I ask pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so tender a point.” “You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,” cries Mrs Miller. “Indeed, Mr Nightingale,” answered Allworthy, “I applaud your generous friendship, and I wish he may merit it of you. I confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from this unfortunate gentleman; and, if that matter should turn out to be as you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what you say), I may, perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I have of this young man; for this good gentlewoman here, nay, all who know me, can witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own son. Indeed, I have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my care. I still remember the innocent, the helpless situation in which I found him. I feel the tender pressure of his little hands at this moment. He was my darling, indeed he was.” At which words he ceased, and the tears stood in his eyes.
When Dowling came in, Allworthy presented the situation regarding the banknotes without naming anyone, asking how such a person might be punished. Dowling replied, “I think he could be charged under the Black Act, but since it’s a delicate issue, it would be wise to consult a lawyer. I’m scheduled to meet with a lawyer shortly for a matter concerning Mr. Western, and if Mr. Allworthy agrees, I can discuss the case with them.” This was agreed upon; then Mrs. Miller opened the door and said, “I apologize, I didn’t realize you had company,” but Allworthy invited her in, stating he had finished his business. Mr. Dowling stepped out, and Mrs. Miller introduced Mr. Nightingale the younger, who came to express gratitude for Allworthy's kindness. However, she could barely let the young gentleman finish his speech before interrupting, saying, “Oh, sir! Mr. Nightingale brings great news about poor Mr. Jones: he has visited the wounded man, who is no longer in danger of dying, and even claims he confronted poor Mr. Jones himself and hit him. I’m sure, sir, you wouldn’t want Mr. Jones to appear cowardly. If I were a man, I know that if someone struck me, I’d draw my sword. Please, dear, tell Mr. Allworthy yourself.” Nightingale confirmed what Mrs. Miller said and ended with many kind words about Jones, who, he said, was one of the kindest people around and not at all prone to fighting. Just as Nightingale was about to stop, Mrs. Miller urged him to recount all the respectful things he had heard Jones say about Mr. Allworthy. “To say the utmost good about Mr. Allworthy,” Nightingale said, “is just fair and requires no credit: but indeed, I must say, no one feels more indebted to such a good man than poor Jones. I am convinced that the weight of your anger is the heaviest burden he carries. He has often expressed his sorrow to me and has repeatedly sworn, in the most serious way, that he has never intentionally offended you; he has even sworn he would rather die a thousand times than have his conscience accuse him of any disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I apologize, sir, I fear I might be overstepping in such a sensitive matter.” “You have said nothing but what a good person should,” Mrs. Miller interjected. “Indeed, Mr. Nightingale,” Allworthy replied, “I commend your generous friendship, and I hope he is worthy of it. I’m glad to hear the news you bring about this unfortunate man; and if this situation turns out to be as you describe (and honestly, I believe what you say), I might eventually come to view this young man more favorably than I have recently. This good woman here, and indeed everyone who knows me, can attest that I cared for him as if he were my own son. I have seen him as a child brought into my life by fate. I still remember the innocent, helpless state in which I found him. I can still feel the soft grip of his little hands right now. He truly was my darling.” With that, he fell silent, tears welling in his eyes.
As the answer which Mrs Miller made may lead us into fresh matters, we will here stop to account for the visible alteration in Mr Allworthy's mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions of this kind, it is true, do frequently occur in histories and dramatic writers, for no other reason than because the history or play draws to a conclusion, and are justified by authority of authors; yet, though we insist upon as much authority as any author whatever, we shall use this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to it by necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in this work.
As Mrs. Miller's response might lead us to new topics, we'll pause here to explain the noticeable change in Mr. Allworthy's mindset and the reduction of his anger towards Jones. It's true that such shifts often happen in histories and plays, usually because the story is coming to an end, and they're supported by the authority of various authors. However, while we acknowledge that we have as much authority as any author, we will use this power very cautiously, and only when absolutely necessary, which we don’t foresee being the case in this work.
This alteration then in the mind of Mr Allworthy was occasioned by a letter he had just received from Mr Square, and which we shall give the reader in the beginning of the next chapter.
This change in Mr. Allworthy's thoughts was caused by a letter he had just received from Mr. Square, which we will present to the reader at the start of the next chapter.
Chapter iv. — Containing two letters in very different stiles.
“MY WORTHY FRIEND,—I informed you in my last that I was forbidden
the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to
increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now
acquaint you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my
friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr Harrington and Dr
Brewster have informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
“I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to learn
to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine as to shew any
surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have so
long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern
philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much
stronger support to a good mind than all the consolations that are
drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are
sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in
bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real
contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of
atheism, or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are
called philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern,
have, from the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future
state; but in reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and
the hopes were so incertain and precarious, that it may be justly
doubted on which side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes
his Phaedon with declaring that his best arguments amount only to
raise a probability; and Cicero himself seems rather to profess an
inclination to believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of
immortality. As to myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was
much in earnest in this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
“You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you
it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call
myself so. The pride of philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and
the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks
of old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to
shew me my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth,
before I sunk into utter darkness forever.
“I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to
the main purpose of this letter.
“When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing
which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
guilty of to that poor wretch your adopted son. I have, indeed, not
only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in
injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you,
on the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded
him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your
supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified
any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the
wildness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it,
from the baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify
the innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young
man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity
for friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which
can ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be
numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the
contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
his heart bled for you more than for himself.
“Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing
this from you so long; to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the
innocent, and of making all the amends in my power for a past
offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect
desired, and will restore this deserving young man to your favour;
the hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
consolation to,
Sir,
Your most obliged,
obedient humble servant,
THOMAS SQUARE.” “MY DEAR FRIEND,—I mentioned in my last message that I was forbidden to use the waters because experience showed they tended to increase rather than decrease the symptoms of my condition. I now must share some news that I believe will upset my friends more than it has upset me. Dr. Harrington and Dr. Brewster have told me that there is no hope for my recovery.
“I have read somewhere that the main purpose of philosophy is to teach us how to die. Therefore, I won’t disgrace my philosophical studies by being surprised when I receive a lesson I should have been preparing for all along. However, to be honest, one page of the Gospel communicates this lesson better than all the writings of ancient or modern philosophers. The assurance it gives us of an afterlife is a much stronger support for a good mind than all the reassurances we get about the inevitability of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our pleasures here, or any other arguments that may toughen our minds to bear the thought of death, but can never truly make us regard it with real contempt, let alone convince us that it is a good thing. I do not want to imply that I accuse all who are called philosophers of atheism or outright denial of immortality. Many in that group, both ancient and modern, have discovered some hope of a future state through reason, but in truth, that insight was so weak and uncertain that it is fair to question what they genuinely believed. Plato himself concludes his Phaedon by stating that his best arguments only raise a probability, and Cicero seems more inclined to believe than to actually hold a belief in immortality. As for me, to be completely honest, I never took this belief seriously until I sincerely became a Christian.
“You might be surprised by the last statement, but I assure you that it wasn't until very recently that I could truthfully consider myself one. The pride of philosophy had clouded my judgment, and the highest wisdom seemed, to me, as it did to the ancient Greeks, foolishness. However, God has graciously shown me my error in time and led me to the path of truth before I fell into complete darkness forever.
“I find myself beginning to get weak, so I’ll get straight to the main point of this letter.
“When I reflect on my past actions, nothing weighs more heavily on my conscience than the injustice I have done to that poor young man, your adopted son. I have not only overlooked the wrongdoings of others but have also actively participated in the injustice against him. Believe me, dear friend, when I tell you, as a dying man, he has been wronged. Regarding the key event, based on which you dismissed him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay on what you thought was your deathbed, he was the only person in the house who showed any real concern; what followed was a result of his ecstatic joy at your recovery, and, sadly, of another person's shameful actions (but I wish to defend the innocent and blame no one). Believe me, my friend, this young man has the most generous heart, the greatest capacity for friendship, the highest integrity, and truly every virtue that can elevate a person. He may have some faults, but a lack of duty or gratitude towards you is not among them. On the contrary, I am convinced that when you sent him away from your house, he felt more pain for you than for himself.
“Worldly motives were the wicked and vile reasons behind my long concealment of this truth; now, I have no motive for revealing it other than the desire to serve the cause of truth, to do right by the innocent, and to make amends for a past offense. I hope that this declaration will achieve its aim and restore this deserving young man to your favor; being aware of this while I am still alive would provide me with the greatest comfort.
Sir,
Your most obliged,
obedient humble servant,
THOMAS SQUARE.”
The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so visibly appearing in Mr Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from Thwackum, by the same post, another letter of a very different kind, which we shall here add, as it may possibly be the last time we shall have occasion to mention the name of that gentleman.
The reader will hardly be surprised by the noticeable change in Mr. Allworthy after this, even though he also received a very different letter from Thwackum in the same mail, which we will include here, as it may be the last time we have a reason to mention that gentleman's name.
“SIR,
“I am not at all surprized at hearing from your worthy nephew a
fresh instance of the villany of Mr Square the atheist's young
pupil. I shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I
heartily pray that your own blood may not seal up his final
commitment to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many
unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this
wretch, so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of
your character; I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to
prick and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be
wanting to my duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order
to bring you to a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you
seriously to consider the judgment which is likely to overtake this
wicked villain; and let it serve at least as a warning to you, that
you may not for the future despise the advice of one who is so
indefatigable in his prayers for your welfare.
“Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged
much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom from his
infancy I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession. But
reflections of this kind now come too late.
“I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily.
I should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you
would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.——Your
objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it.
If the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a
declining way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you
must be convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest
welfare—a welfare to which all worldly considerations are as
trifling as the small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when
compared to the weighty matters of the law.
I am, sir,
Your faithful humble servant,
ROGER THWACKUM.” “SIR,
“I’m not at all surprised to hear from your esteemed nephew about another example of the wickedness of Mr. Square the atheist's young student. I wouldn’t be shocked by any crimes he might commit; I sincerely hope that your own blood doesn’t seal his fate in a place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Although you must have enough reasons to repent for the many unjust weaknesses shown in your treatment of this miserable creature—so detrimental to your own family and reputation—I feel it’s still my duty to offer you some advice to help you recognize your mistakes. I urge you to seriously consider the judgment that awaits this wicked villain; let it at least serve as a warning to you not to ignore the counsel of someone who continuously prays for your well-being.
“If my hand hadn’t been restrained from proper correction, I would have beaten much of this evil spirit out of a boy whom I recognized from infancy as completely possessed by the devil. But such reflections come too late now.
“I regret that you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily. I would have applied sooner had I known you wouldn’t inform me beforehand about the arrangement.—Your objection to holding multiple positions is excessive. If it were wrong, so many good men wouldn’t agree to it. If the vicar of Aldergrove were to die (as we hear he is in poor health), I hope you’ll keep me in mind, as I’m certain you must know my genuine concern for your greatest welfare—a welfare that makes all worldly matters seem trivial, much like the small tithes mentioned in Scripture compared to the significant issues of the law.
I am, sir,
Your faithful humble servant,
ROGER THWACKUM.”
This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative stile to Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to repent, as in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of goodness for the lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never liked this man. He knew him to be proud and ill-natured; he also knew that his divinity itself was tinctured with his temper, and such as in many respects he himself did by no means approve; but he was at the same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable in teaching the two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life and manners, an unimpeached honesty, and a most devout attachment to religion. So that, upon the whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor love the man, yet he could never bring himself to part with a tutor to the boys, who was, both by learning and industry, extremely well qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as they were bred up in his own house, and under his own eye, he should be able to correct whatever was wrong in Thwackum's instructions.
This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote to Allworthy in such an authoritative style, and he would later regret it, similar to those who confuse the highest level of goodness with the lowest level of weakness. Allworthy had never liked this man. He knew Thwackum was proud and unpleasant; he also recognized that even his religious beliefs were influenced by his temperament, which Allworthy did not approve of in many ways. However, Thwackum was an excellent scholar and incredibly dedicated to teaching the two boys. On top of that, he lived a strict and disciplined life, was honest, and had a strong commitment to religion. So overall, even though Allworthy didn’t respect or care for the man, he couldn't bring himself to let go of a tutor who was very well qualified for the job due to his knowledge and hard work. He hoped that since the boys were raised in his own home and under his supervision, he could fix any issues that arose from Thwackum's teachings.
Chapter v. — In which the history is continued.
Mr Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man's eyes. This Mrs Miller observing, said, “Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal it; but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains said. Mr Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship.—I assure them I don't know who they will press next. Mr Nightingale here hath seen the officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told him all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never have done, had he known Mr Jones to have been a gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling vagabond.”
Mr. Allworthy, in his last speech, recalled some touching memories about Jones that brought tears to his eyes. Noticing this, Mrs. Miller remarked, “Yes, yes, sir, your kindness to this poor young man is recognized, despite all your efforts to keep it hidden; but there’s absolutely no truth in what those villains said. Mr. Nightingale has now uncovered the entire situation. Apparently, these guys were hired by a lord who is a rival of poor Mr. Jones to force him onto a ship. I assure you, I have no idea who they plan to target next. Mr. Nightingale has seen the officer himself, who is quite a charming fellow, and he has explained everything. He feels very sorry for what he was involved in and would never have done it if he had known Mr. Jones was actually a gentleman. He was misinformed and thought he was just a common wandering rogue.”
Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every word she said. “Yes, sir,” answered she, “I believe you are.——It is a very different story, I believe, from what those fellows told this lawyer.”
Allworthy stared at all of this and said he didn't understand a single word she was saying. “Yes, sir,” she replied, “I think you’re right.——It’s a very different story from what those guys told this lawyer.”
“What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?” said Allworthy. “Nay, nay,” said she, “this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but Mr Nightingale here saw him.” “Saw whom, madam?” answered he. “Why, your lawyer, sir,” said she, “that you so kindly sent to enquire into the affair.” “I am still in the dark, upon my honour,” said Allworthy. “Why then do you tell him, my dear sir,” cries she. “Indeed, sir,” said Nightingale, “I did see that very lawyer who went from you when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate, in company with two of the fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr Jones, and who were by that means present at the unhappy rencounter between him and Mr Fitzpatrick.” “I own, sir,” said Mrs Miller, “when I saw this gentleman come into the room to you, I told Mr Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him thither to inquire into the affair.” Allworthy shewed marks of astonishment in his countenance at this news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr Nightingale, he said, “I must confess myself, sir, more surprized at what you tell me than I have ever been before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?” “I am most certain,” answered Nightingale. “At Aldersgate?” cries Allworthy. “And was you in company with this lawyer and the two fellows?”—“I was, sir,” said the other, “very near half an hour.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “and in what manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all that past between him and the fellows?” “No, sir,” answered Nightingale, “they had been together before I came.—In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I had several times examined the fellows, who persisted in a story directly contrary to what I had heard from Mr Jones, and which I find by Mr Fitzpatrick was a rank falshood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you, I concluded your goodness had prompted you to send him thither.”—“And did you not send him thither?” says Mrs Miller.—“Indeed I did not,” answered Allworthy; “nor did I know he had gone on such an errand till this moment.”—“I see it all!” said Mrs Miller, “upon my soul, I see it all! No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately——find them out if they are above-ground. I will go myself”—“Dear madam,” said Allworthy, “be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant upstairs to call Mr Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if not, Mr Blifil.” Mrs Miller went out muttering something to herself, and presently returned with an answer, “That Mr Dowling was gone; but that the t'other,” as she called him, “was coming.”
“What lawyer, ma'am? What do you mean?” asked Allworthy. “Oh, come on,” she replied, “it's just like you to deny your own goodness. But Mr. Nightingale here saw him.” “Saw whom, ma'am?” he responded. “Why, your lawyer, sir,” she said, “the one you kindly sent to look into the matter.” “I’m still confused, I swear,” said Allworthy. “Well then, tell him, dear sir,” she exclaimed. “Indeed, sir,” said Nightingale, “I did see that very lawyer who left you when I arrived, at a pub in Aldersgate, with two of the guys hired by Lord Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and they were present at the unfortunate encounter between him and Mr. Fitzpatrick.” “I must admit, sir,” said Mrs. Miller, “when I saw this gentleman enter the room with you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I suspected you had sent him to look into the matter.” Allworthy showed signs of shock at this news and was truly speechless for two or three minutes. Finally, turning to Mr. Nightingale, he said, “I must confess, sir, I’m more surprised by what you just told me than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Are you sure this was the gentleman?” “I’m absolutely sure,” answered Nightingale. “At Aldersgate?” cried Allworthy. “And were you with this lawyer and the two guys?” “I was, sir,” the other replied, “for almost half an hour.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “how did the lawyer behave? Did you hear everything that went on between him and the guys?” “No, sir,” replied Nightingale, “they had been together before I arrived. When I was there, the lawyer didn’t say much; but after I questioned the guys several times—since they were sticking to a story that was the complete opposite of what I’d heard from Mr. Jones, and which I learned from Mr. Fitzpatrick was a blatant lie—the lawyer asked the guys to only speak the truth and seemed to speak highly of Mr. Jones, so when I saw the same person with you, I figured your goodness must have prompted you to send him there.” “And didn’t you send him there?” asked Mrs. Miller. “I certainly did not,” replied Allworthy; “nor did I know he had gone on such a mission until this moment.” “I see it all!” said Mrs. Miller, “I swear, I see it all! No wonder they’ve been huddled together so closely lately. Mr. Nightingale, please go find these guys immediately—track them down if they’re around. I’ll go myself.” “Dear ma'am,” said Allworthy, “please be patient and do me the favor of sending a servant upstairs to call Mr. Dowling here if he’s in the house, or, if not, Mr. Blifil.” Mrs. Miller went out mumbling something to herself and soon returned with the news, “That Mr. Dowling was gone, but that the other one,” as she referred to him, “was on his way.”
Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not however without some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When Blifil came into the room, he asked him with a very serious countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before given him, “Whether he knew anything of Mr Dowling's having seen any of the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and another gentleman?”
Allworthy was cooler than the good woman, whose emotions were all riled up for her friend. However, he wasn't without some doubts that were pretty similar to hers. When Blifil entered the room, Allworthy asked him with a very serious expression and a look that was less friendly than ever before, “Do you know if Mr. Dowling has seen any of the people who were at the duel between Jones and another guy?”
There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprize on a man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to defend falshood. For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble office it is to save the lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous examination, to divine every question which may be asked their clients on the day of tryal, that they may be supplyed with proper and ready answers, which the most fertile invention cannot supply in an instant. Besides, the sudden and violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these surprizes, causes frequently such an alteration in the countenance, that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And such indeed were the alterations which the countenance of Blifil underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the eagerness of Mrs Miller, who immediately cryed out, “Guilty, upon my honour! guilty, upon my soul!”
There’s nothing more dangerous than a question that catches someone off guard, especially if their job is to hide the truth or defend a lie. That’s why those dedicated individuals whose important role is to save lives at the Old Bailey make sure to closely prepare their clients beforehand, anticipating every possible question that might come up during the trial. This way, they can provide suitable and quick answers that even the most creative mind can’t come up with on the spot. Additionally, the sudden shock and rush of emotions from these surprises often lead to such a change in their expression that they end up incriminating themselves. Indeed, the change in Blifil’s expression from this unexpected question was so significant that we can hardly fault Mrs. Miller for immediately exclaiming, “Guilty, upon my honor! guilty, upon my soul!”
Mr Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, “Why do you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have employed him; for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have undertaken such an errand, and especially without acquainting me.”
Mr. Allworthy reprimanded her harshly for this impulsiveness; then turning to Blifil, who looked like he wanted to disappear, he said, “Why are you hesitating to give me an answer, sir? You must have hired him, because I don't think he would have taken on such a task by himself, especially without informing me first.”
Blifil then answered, “I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence, yet may I hope your pardon?”—“My pardon,” said Allworthy, very angrily.—“Nay, sir,” answered Blifil, “I knew you would be offended; yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do not deserve it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless enquiry, but to discover the witnesses, and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is the truth; which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not deny.”
Blifil then replied, “I admit, sir, I’ve done something wrong, but may I hope for your forgiveness?” —“My forgiveness?” said Allworthy, very angrily. —“Come now, sir,” Blifil responded, “I knew you would be upset; yet surely my dear uncle will overlook the consequences of the most human of weaknesses. I acknowledge that feeling compassion for those who don't deserve it is a fault; yet it's one you are not completely innocent of either. I know I've committed this fault more than once regarding this very person; and I will admit that I sent Mr. Dowling, not on a pointless errand, but to find witnesses and try to soften their testimony. That, sir, is the truth; which I originally intended to hide from you, but I will not deny.”
“I confess,” said Nightingale, “this is the light in which it appeared to me from the gentleman's behaviour.”
“I admit,” said Nightingale, “this is how it looked to me based on the guy's behavior.”
“Now, madam,” said Allworthy, “I believe you will once in your life own you have entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so angry with my nephew as you was.”
“Now, ma'am,” said Allworthy, “I think you will admit that you have had a wrong suspicion at least once in your life, and that you're not as upset with my nephew as you were.”
Mrs Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of Jones, yet in this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And, indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, “That the devil often deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch,” to be a great abuse on that gentleman's character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who are only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half his; but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps them off in all extremities, till their bargain expires.
Mrs. Miller was quiet; even though she was not quick to like Blifil, who she believed had caused Jones's downfall, in this particular case, he had tricked her just like everyone else. The devil had really helped him out. In fact, I think the saying, “The devil often abandons his friends and leaves them in trouble,” is a huge misrepresentation of his character. Sure, he might ditch those who are only casual acquaintances or only partially committed to him, but he usually supports those who are completely his followers and assists them through all difficulties until their deal is over.
As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is more perfectly established by recovery from some diseases; so anger, when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case of Mr Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised by Square's letter, sunk of course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly offended, bore alone all the reflections which Square had cast on the enemies of Jones.
As a crushed rebellion can make a government stronger, and recovering from illness can lead to better health, so too can the removal of anger often bring new life to love. This was true for Mr. Allworthy; once Blifil had cleared up the major doubts, the minor ones raised by Square's letter naturally faded away and were forgotten. Thwackum, whom Allworthy was really upset with, alone carried all the blame that Square had aimed at Jones's enemies.
As for that young man, the resentment of Mr Allworthy began more and more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, “He did not only forgive the extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give him the pleasure of following his example.” Then, turning to Mrs Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he cryed, “What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us together pay a visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first visit I have made in a prison.”
As for that young man, Mr. Allworthy's resentment towards him began to fade more and more. He told Blifil, “Not only do I forgive his remarkable acts of kindness, but I also want to give him the chance to follow my example.” Then, turning to Mrs. Miller with a smile that would suit an angel, he said, “What do you think, madam? Should we take a cab and all go visit your friend together? I assure you it’s not the first time I’ve visited someone in prison.”
Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but they must have a great deal of good-nature, and be well acquainted with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who are will acknowledge that it was impossible for him to raise any objection to this visit. Fortune, however, or the gentleman lately mentioned above, stood his friend, and prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant when the coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called Mrs Miller from the company, acquainted her with the dreadful accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr Allworthy's intention, begged her to find some means of stopping him: “For,” says he, “the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him; and if he should now go, he will find Mr Jones and his mother, who arrived just as I left him, lamenting over one another the horrid crime they have ignorantly committed.”
Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but they must be very kind-hearted and have a good grasp of friendship to truly understand what she felt in this situation. Few, I hope, can comprehend what was going on in Blifil's mind, but those who can will recognize that it was impossible for him to object to this visit. However, fate, or the gentleman mentioned earlier, intervened on his behalf and saved him from experiencing such a shock; for at the exact moment when the coach was called, Partridge arrived and, after pulling Mrs. Miller aside from the group, informed her of the terrible accident that had just come to light. Upon hearing Mr. Allworthy's plan, he urged her to find a way to stop him: “For,” he said, “this matter must be kept a secret from him at all costs; and if he goes now, he will find Mr. Jones and his mother, who arrived just as I left him, mourning over the dreadful crime they have unwittingly committed.”
The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his dreadful news, was never less capable of invention than at present. However, as women are much readier at this than men, she bethought herself of an excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, “I am sure, sir, you will be surprized at hearing any objection from me to the kind proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid of the consequence of it, if carried immediately into execution. You must imagine, sir, that all the calamities which have lately befallen this poor young fellow must have thrown him into the lowest dejection of spirits; and now, sir, should we all on a sudden fling him into such a violent fit of joy, as I know your presence will occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal mischief, especially as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from being well.”
The poor woman, who was nearly overwhelmed by his terrible news, was actually quite inventive at that moment. But since women are often quicker at this than men, she came up with an excuse and returned to Allworthy, saying, “I’m sure, sir, you’ll be surprised to hear any objection from me to the kind proposal you just made; yet I worry about the consequences if it's carried out immediately. You must understand, sir, that all the recent misfortunes that have come to this poor young man must have left him in a state of deep despair; and now, sir, if we suddenly throw him into such an intense joy, which I know your presence will bring, it might, I’m afraid, lead to some serious trouble, especially since his servant, who is outside, tells me he is not well at all.”
“Is his servant without?” cries Allworthy; “pray call him hither. I will ask him some questions concerning his master.”
“Is his servant out?” cries Allworthy. “Please call him here. I want to ask him some questions about his master.”
Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr Allworthy; but was at length persuaded, after Mrs Miller, who had often heard his whole story from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.
Partridge was initially reluctant to face Mr. Allworthy; however, he was eventually convinced after Mrs. Miller, who had frequently heard his entire story directly from him, agreed to introduce him.
Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room, though many years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs Miller, therefore, might have spared here a formal oration, in which, indeed, she was something prolix; for the reader, I believe, may have observed already that the good woman, among other things, had a tongue always ready for the service of her friends.
Allworthy recognized Partridge as soon as he walked into the room, even though many years had gone by since their last encounter. So, Mrs. Miller could have skipped the long speech she was giving, which was quite lengthy, to say the least; after all, I think the reader might have already noticed that this kind-hearted woman always had plenty to say for her friends.
“And are you,” said Allworthy to Partridge, “the servant of Mr Jones?” “I can't say, sir,” answered he, “that I am regularly a servant, but I live with him, an't please your honour, at present. Non sum qualis eram, as your honour very well knows.”
“And are you,” said Allworthy to Partridge, “the servant of Mr. Jones?” “I can't say, sir,” he replied, “that I’m officially a servant, but I’m living with him right now, if it pleases your honor. Non sum qualis eram, as you know very well.”
Mr Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as to his health, and other matters; to all which Partridge answered, without having the least regard to what was, but considered only what he would have things appear; for a strict adherence to truth was not among the articles of this honest fellow's morality or his religion.
Mr. Allworthy then asked him several questions about Jones, like how he was doing and other things; to all of which Partridge replied, showing no concern for what was actually the case, but only for how he wanted things to look. A strict commitment to truth was not part of this honest guy's sense of morality or his beliefs.
During this dialogue Mr Nightingale took his leave, and presently after Mrs Miller left the room, when Allworthy likewise despatched Blifil; for he imagined that Partridge when alone with him would be more explicit than before company. They were no sooner left in private together than Allworthy began, as in the following chapter.
During this conversation, Mr. Nightingale said goodbye, and shortly after, Mrs. Miller exited the room. Allworthy then sent Blifil away, thinking that Partridge would be more open with him when they were alone. As soon as they were left alone together, Allworthy began, as detailed in the following chapter.
Chapter vi. — In which the history is farther continued
“Sure, friend,” said the good man, “you are the strangest of all human beings. Not only to have suffered as you have formerly for obstinately persisting in a falshood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your own son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?”
“Sure, buddy,” said the good man, “you’re the strangest person I’ve ever met. Not only have you suffered before for stubbornly sticking to a lie, but you’re still doing it until the very end and pretending to be a servant to your own son! What do you gain from all this? What’s your motivation?”
“I see, sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, “that your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but yet there is one above who knows that I am not the father of this young man.”
“I understand, sir,” said Partridge, dropping to his knees, “that you’re set against me and determined not to believe anything I say, so what’s the point of my protests? But there is someone above who knows that I am not the father of this young man.”
“How!” said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was formerly convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left the country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.—In what manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately to support his father for so many years.”
“Wow!” said Allworthy, “will you still deny what you were previously found guilty of based on such undeniable, clear evidence? And what a confirmation it is that you are now found with this very man, who appeared against you twenty years ago! I thought you had left the country! In fact, I thought you had been dead for a long time. How did you know anything about this young man? Where did you meet him, unless you’ve been in touch with each other all along? Don’t deny it; I promise you it will greatly improve my opinion of your son if I find out he has had the sense of responsibility to support his father privately for so many years.”
“If your honour will have patience to hear me,” said Partridge, “I will tell you all.”—Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: “When your honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon after; for I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking I suppose it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me out from the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the barber's shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of £12 a year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was your honour's own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things besides)—but, as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now, as I owed two or three small debts, which began to be troublesome to me, particularly one[*] which an attorney brought up by law-charges from 15s. to near £30, and as I found all my usual means of living had forsook me, I packed up my little all as well as I could, and went off.
“If you would just have the patience to listen to me,” said Partridge, “I’ll explain everything.” When prompted to continue, he went on: “When you became upset with me, it led to my downfall soon after; I lost my small school, and the minister, thinking it would please you, dismissed me from my role as clerk. So, all I had to rely on was the barber shop, which doesn’t pay much in a small town like that. And when my wife passed away (up until that point, I was receiving a £12 yearly pension from someone unknown, which I believe was from you, since I’ve never heard of anyone else doing such things)—but, as I was saying, when she died, the pension stopped coming; now I found myself with two or three debts that were starting to weigh on me, especially one that an attorney escalated from 15 shillings to nearly £30. Seeing that all my usual ways of making a living were gone, I packed up my few belongings as best as I could and left.
[*] This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature itself.
[*] This is a fact that I learned about a poor clergyman in Dorsetshire, who was victimized by a corrupt lawyer. Not satisfied with the outrageous fees he had already charged the poor man from one lawsuit, he then filed another lawsuit based on the judgment from the first. This is a tactic often used to take advantage of the poor and enrich lawyers, to the great disgrace of the legal system, the country, Christianity, and even human nature itself.
“The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with him; and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry and oppressive.” “You need not be so particular,” said Allworthy; “I know this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his profession.”—“Well, sir,” continued Partridge, “from hence I removed to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well again, had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a trespass, I think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and employed a lawyer, one—one—I can't think of his name; but he sent for a writ against me, and had me to size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me—to hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a parcel of the confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to drive my hogs into other folk's gardens, and a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have thought that, instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the greatest hog-merchant in England. Well—” “Pray,” said Allworthy, “do not be so particular, I have heard nothing of your son yet.” “O it was a great many years,” answered Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call him.——I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork (for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in Winchester jail).”—“Well,” said Allworthy, “pass that over till your return to England.”—“Then, sir,” said he, “it was about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some time, and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that and Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I went thither, and there I had been about two months when Mr Jones came thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well as he could remember, which had happened from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great love and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying, “Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth.” And then repeated a most solemn protestation, “That he was no more the father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome;” and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head, if he did not speak truth.
“The first place I arrived at was Salisbury, where I started working for a gentleman in the legal field, one of the best men I’ve ever known. He was not only nice to me, but I’ve seen him perform countless good and charitable deeds during my time there. I also knew him to turn down work because it was petty and unfair.” “You don’t need to go into such details,” said Allworthy; “I know this gentleman, and he’s a very decent man, an honor to his profession.” “Well, sir,” Partridge continued, “after that, I moved to Lymington, where I worked for another lawyer for more than three years. He was also a good man and definitely one of the merriest gentlemen in England. At the end of those three years, I started a little school and was likely to succeed again if it hadn’t been for a really unfortunate incident. I had a pig, and one day, just my luck, this pig got loose and wandered into the garden of one of my neighbors, a proud and vengeful man who hired a lawyer—someone whose name I can’t remember; anyway, he sent for a writ against me and took me to court. When I arrived, oh Lord, the things the lawyers were saying! One of them told my lord a bunch of outrageous lies about me; he claimed I used to drive my hogs into other people’s gardens and a lot more. Eventually, he joked that I must have finally brought my hogs to a fair market. You would think that instead of just owning one poor little pig, I was the biggest hog dealer in England. Well—” “Please,” said Allworthy, “don’t go into such detail; I haven’t heard anything about your son yet.” “Oh, it took many years,” Partridge replied, “before I saw my son, as you kindly call him. I went over to Ireland after this and taught school in Cork (the unfortunate lawsuit ruined me again, and I spent seven years in Winchester jail).”—“Well,” said Allworthy, “let’s skip that until your return to England.” “Then, sir,” he said, “it was about six months ago that I landed in Bristol. I stayed there for a while, but not finding success, I heard about a place between there and Gloucester where the barber had just died. I went there, and I had been there for about two months when Mr. Jones arrived.” He then gave Allworthy a detailed account of their first meeting and everything he could remember that had happened from that day to this, often praising Jones and making sure to mention the great love and respect he held for Allworthy. He concluded by saying, “Now, sir, I’ve told you the whole truth.” Then he made a solemn declaration that “he was no more the father of Jones than the Pope of Rome,” and laid down the harshest curses upon his own head if he wasn’t speaking the truth.
“What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For what purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be rather your interest to own?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he could hold no longer), “if your honour will not believe me, you are like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”—And now being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs Miller to conceal from him.
“What am I supposed to think about this?” Allworthy exclaimed. “Why would you deny a fact that I believe it would actually benefit you to admit?” “Well, sir,” Partridge replied (he could no longer keep quiet), “if you won’t believe me, you’ll soon find out the truth for yourself. I wish you had been mistaken about this young man’s mother just like you were about his father.” And when asked what he meant, with all the signs of horror in his voice and expression, he told Allworthy the entire story, which he had previously expressed a desire to keep from Mrs. Miller.
Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge himself had been while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he, “in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men! How much beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried!” He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he cried, “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your honour. Pray, madam——”
Allworthy was nearly as shocked by this revelation as Partridge had been while telling it. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “how deeply vice and poor judgment can trap people! The consequences of wickedness often go way beyond what we intend!” He had barely finished speaking when Mrs. Waters hurried into the room. The moment Partridge saw her, he shouted, “Here, sir, here’s the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate mother of Mr. Jones. I'm sure she will clear my name before your honor. Please, madam——”
Mrs Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr Allworthy. “I believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that you do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered Allworthy, “you are so very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which brings you to me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct of this lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what Partridge had now delivered.
Mrs. Waters, ignoring what Partridge said and barely acknowledging him, walked up to Mr. Allworthy. “I believe, sir, it has been so long since I had the honor of seeing you that you might not remember me.” “Indeed,” replied Allworthy, “you have changed so much for various reasons that if this man hadn’t already informed me who you are, I wouldn’t have immediately recognized you. Do you have any specific business that brings you to me, madam?” Allworthy said this with great restraint; it's easy to understand that he wasn't pleased with how this lady had behaved, either in the past or with what Partridge had just mentioned.
Mrs Waters answered—“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.”
Mrs. Waters replied, “Honestly, sir, I have very specific business to discuss with you, and it’s something I can share only with you. So, I must ask for your permission to talk just with you: I assure you that what I need to tell you is extremely important.”
Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the lady to satisfy Mr Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To which she answered, “You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy Mr Allworthy very perfectly of that matter.”
Partridge was then told to leave, but before he did, he pleaded with the lady to convince Mr. Allworthy that he was completely innocent. She replied, “You don't need to worry, sir; I will clearly assure Mr. Allworthy about that.”
Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Waters which is written in the next chapter.
Then Partridge left, and the history between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Waters is detailed in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Continuation of the history.
Mrs Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr Allworthy could not refrain from saying, “I am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have since heard, that you have made so very ill a use——” “Mr Allworthy,” says she, interrupting him, “I know I have faults, but ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to wave all upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair to communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have given my maiden name of Jones.”
Mrs. Waters stayed quiet for a moment, and Mr. Allworthy couldn't help but say, “I’m sorry to hear that you’ve made such a poor use—” “Mr. Allworthy,” she interrupted, “I know I have my faults, but being ungrateful to you isn't one of them. I can never forget your kindness, which I admit I don't deserve. But please, let's set aside any accusations for now, as I have something very important to discuss with you regarding this young man, to whom you have given my maiden name, Jones.”
“Have I then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an innocent man, in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of the child?” “Indeed he was not,” said Mrs Waters. “You may be pleased to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how necessary it was.” “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “be pleased to proceed.” “You must remember, sir,” said she, “a young fellow, whose name was Summer.” “Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest friendship.” “So it appeared, sir,” answered she; “for I believe you bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where, I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to tell me he was the father of your child.”
“Have I then,” said Allworthy, “unknowingly punished an innocent man, in the person of the one who just left us? Was he not the father of the child?” “Actually, he was not,” replied Mrs. Waters. “You may remember, sir, I once told you that you would find out one day; and I admit I was guilty of a cruel neglect by not revealing it to you sooner. I truly didn’t realize how important it was.” “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “please continue.” “You must remember, sir,” she said, “a young man named Summer.” “Yes, of course,” exclaimed Allworthy, “he was the son of a clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I held the highest regard.” “That’s right, sir,” she answered; “for I believe you raised the young man and supported him at the university; I think he had completed his studies when he came to live at your house; he was a remarkable man, I must say, the sun never shone on anyone finer; for, besides being the most handsome person I ever saw, he was so well-mannered, with so much wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was indeed taken from us too soon; and I never thought he had any sins of this kind to answer for; for I can see you’re about to tell me he was the father of your child.”
“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “he was not.” “How!” said Allworthy, “to what then tends all this preface?” “To a story,” said she, “which I am concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear something which will surprize you, will grieve you.” “Speak,” said Allworthy, “I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be afraid to hear.” “Sir,” said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of your friend, educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the house as if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented by you, and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this child.” “How!” said Allworthy; “you contradict yourself.” “That I do not,” answered she; “he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me.” “Take care, madam,” said Allworthy, “do not, to shun the imputation of any crime, be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing, and before whose tribunal falshood will only aggravate your guilt.” “Indeed, sir,” says she, “I am not his mother; nor would I now think myself so for the world.” “I know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall rejoice as much as you to find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest it before me.” “So far what I confest,” said she, “was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed it thither at the command of its mother; at her commands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my shame.” “Who could this woman be?” said Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs Waters. “By all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine,” cried he. “Indeed she was a near one.” At which words Allworthy started, and she continued—“You had a sister, sir.” “A sister!” repeated he, looking aghast.—“As there is truth in heaven,” cries she, “your sister was the mother of that child you found between your sheets.” “Can it be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!” “Have patience, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “and I will unfold to you the whole story. Just after your departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day to the house of my mother. She was pleased to say she had heard an extraordinary character of me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the young women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me come to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she employed me to read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and made me many presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory answers, that, at last, having locked the door of her room, she took me into her closet, and then locking that door likewise, she said she should convince me of the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by communicating a secret in which her honour, and consequently her life, was concerned. She then stopt, and after a silence of a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she enquired of me if I thought my mother might safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity. She then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in her breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than she afterwards suffered in child-birth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself only should attend at the time, and that Mrs Wilkins should be sent out of the way, as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part of Dorsetshire, to enquire the character of a servant; for the lady had turned away her own maid near three months before; during all which time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she said, though, as she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the place. This, and many other such things which she used to say of me, were all thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it could never be believed she would venture to hurt a young woman with whom she had intrusted such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well paid for all these affronts, which, together with being informed with the occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady had a greater suspicion of Mrs Wilkins than of any other person; not that she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have often heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs Wilkins had committed a murder, she believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the expected day came, and Mrs Wilkins, who had been kept a week in readiness, and put off from time to time, upon some pretence or other, that she might not return too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was born, in the presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my mother conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept by her till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful conduct of your sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and that any regard she shewed him was out of meer complacence to you.”
“Indeed, sir,” she replied, “he was not.” “How?” said Allworthy, “what is the point of all this preface?” “To tell a story,” she said, “that I’m afraid I have to share with you. Oh, sir! Get ready to hear something that will surprise you and sadden you.” “Speak,” said Allworthy, “I’m aware of no wrongdoing, so I’m not afraid to listen.” “Sir,” she said, “Mr. Summer, your friend’s son, educated at your expense, who lived in your house for a year as if he were your own son, died there from smallpox, was mourned deeply by you, and buried like your own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this child.” “How!” exclaimed Allworthy; “you’re contradicting yourself.” “I am not,” she replied; “he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me.” “Be careful, madam,” said Allworthy, “don’t, to avoid any accusation of wrongdoing, fall into falsehood. Remember, there is Someone from whom you can hide nothing, and before whose judgment, falsehood will only worsen your guilt.” “Indeed, sir,” she said, “I am not his mother; nor would I consider myself so for anything in the world.” “I know your reasoning,” said Allworthy, “and I will be as happy as you if I find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you confessed it to me.” “What I confessed,” she said, “was true: these hands brought the infant to your bed; I took it there at its mother’s command; at her request, I later claimed it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded for my secrecy and shame.” “Who could this woman be?” asked Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,” replied Mrs. Waters. “From all this buildup, I’m guessing she was a relative of mine,” he exclaimed. “Indeed, she was a close one.” At these words, Allworthy was taken aback, and she continued, “You had a sister, sir.” “A sister!” he repeated, looking horrified. “As there is truth in heaven,” she cried, “your sister was the mother of the child you found in your bed.” “Is that even possible?” he asked, “Good heavens!” “Have patience, sir,” said Mrs. Waters, “and I will explain the entire story. Just after you left for London, one day Miss Bridget came to my mother’s house. She said she had heard remarkable things about me, for my education and superior understanding compared to all the other young women there, so she claimed. She then invited me to the great house; when I arrived, she asked me to read to her. She showed great satisfaction with my reading, was very kind to me, and gave me many gifts. Eventually, she began to quiz me about secrecy, and I gave her such satisfactory answers that, after locking her room door, she took me into her closet, locking that door as well, and said she would demonstrate her trust in my integrity by sharing a secret that involved her honor and, ultimately, her life. She paused, and after a few minutes of silence during which she wiped her eyes often, she asked if I thought my mother could be safely trusted. I replied that I would stake my life on her fidelity. She then revealed to me the significant secret she carried, which I believe was shared with more pain than she later experienced in childbirth. It was arranged that only my mother and I would be present at the time, and that Mrs. Wilkins would be sent far away, as she indeed was, to the most distant part of Dorsetshire, to check the character of a servant; for the lady had dismissed her own maid nearly three months prior; during all that time, I acted around her as a trial, as she said, although she later claimed I wasn’t skilled enough for the role. This, along with many other comments she made about me, were all meant to prevent any suspicion that Wilkins might have when it came time for me to claim the child; she thought it would be unbelievable that she would harm a young woman with whom she had shared such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well compensated for all these indignities, and being informed of their reasons made me quite satisfied. Indeed, the lady was more suspicious of Mrs. Wilkins than of anyone else; not because she disliked her, but because she thought her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have often heard Miss Bridget say that, if Mrs. Wilkins had committed a murder, she believed she would tell you about it. At last, the expected day arrived, and Mrs. Wilkins, who had been kept ready for a week and delayed repeatedly for various reasons so she wouldn’t return too soon, was sent off. Then the child was born, with only my mother and I present, and my mother took the child to her own house, where it was kept in private until the evening of your return, when I, at Miss Bridget’s command, brought it to the bed where you found it. And all suspicions were later put to rest by your sister’s clever handling of the situation, pretending to resent the boy, and claiming that any affection she showed him was merely out of kindness to you.”
Mrs Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and concluded by saying, “Thus, sir, you have at last discovered your nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I question not but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you under that appellation.”
Mrs. Waters then insisted many times that this story was true and concluded by saying, “So, sir, you have finally found your nephew; I’m sure you will think of him as such from now on, and I have no doubt he will be both an honor and a comfort to you under that title.”
“I need not, madam,” said Allworthy, “express my astonishment at what you have told me; and yet surely you would not, and could not, have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I confess I recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well on his own account as on his father's, that I should willingly have consented to a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain of my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the subject. Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.—Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this secret with her out of the world.” “I promise you, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “she always profest a contrary intention, and frequently told me she intended one day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child, that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh! sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned like a vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he was not guilty——Forgive me, Mr Allworthy, I must say it was unkind.—Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved it of you.” “Indeed, madam,” said Allworthy, “I have been abused by the person, whoever he was, that told you so.” “Nay, sir,” said she, “I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of any wrong. The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said, taking me for Mr Fitzpatrick's wife, that, if Mr Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It was by this man I found out who Mr Jones was; and this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but Partridge, who met him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew him formerly at Salisbury.”
“I don’t need to express my shock at what you’ve just told me, madam,” said Allworthy. “But you certainly wouldn’t and couldn’t have fabricated so many details to prove a lie. I admit I recall some moments from that summer that made me think my sister might have had some affection for him. I brought it up with her because I had such regard for the young man, both for himself and for his father, that I would have happily supported a match between them. But she reacted with the utmost disdain for what she called my unkind suspicion, so I never mentioned it again. Good heavens! Well! Lord knows how everything is arranged. Still, it was quite unjust of my sister to take that secret with her to the grave.” “I assure you, sir,” Mrs. Waters replied, “she always claimed the opposite and often told me she intended to share it with you one day. She indeed seemed very pleased that her plan worked out so well and that you had taken such a liking to the child that there was no need for an official declaration yet. Oh! Sir, if that lady had lived to see this poor young man turned away like a vagabond from your home: nay, sir, if she could have lived to hear that you had hired a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder he didn’t commit—Forgive me, Mr. Allworthy, but I must say it was unkind. Indeed, you have been wronged; he never deserved that from you.” “Indeed, madam,” Allworthy responded, “I have been misled by the person, whoever they are, who told you that.” “Nay, sir,” she said, “I wouldn't want to be misunderstood; I didn’t mean to suggest you wronged anyone. The gentleman who approached me didn’t propose anything like that; he merely said, thinking I was Mr. Fitzpatrick’s wife, that if Mr. Jones had murdered my husband, I would be supported with any funds I needed for the prosecution by a very respectable gentleman who, he claimed, was well aware of the villain I was dealing with. It was through this man that I learned who Mr. Jones was; and this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is your steward. I found out his name by a rather strange coincidence; he himself refused to tell me, but Partridge, who met him at my place the second time he came, recognized him from Salisbury.”
“And did this Mr Dowling,” says Allworthy, with great astonishment in his countenance, “tell you that I would assist in the prosecution?”—“No, sir,” answered she, “I will not charge him wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name. Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it could be no other.”—“Indeed, madam,” says Allworthy, “from circumstances I am too well convinced it was another. Good Heaven! by what wonderful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes discovered!—Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay, he may be, perhaps, already in the house.”
“And did this Mr. Dowling,” says Allworthy, looking very surprised, “tell you that I would help with the prosecution?”—“No, sir,” she replied, “I won’t accuse him incorrectly. He said I would receive help, but he didn't mention any names. Still, you must forgive me, sir, if I thought it could only be one person based on the circumstances.” —“Indeed, madam,” says Allworthy, “I am quite convinced it was someone else based on the circumstances. Good heavens! how extraordinary it is that the darkest and deepest wrongdoing can sometimes be uncovered!—May I ask you, madam, to stay until the person you mentioned arrives, as I expect him any minute? In fact, he might already be in the house.”
Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when in came, not Mr Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the next chapter.
Allworthy then walked to the door to call a servant, when in came, not Mr. Dowling, but the gentleman who will be introduced in the next chapter.
Chapter viii. — Further continuation.
The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr Western. He no sooner saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least the presence of Mrs Waters, he began to vociferate in the following manner: “Fine doings at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued with a daughter?” “What's the matter, neighbour?” said Allworthy. “Matter enough,” answered Western: “when I thought she was just a coming to; nay, when she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the lawyer, and finished all; what do you think I have found out? that the little b— hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying on a correspondence with that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have quarrelled with upon her account, sent me word o't, and I ordered her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience to read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of parson Supple's sermons; but I find plainly it is all about love; and indeed what should it be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-morrow morning down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water all her days; and the sooner such a b— breaks her heart the better, though, d—n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long enough to plague me.” “Mr Western,” answered Allworthy, “you know I have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that none should be used.” “Ay,” cries he, “that was only upon condition that she would consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus! shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire nothing but her own good?” “Well, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “if you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady.” “Will you?” said Western; “why that is kind now, and neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do with her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “if you will go home, and release the young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within this half-hour.” “But suppose,” said Western, “she should run away with un in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, and like to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again presently.” “How!” said Allworthy; “what, did you employ him then to enquire or to do anything in that matter?” “Not I,” answered Western, “he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord.” “Just now!” cries Allworthy, “why, where did you see him then? I want much to see Mr Dowling.” “Why, you may see un an you will presently at my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a mortgage. 'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr Nightingale.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “I will be with you within the half-hour.” “And do for once,” cries the squire, “take a fool's advice; never think of dealing with her by gentle methods, take my word for it those will never do. I have tried 'um long enough. She must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her I'm her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful punishment of it in t'other world, and then tell her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on bread and water.” “I will do all I can,” said Allworthy; “for I promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with this amiable creature.” “Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o' that,” cries the squire; “a man may go farther and meet with worse meat; that I may declare o'her, thof she be my own daughter. And if she will but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better than I do; but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and expect you; and so your humble servant.”
The gentleman who just arrived was none other than Mr. Western. As soon as he saw Allworthy, without considering Mrs. Waters' presence at all, he started shouting, “What a mess at my house! I’ve found quite a situation! Who on earth would want a daughter?” “What’s going on, neighbor?” asked Allworthy. “Plenty,” replied Western. “Just when I thought she was coming around, and she had basically promised to do what I wanted, I was about to call the lawyer to wrap things up. What do you think I found out? That little brat has been playing games with me all along and carrying on with that bastard of yours! My sister Western, whom I’ve had a falling out with over this, let me know, and I had her pockets searched while she was asleep. And here I have a letter signed with that whore’s son's name. I can’t even bring myself to read half of it because it's longer than one of Parson Supple’s sermons; but from what I see, it’s all about love; what else could it be? I’ve sent her back to her room, and tomorrow morning she’s headed to the country unless she agrees to get married right away, and there she’ll live in a tiny room on bread and water for the rest of her days; and the sooner that little brat breaks her heart, the better, though, damn her, I think it’s too tough for that. She’ll probably live long enough to annoy me.” “Mr. Western,” replied Allworthy, “you know I’ve always been against using force, and you agreed that none should be used.” “Yeah,” he shouted, “that was only if she agreed on her own. What the hell! Can’t I do what I want with my own daughter, especially when all I want is what’s best for her?” “Well, neighbor,” said Allworthy, “if you’ll allow me, I’d like to try to talk to the young lady.” “Will you?” said Western; “Well, that’s nice of you, and maybe you’ll succeed where I haven't, because I promise you she thinks very highly of you.” “Alright, sir,” said Allworthy, “if you go home and free the young lady from her confinement, I’ll visit her in half an hour.” “But what if she runs off with someone in the meantime? Lawyer Dowling tells me there’s no hope of hanging that fellow in the end because the man’s alive and likely to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison soon.” “What!” said Allworthy; “Did you hire him to look into that or do anything about it?” “Not me,” answered Western, “he just brought it up on his own.” “Just now!” exclaimed Allworthy, “Where did you see him? I really want to talk to Mr. Dowling.” “You can see him shortly at my place; there’s a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a mortgage. Goodness! I think I might lose two or three thousand pounds because of that honest gentleman, Mr. Nightingale.” “Alright, sir,” said Allworthy, “I’ll be there in half an hour.” “And for once,” said the squire, “take a fool’s advice; don’t even think about dealing with her gently. Take my word for it, that won’t work. I’ve tried hard enough. She needs to be scared into compliance; there’s no other way. Tell her I’m her father, and about the terrible sin of disobedience, and the awful punishment of it in the next world, and then tell her about being locked away in a garret in this world and living only on bread and water.” “I will do everything I can,” said Allworthy; “I promise you there’s nothing I want more than a connection with this lovely person.” “Well, the girl is decent enough for that,” the squire replied; “you can find worse elsewhere, I’ll tell you that, even though she is my own daughter. And if she just obeys me, there’s not a father within a hundred miles who loves his daughter more than I do; but I see you are busy with the young lady here, so I’ll head home and wait for you; so your humble servant.”
As soon as Mr Western was gone Mrs Waters said, “I see, sir, the squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr Allworthy, you would not have known me neither. I am very considerably altered since that day when you so kindly gave me that advice, which I had been happy had I followed.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary.” “Indeed, sir,” says she, “I was ruined by a very deep scheme of villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would justify me in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence, and induce you to pity me: you are not now at leisure to hear my whole story; but this I assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn promises of marriage; nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to him; for, after much reading on the subject, I am convinced that particular ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal sanction to marriage, and have only a worldly use in giving a woman the privileges of a wife; but that she who lives constant to one man, after a solemn private affiance, whatever the world may call her, hath little to charge on her own conscience.” “I am sorry, madam,” said Allworthy, “you made so ill a use of your learning. Indeed, it would have been well that you had been possessed of much more, or had remained in a state of ignorance. And yet, madam, I am afraid you have more than this sin to answer for.” “During his life,” answered she, “which was above a dozen years, I most solemnly assure you I had not. And consider, sir, on my behalf, what is in the power of a woman stript of her reputation and left destitute; whether the good-natured world will suffer such a stray sheep to return to the road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous. I protest, then, I would have chose it had it been in my power; but necessity drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though still unmarried, I lived as a wife for many years, and went by his name. I parted with this gentleman at Worcester, on his march against the rebels, and it was then I accidentally met with Mr Jones, who rescued me from the hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have the twentieth part of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had, I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a resolution to abandon them.” “I hope he hath,” cries Allworthy, “and I hope he will preserve that resolution. I must say, I have still the same hopes with regard to yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to be too unmerciful on these occasions; yet time and perseverance will get the better of this their disinclination, as I may call it, to pity; for though they are not, like heaven, ready to receive a penitent sinner; yet a continued repentance will at length obtain mercy even with the world. This you may be assured of, Mrs Waters, that whenever I find you are sincere in such good intentions, you shall want no assistance in my power to make them effectual.”
As soon as Mr. Western left, Mrs. Waters said, “I can see, sir, the squire doesn’t remember me at all. I doubt, Mr. Allworthy, you wouldn’t recognize me either. I’ve changed quite a bit since the day you kindly offered me that advice, which I wish I had followed.” “Indeed, madam,” Allworthy replied, “it troubled me greatly when I first heard otherwise.” “Honestly, sir,” she said, “I was undone by a very deep scheme of wrongdoing, which if you knew, while I don’t expect it to justify me in your eyes, it might at least lighten my guilt and make you feel sorry for me: you probably don’t have time to hear my entire story now; but I assure you, I was betrayed by the most serious promises of marriage; in the sight of heaven, I was married to him; for, after much reading on the matter, I’m convinced that certain ceremonies are merely needed to give legal recognition to marriage and serve only a worldly purpose in granting a woman the rights of a wife; however, a woman who stays true to one man after a serious private engagement, no matter what society calls her, has little to accuse herself of.” “I’m sorry, madam,” Allworthy said, “that you made such poor use of your knowledge. It would have been better if you had known much more or remained completely ignorant. Yet, madam, I fear you have more than this wrong to answer for.” “During his life,” she replied, “which lasted over a dozen years, I assure you I had nothing to answer for. And consider, sir, for a moment, what a woman can do when stripped of her reputation and left destitute; whether the kind-hearted world will allow such a lost sheep to return to the path of virtue, even if she were ever so eager to do so. I honestly would have chosen that if I could; but necessity pushed me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, although still unmarried, I lived as his wife for many years and took his name. I parted ways with this man at Worcester during his march against the rebels, and that was when I happened to meet Mr. Jones, who saved me from a villain. Truly, he’s the best of men. I believe no young gentleman his age is more free from vice, and few possess even a fraction of his virtues; besides, whatever faults he may have had, I firmly believe he has now resolved to leave them behind.” “I hope he has,” exclaimed Allworthy, “and I hope he will stick to that resolution. I must say, I still have the same hopes for you, too. The world, I agree, tends to be quite harsh in these matters; yet time and perseverance will eventually overcome their reluctance to show compassion, as I might call it, because though they are not, like heaven, ready to welcome a repentant sinner, a continued effort at remorse will ultimately earn mercy, even from the world. You can be assured of this, Mrs. Waters, that whenever I see you are truly sincere in those good intentions, you will not lack any help within my power to make them a reality.”
Mrs Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of tears, made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than human nature.
Mrs. Waters dropped to her knees in front of him and, overwhelmed with emotion, expressed her heartfelt gratitude for his kindness, which, as she genuinely said, felt more divine than human.
Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making use of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Dowling, who, upon his first entrance, seeing Mrs Waters, started, and appeared in some confusion; from which he soon recovered himself as well as he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr Western's lodgings; but, however, thought it his duty to call and acquaint him with the opinion of counsel upon the case which he had before told him, which was that the conversion of the moneys in that case could not be questioned in a criminal cause, but that an action of trover might be brought, and if it appeared to the jury to be the moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for the value.
Allworthy lifted her up and spoke to her in the gentlest way, using every comforting word he could think of when he was interrupted by Mr. Dowling's arrival. Upon entering and seeing Mrs. Waters, he was taken aback and seemed a bit flustered; however, he quickly pulled himself together and explained that he was in a big rush to meet with counsel at Mr. Western's place. Still, he felt it was his responsibility to inform Allworthy about what the counsel had said regarding the case he had mentioned earlier. The counsel's opinion was that the conversion of the money in question couldn't be challenged in a criminal case, but a trover action could be filed. If the jury found that the money belonged to the plaintiff, that plaintiff would win a verdict for its value.
Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, “Whatever be your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do you know this lady?”—“That lady, sir!” answered Dowling, with great hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said, “Look you, Mr Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask.——Do you know this lady?”—“Yes, sir,” said Dowling, “I have seen the lady.” “Where, sir?” “At her own lodgings.”—“Upon what business did you go thither, sir; and who sent you?” “I went, sir, to enquire, sir, about Mr Jones.” “And who sent you to enquire about him?” “Who, sir? why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me.” “And what did you say to the lady concerning that matter?” “Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word.” “Will you please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory?” “He told me, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “that if Mr Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were the very words he spoke.”—“Were these the words, sir?” said Allworthy. “I cannot charge my memory exactly,” cries Dowling, “but I believe I did speak to that purpose.”—“And did Mr Blifil order you to say so?” “I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor have willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this kind. If I said so, I must have so understood Mr Blifil's instructions.” “Look you, Mr Dowling,” said Allworthy; “I promise you before this lady, that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr Blifil's order I will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth; for I believe what you say, that you would not have acted of your own accord and without authority in this matter.——Mr Blifil then likewise sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersgate?”—“He did, sir.” “Well, and what instructions did he then give you? Recollect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he used.”—“Why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me to find out the persons who were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they might be tampered with by Mr Jones, or some of his friends. He said, blood required blood; and that not only all who concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice, were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you should appear in it.” “He did so?” says Allworthy.—“Yes, sir,” cries Dowling; “I should not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other person living but your worship.”—“What lengths, sir?” said Allworthy.—“Nay, sir,” cries Dowling, “I would not have your worship think I would, on any account, be guilty of subornation of perjury; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I told them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the other side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they should lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I said, we were told that Mr Jones had assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, they should declare it; and I did give them some hints that they should be no losers.”—“I think you went lengths indeed,” cries Allworthy.—“Nay, sir,” answered Dowling, “I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth;——nor should I have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you.”—“You would not have thought, I believe,” says Allworthy, “to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr Jones was my own nephew.”—“I am sure, sir,” answered he, “it did not become me to take any notice of what I thought you desired to conceal.”—“How!” cries Allworthy, “and did you know it then?”—“Nay, sir,” answered Dowling, “if your worship bids me speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it.—Indeed, sir, I did know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam Blifil ever spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the letter I brought your worship from her.”—“What letter?” cries Allworthy.—“The letter, sir,” answered Dowling, “which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the hands of Mr Blifil.”—“O heavens!” cries Allworthy: “Well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to you?”—“She took me by the hand,” answered he, “and, as she delivered me the letter, said, `I scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr Jones is his nephew—He is my son.—Bless him,' says she, and then fell backward, as if dying away. I presently called in the people, and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes afterwards.”—Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then, turning to Dowling, said, “How came you, sir, not to deliver me this message?” “Your worship,” answered he, “must remember that you was at that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr Blifil, who told me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr Jones, and partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it mentioned, and did intend to conceal it from the world; and therefore, sir, if you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to your worship or any other person.”
Allworthy, without responding, locked the door and then, with a serious expression, approached Dowling and said, “Whatever your urgency is, I need answers to some questions first. Do you know this lady?”—“That lady, sir!” replied Dowling hesitantly. Allworthy then said in a grave tone, “Listen, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favor or your ability to remain in my service for even a moment longer, do not hesitate or evade; just answer honestly and truthfully every question I ask. Do you know this lady?”—“Yes, sir,” Dowling said, “I’ve seen her.” “Where, sir?” “At her own lodgings.” “What business did you have there, sir; who sent you?” “I went, sir, to ask about Mr. Jones.” “And who sent you to ask about him?” “Who, sir? Well, Mr. Blifil sent me.” “And what did you tell the lady regarding that matter?” “Well, sir, it’s hard to remember every word.” “Will you please, madam, help the gentleman recall?” “He told me, sir,” Mrs. Waters said, “that if Mr. Jones had killed my husband, I would be supported by any funds I needed to pursue the prosecution, from a very reputable gentleman who knew what a villain I was dealing with. I can swear those were his exact words.” “Were these the words, sir?” Allworthy asked. “I can’t recall precisely,” Dowling replied, “but I think I did say something similar.” “Did Mr. Blifil instruct you to say that?” “I’m sure, sir, I wouldn’t have acted on my own or exceeded my authority in matters like this. If I said that, then I must have understood Mr. Blifil’s instructions that way.” “Look here, Mr. Dowling,” said Allworthy; “I assure you before this lady that whatever you’ve done in this matter by Mr. Blifil’s order I will forgive, as long as you now tell me the absolute truth; because I believe you that you wouldn’t have acted independently and without authority in this issue. Did Mr. Blifil also send you to question the two men at Aldersgate?”—“He did, sir.” “Well, what instructions did he give you then? Recall as much as you can, and tell me as closely as possible the exact words he used.” “Well, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me to find the people who witnessed the fight. He said he was worried they might be persuaded by Mr. Jones or some of his friends. He said blood demanded blood; that anyone who concealed a murderer or didn’t do everything they could to bring him to justice shared in his guilt. He mentioned that he found you were very eager to see the villain brought to justice, even though it wasn’t suitable for you to be involved.” “He really said that?” Allworthy asked. “Yes, sir,” Dowling replied; “I certainly wouldn’t have gone to such lengths for anyone else but you.” “What lengths, sir?” Allworthy inquired. “Well, sir,” Dowling said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I would ever be involved in suborning perjury, but there are different ways of giving testimony. I told them that if any offers were made to them from the other side, they should refuse, and that they’d be assured they wouldn’t lose anything by being honest and telling the truth. I said it was suggested that Mr. Jones had started the altercation first, and if that was accurate, they should say so; and I mentioned it wouldn’t hurt them in any way.” “I think you did indeed go quite far,” Allworthy said. “I didn’t encourage them to lie, I’m sure,” Dowling replied, “nor would I have said what I did unless it was to assist you.” “I believe you wouldn’t have thought you were helping me if you had known this Mr. Jones was my nephew,” Allworthy remarked. “I didn’t think it was my place to acknowledge what I suspected you wanted to keep confidential.” “What! You knew then?” Allworthy exclaimed. “Well, sir,” Dowling said, “if you want the truth, I will give it. I did know; those were almost the last words that Madam Blifil spoke to me as I stood by her bedside when she handed me the letter I brought to you.” “What letter?” Allworthy asked. “The letter, sir,” Dowling replied, “that I brought from Salisbury and gave to Mr. Blifil.” “Oh my goodness!” Allworthy exclaimed. “And what did she say to you?” “She took my hand,” Dowling answered, “and as she handed me the letter, said, ‘I hardly know what I’ve written. Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his nephew—He is my son.—Bless him,’ she said, then fell back as if she were dying. I quickly called for help, and she never spoke to me again, passing away a few minutes later.” Allworthy stood silent for a moment, eyes raised, then turned to Dowling and said, “Why didn’t you deliver this message to me?” “Your worship,” he replied, “must remember you were ill in bed at that time; and being in quite a rush, as I always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr. Blifil, who told me he would take both to you. He later informed me he had done so, and that you, partly out of friendship for Mr. Jones and partly out of respect for your sister, decided not to mention it and intended to keep it quiet; therefore, if you hadn’t brought it up with me first, I’m certain I wouldn’t have thought it my responsibility to mention it to you or anyone else.”
We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present; for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling were the motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, joined to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares, and had no time to consider of evasions.
We have noted before that a person can express a lie using truthful words; this was the case here. Blifil had actually told Dowling what he's currently sharing, but he didn't deceive him, nor did he think he could. The promises Blifil made to Dowling were the reasons for his silence. Now that he clearly saw that Blifil wouldn't be able to keep those promises, he felt it was time to confess. The combination of promises of forgiveness, along with Allworthy's threats, tone, and demeanor, along with his previous discoveries, forced him to speak out, especially since he was caught off guard and had no time to come up with excuses.
Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed below-stairs.
Allworthy seemed pleased with this account and, having instructed Dowling to keep quiet about what had happened, personally escorted him to the door to prevent him from encountering Blifil, who had gone back to his room. There, he reveled in thoughts of his recent trick on his uncle, completely unaware of what had just occurred downstairs.
As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs Miller in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him, “O! sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not on this account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the discovery itself will most probably break his heart, without your unkindness.”
As Allworthy was heading back to his room, he ran into Mrs. Miller in the hallway. With a pale, terrified expression, she said to him, “Oh, sir, I see this wicked woman has been with you, and you know everything. Please don’t abandon the poor young man because of it. Remember, sir, he didn’t know it was his own mother, and the shock of it will likely break his heart without your cruelty.”
“Madam,” says Allworthy, “I am under such an astonishment at what I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries, and you shall soon know them.”
“Ma'am,” says Allworthy, “I’m so shocked by what I’ve heard that I can’t really give you an answer; but please, come with me to my room. Honestly, Mrs. Miller, I’ve made some surprising discoveries, and you’ll know about them soon.”
The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to Mrs Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs Miller, said, “What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the services she hath done me?—O! Mrs Miller, you have a thousand times heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all.—Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom.—She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused; abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains.”
The poor woman followed him, shaking with fear; and now Allworthy walked up to Mrs. Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs. Miller, said, “What reward should I give this kind woman for everything she’s done for me?—Oh! Mrs. Miller, you’ve heard me call the young man, whom you’re such a loyal friend to, my son a thousand times. Little did I know back then that he was actually related to me at all.—Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper I’ve been caring for all this time.—She will tell you the whole story herself and how the young man came to be mistaken for her son. Honestly, Mrs. Miller, I’m convinced he has been wronged, and that I have been deceived; deceived by someone you justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in fact, the worst of villains.”
The joy which Mrs Miller now felt bereft her of the power of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length, recovering so far from her transport as to be able to speak, she cried, “And is my dear Mr Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves?” “He certainly is my nephew,” says Allworthy, “and I hope all the rest.”—“And is this the dear good woman, the person,” cries she, “to whom all this discovery is owing?”—“She is indeed,” says Allworthy.—“Why, then,” cried Mrs Miller, upon her knees, “may Heaven shower down its choicest blessings upon her head, and for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many!”
The joy Mrs. Miller felt took her breath away and almost drove her mad, or worse, if a timely shower of tears hadn't come to her rescue. After regaining enough composure to speak, she exclaimed, “So, Mr. Jones is your nephew, sir, and not this lady's son? Have you finally seen him for who he really is? Will I live to see him as happy as he deserves?” “He definitely is my nephew,” Allworthy replied, “and I hope for everything else as well.” “And is this the wonderful woman,” she exclaimed, “who made all this possible?” “Yes, she is,” Allworthy said. “Well then,” Mrs. Miller cried, dropping to her knees, “may Heaven shower its best blessings upon her, and for this one good deed, forgive her all her sins, no matter how many!”
Mrs Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very shortly be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his prisoner his liberty.
Mrs. Waters then told them that she thought Jones would be released soon because the surgeon had gone, along with a nobleman, to see the justice who committed him, to confirm that Mr. Fitzpatrick was in no danger and to secure his release.
Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the two ladies together.
Allworthy said he would be happy to see his nephew when he returned home; however, he had to attend to some important business at that moment. He then called for a servant to bring him a chair and soon left the two ladies alone together.
Mr Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whither he is going: to which the other making no answer, he again desired to know when he would be pleased to return?—Allworthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then, turning about, he said—“Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed.” Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged.
Mr. Blifil, hearing the chair being called for, came downstairs to assist his uncle, as he was never lacking in such duties. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a polite way of asking where someone is headed. When his uncle didn’t answer, he asked again when he would be back. Allworthy didn’t respond to this either, until he was about to get into his chair. Then, turning around, he said, “Listen, do you find out, before I get back, the letter your mother sent me on her deathbed.” After that, Allworthy left, leaving Blifil in a position that could only be envied by someone about to be executed.
Chapter ix. — A further continuation.
Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr Western's, and was introduced to Sophia.
Allworthy took the chance, while he was in the chair, to read the letter from Jones to Sophia that Western gave him; some of the words in it about himself brought tears to his eyes. Finally, he reached Mr. Western's place and was introduced to Sophia.
When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began thus: “I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured, madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals had been, I should not have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them.”
Once the initial ceremonies were over and the gentleman and lady had taken their seats, a few minutes of silence followed. During this time, the lady, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, played with her fan and showed signs of confusion both in her face and her actions. Finally, Allworthy, feeling a bit uneasy himself, began: “I’m sorry, Miss Western, my family may have caused you some distress, and I worry that I have played a bigger role in that than I intended. Please know, madam, if I had realized from the start how unpleasant the proposals were, I would not have allowed you to be bothered for so long. I hope you understand that the purpose of this visit is not to trouble you with any more requests like that, but to completely relieve you from them.”
“Sir,” said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, “this behaviour is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you will pardon me for saying it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a father who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favour.” “I assure you, most amiable young lady,” said Allworthy, “I am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son, and had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly, madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be directed by another.” “Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “every word you speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist the commands of my father.” “I sincerely believe you, madam,” replied Allworthy, “and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight, since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!” “You speak now, Mr Allworthy,” cries she, “with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of wretchedness.——Perhaps that wretchedness would be even increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our affections. If I had married Mr Blifil—” “Pardon my interrupting you, madam,” answered Allworthy, “but I cannot bear the supposition.—Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your escape.—I have discovered the wretch for whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a villain.” “How, sir!” cries Sophia—“you must believe this surprizes me.”—“It hath surprized me, madam,” answered Allworthy, “and so it will the world.——But I have acquainted you with the real truth.” “Nothing but truth,” says Sophia, “can, I am convinced, come from the lips of Mr Allworthy.——Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news.——Discovered, you say——may villany be ever so!”—“You will soon enough hear the story,” cries Allworthy;—“at present let us not mention so detested a name.—I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose.—O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to it.—I have a near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit from him?” Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered, “I will deal with the utmost sincerity with Mr Allworthy. His character, and the obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I have determined at present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the very moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not engage me in another as miserable and as fruitless.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” replied Allworthy, “I am capable of no such conduct; and if this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer under it.” “I must smile now, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “when you mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me.” “Pardon me, dear young lady,” cries Allworthy, “I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my unhappy nephew's for Miss Western.” “A nephew of your's, Mr Allworthy!” answered Sophia. “It is surely strange. I never heard of him before.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it is only the circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and which, till this day, was a secret to me.—Mr Jones, who has long loved you, he! he is my nephew!” “Mr Jones your nephew, sir!” cries Sophia, “can it be possible?”—“He is, indeed, madam,” answered Allworthy; “he is my own sister's son—as such I shall always own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly——Indeed I have.”—Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded—“I never shall be able to reward him for his sufferings without your assistance.——Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; but there is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there is.” Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her: “I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities, which makes it impossible he should not behave well to such an uncle.”—“I hope, madam,” said Allworthy, “he hath those good qualities which must make him a good husband.—He must, I am sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit should condescend—” “You must pardon me, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia; “I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr Jones as one who is to be my husband—Upon my honour I never will.”—“Pardon me, madam,” cries Allworthy, “if I am a little surprized, after what I have heard from Mr Western—I hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it.—Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villany may have injured him everywhere.—He is no murderer, I assure you; as he hath been called.”—“Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you; but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath always been a fixed principle with me, never to have married without his consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent; and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do not indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own conscience will acquit me.” “I hear you, Miss Western,” cries Allworthy, “with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments; but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you, young lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely indifferent?” “I beg, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “you will not insist on my reasons;—yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, Mr Allworthy, conceal——I will be very sincere with you—I own I had a great opinion of Mr Jones—I believe—I know I have suffered for my opinion—I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father; but that is now past—I beg I may not be farther pressed; for, whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues—he hath great virtues, Mr Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy.”—“I wish I could make him so, madam,” replied Allworthy; “but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favour.” “You are deceived indeed, sir; you are deceived,” said Sophia. “I hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me. Mr Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no farther on this subject. I should be sorry—nay, I will not injure him in your favour. I wish Mr Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well; and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr Jones; nor would the addresses of Mr Blifil himself be less agreeable to me.”
“Sir,” said Sophia, hesitantly, “your kindness is truly generous, and I expected nothing less from Mr. Allworthy. However, since you have brought this up, I must admit it has caused me great distress and led to cruel treatment from a father who was, until this unfortunate event, the most caring of parents. I am sure you are too good to hold my rejection of your nephew against me. Our feelings aren’t something we control, and no matter how worthy he may be, I can’t change my inclinations in his favor.” “I assure you, dear young lady,” said Allworthy, “I would have no such resentment, even if the person were my own son, whom I held in the highest regard. You are right, madam; we can’t force our feelings, let alone have them directed by someone else.” “Oh, sir,” Sophia replied, “every word you say shows you truly deserve the good, great, and kind reputation everyone attributes to you. I assure you, only the certain prospect of future misery could have led me to defy my father's wishes.” “I sincerely believe you, madam,” Allworthy said, “and I congratulate you on your wise foresight, as your justifiable resistance has spared you from real misery!” “You speak now, Mr. Allworthy,” she exclaimed, “with a sensitivity that few men possess! But surely, I think, living with someone we feel indifferent towards must be a miserable existence. Perhaps that misery would only worsen knowing the merits of a person we cannot love. If I had married Mr. Blifil—” “Forgive me for interrupting, madam,” Allworthy said, “but I cannot bear such a thought. Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from the heart in your escape. I have uncovered the scoundrel who has caused all this cruelty from your father; he is a villain.” “How, sir!” Sophia cried. “You must understand this surprises me.” “It has surprised me too, madam,” Allworthy replied, “and it will surprise the world. But I have shared the truth with you.” “Nothing but the truth,” Sophia said, “can come from Mr. Allworthy’s lips. But such sudden, unexpected news… Discovered, you say—may evil ever be so!” “You will hear the story soon enough,” cried Allworthy; “for now, let’s not speak of such a detestable name. I have a very serious matter to discuss. Oh, Miss Western, I know your immense worth, and I cannot easily give up the hope of being connected to it. I have a close relative, a young man whose character is, I believe, the exact opposite of that scoundrel, and whose fortune I will ensure is equal to what his should have been. Would you, madam, accept a visit from him?” After a moment of silence, Sophia replied, “I want to be completely sincere with Mr. Allworthy. His character and the kindness I have just received from him demand it. I’ve decided right now not to entertain any proposals from anyone. My only wish is to regain my father’s affection and once again be the mistress of his household. This, sir, I hope to achieve through your kind interventions. Please, I implore you, by all the goodness I and everyone who knows you have experienced, do not, at the very moment you release me from one torment, engage me in another as miserable and fruitless.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” Allworthy replied, “I would never behave that way. And if this is your decision, he must accept the disappointment, no matter what anguish it may bring him.” “I can only smile now, Mr. Allworthy,” Sophia answered, “when you mention the torment of a man I do not know, and who therefore has so little connection to me.” “Forgive me, dear young lady,” Allworthy exclaimed, “but I’m beginning to fear he knows you too well for the peace of his future days; for if any man is capable of a sincere, passionate, and noble love, it is undoubtedly my unfortunate nephew’s for Miss Western.” “A nephew of yours, Mr. Allworthy!” Sophia responded. “That is rather strange. I had never heard of him before.” “Indeed, madam,” Allworthy replied, “the only information you lack is that he is my nephew, which until today was a secret to me. Mr. Jones, who has long loved you, he! He is my nephew!” “Mr. Jones is your nephew, sir?” Sophia exclaimed. “Is that possible?” “He is indeed, madam,” Allworthy confirmed; “he is my sister’s son, and I will always claim him as such. I am much more ashamed of how I have treated him than I am of acknowledging him. I was as ignorant of his worth as I was of his lineage. Indeed, Miss Western, I have treated him cruelly—truly I have.” He wiped his eyes and, after a brief pause, continued, “I will never be able to repay him for his suffering without your help. Believe me, most amiable young lady, I hold immense respect for what I am offering due to your worth. I know he has made mistakes; but at his core, there is great goodness. Believe me, madam, there is.” He paused, seeming to expect an answer, which Sophia soon provided after recovering from the shock of such surprising and sudden news: “I sincerely congratulate you, sir, on a discovery that brings you such satisfaction. I have no doubt you will find all the comfort you can imagine from it. The young gentleman certainly has many admirable qualities, which make it impossible for him not to treat such an uncle well.” “I hope, madam,” Allworthy said, “that he has those good qualities which will make him a good husband. He must be the most depraved of men if a lady of your caliber would ever agree—” “Please pardon me, Mr. Allworthy,” Sophia replied; “I cannot entertain a proposal of that sort. Mr. Jones undoubtedly has great merit, but I will never accept Mr. Jones as my husband—upon my honor, I never will.” “Forgive me, madam,” Allworthy insisted, “if I seem a bit surprised after what I have heard from Mr. Western. I hope the unfortunate young man has done nothing to lose your good opinion if he ever had the privilege of receiving it. Perhaps he has been misrepresented to you as he was to me. The same wickedness may have tarnished his reputation everywhere. He is not a murderer, I assure you; that accusation is false.” “Mr. Allworthy,” Sophia replied, “I have made my decision clear. I am not surprised by what my father has told you; but regardless of his fears or concerns, if I know myself, I have given him no reason to worry, as it has always been my principle not to marry without his consent. I believe that is the duty of a child to a parent, and nothing could have made me stray from this. I do not think that any parent’s authority can force us to marry against our inclinations. To avoid such a situation, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father’s house and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and if the world or my father takes my intentions any further, my own conscience will clear me.” “I hear you, Miss Western,” Allworthy exclaimed, “with admiration. I admire the fairness of your views; but surely there is more to this. I want to be careful not to offend you, young lady; but am I to consider everything I've heard and seen until now just a dream? Have you truly endured so much cruelty from your father over a man to whom you have always felt utterly indifferent?” “I ask that you not press me for reasons, Mr. Allworthy,” Sophia replied. “Yes, I have indeed suffered. I will not, Mr. Allworthy, hide this—I will be very honest with you—I admit I had a high opinion of Mr. Jones—I believe—I know I have suffered due to that opinion—I have been cruelly treated by my aunt as well as by my father; but that is in the past—I ask that I not be pressed further; for no matter what has happened, my resolution is now set. Your nephew, sir, has many virtues—he has great virtues, Mr. Allworthy. I have no doubt he will bring you honor in the world and make you happy.” “I wish I could make him so, madam,” Allworthy replied, “but I am convinced that power lies only with you. It is this belief that has pushed me to be so earnest in advocating for him.” “You are mistaken, sir; you are mistaken,” Sophia said. “I hope not to have been misled by him. It is enough that he has deceived me. Mr. Allworthy, I must insist you do not press me further on this subject. I would be distressed—nay, I will not harm him in your favor. I wish Mr. Jones well. I sincerely wish him well; and I say this again to you, whatever faults he may have with me, I am certain he possesses many admirable qualities. I do not deny my previous feelings; but nothing can rekindle them. At the moment, there is not a man on earth I would more firmly reject than Mr. Jones; nor would the advances of Mr. Blifil himself be any more agreeable to me.”
Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference, and was just now arrived at the door to listen; when, having heard the last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and, bursting open the door in a rage, cried out—“It is a lie! It is a d—n'd lie! It is all owing to that d—n'd rascal Jones; and if she could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day.” Here Allworthy interposed, and addressing himself to the squire with some anger in his look, he said, “Mr Western, you have not kept your word with me. You promised to abstain from all violence.”—“Why, so I did,” cries Western, “as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench telling such confounded lies——Zounds! doth she think, if she can make vools of other volk, she can make one of me?—No, no, I know her better than thee dost.” “I am sorry to tell you, sir,” answered Allworthy, “it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady, that you know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your daughter, Mr Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any other man whatever.”—“Odrabbit it!” cries the squire, “I wish she was thine, with all my heart—wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the trouble o' her.” “Indeed, my good friend,” answered Allworthy, “you yourself are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest father on earth.”—“I confidence in her?” cries the squire. “'Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won't do as I would ha' her? Let her gi' but her consent to marry as I would ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha' me.”—“You have no right, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “to insist on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow you no more.”—“A negative voice!” cries the squire, “Ay! ay! I'll show you what a negative voice I ha.—Go along, go into your chamber, go, you stubborn——.” “Indeed, Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “indeed you use her cruelly—I cannot bear to see this—you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment.” “Yes, yes,” said the squire, “I know what she deserves: now she's gone, I'll shew you what she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me to understand that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter.”
Western had been anxious for this conference for quite some time and had just arrived at the door to listen. After hearing the last thoughts of his daughter's heart, he lost his temper completely, and bursting through the door in a rage, shouted, “It’s a lie! It’s a damn lie! This is all because of that damn rascal Jones; and if she could get to him, she would do it any hour of the day.” Allworthy intervened, looking somewhat angry, and said to the squire, “Mr. Western, you haven't kept your word with me. You promised to refrain from all violence.” “Well, I did,” Western replied, “as long as it was possible; but to hear a girl telling such outrageous lies—Good grief! Does she think she can fool other people and not me? No, no, I know her better than you do.” “I’m sorry to tell you, sir,” Allworthy responded, “but your behavior towards this young lady shows that you don’t know her at all. I apologize for what I’m saying, but I think our friendship, your own desires, and the situation justify me. She is your daughter, Mr. Western, and I believe she brings honor to your name. If I were capable of envy, I would envy you for this reason more than any other man.” “Damn it!” the squire exclaimed, “I wish she were yours, with all my heart—you’d be glad to be rid of the trouble she brings.” “Indeed, my good friend,” Allworthy replied, “you are the cause of all the trouble you complain about. Show the young lady the trust she truly deserves, and I’m sure you’ll be the happiest father on earth.” “Trust her?” the squire shouted. “By God! What trust can I have in her when she won’t do what I want her to? If she would just agree to marry who I want her to, I’d trust her as much as you’d want me to.” “You have no right, neighbor,” Allworthy said, “to demand such consent. Your daughter allows you a negative voice, and God and nature have deemed it right to allow you no more.” “A negative voice!” the squire cried. “Yes! Yes! I’ll show you what a negative voice I have—Go on, go to your room, you stubborn—.” “Really, Mr. Western,” Allworthy said, “you are being cruel to her—I can’t stand to see this. You must treat her more kindly. She deserves the best.” “Yes, yes,” the squire said, “I know what she deserves: now that she’s gone, I’ll show you what she deserves. Look here, sir, here’s a letter from my cousin, Lady Bellaston, where she kindly informs me that that fellow has gotten out of prison again; and she advises me to take all the care I can of the girl. Goodness gracious! Neighbor Allworthy, you don’t know what it’s like to raise a daughter.”
The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to Blifil, and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters.
The squire wrapped up his speech with a few self-praises about his own wisdom; then Allworthy, after a formal introduction, shared with him all the details he had uncovered about Jones, his frustration with Blifil, and everything that has been revealed to the reader in the earlier chapters.
Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for her marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her to Blifil.
Men who are excessively aggressive in their personalities are usually just as fickle. No sooner did Western learn about Mr. Allworthy's plan to make Jones his heir than he enthusiastically agreed with the uncle’s praise of the nephew and became just as eager for her to marry Jones as he had previously been to pair her with Blifil.
Here Mr Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great surprize.
Here Mr. Allworthy was once again compelled to step in and explain what had happened between him and Sophia, expressing his great surprise at the situation.
The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at this account.—At last he cried out, “Why, what can be the meaning of this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o'un she was, that I'll be sworn to.——Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at my cousin my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's certain—but d—n me if he shall ha her—I'll ha no lords nor courtiers in my vamily.”
The squire was silent for a moment and looked completely stunned by this explanation. Finally, he shouted, “What on earth does this mean, neighbor Allworthy? I swear it’s true. Oh my goodness! I’ve figured it out. As sure as anything, I’ve got it exactly right. It’s all because of that girl. She’s got a thing for that rotter of a lord. I found them together at my cousin Lady Bellaston's place. He’s definitely gotten into her head, but damn it if I let him have her—I won’t have any lords or courtiers in my family.”
Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly recommended gentle methods to Mr Western, as those by which he might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in promising to bring Mr Jones to visit him that afternoon, that he might, as he said, “make all matters up with the young gentleman.” At Mr Allworthy's departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, “I don't know how 'tis, but d—n me, Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please; and yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the commission of the peace as well as yourself.”
Allworthy gave a long speech where he reiterated his decision to avoid any harsh actions and strongly recommended to Mr. Western that gentle approaches were the best way to connect with his daughter. After that, he took his leave and went back to Mrs. Miller but had to give in to the squire's urgent pleas to promise to bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon so he could "sort things out with the young man." When Allworthy was leaving, Western promised to take his advice on how to treat Sophia, saying, "I don’t know what it is, but damn it, Allworthy, you always make me do what you want; and yet I have just as good an estate as you do and am on the commission of the peace just like you."
Chapter x. — Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty chamber, whither he ordered Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.
When Allworthy got back to his place, he heard that Mr. Jones had just arrived before him. He quickly went into an empty room, where he had Mr. Jones brought to him alone.
It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my child!” he cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to you?” “Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous benefactor.”—“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you cruelly.”——He then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having been induced by that treachery to use him so ill. “O, talk not so!” answered Jones; “indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation, by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved; and it shall be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruction.” “I am rejoiced, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “to hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was never among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great difference between those faults which candor may construe into imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt him.—Repose, like a false friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself; if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till, like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that destruction to which a persistance in even those errors must have led you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such, that happiness seems in your own power.” At these words Jones fetched a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, “Sir, I will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost a treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy; “I will be explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further constraint to my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's; but I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no more uneasy hours.” “O, my dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional blessing which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone.” “I will not flatter you, child,” cries Allworthy; “I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you can account better than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can account too well,” answered Jones; “I have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot save me from perdition.”
It’s hard to imagine a more touching scene than the reunion between the uncle and nephew (since Mrs. Waters, as you might guess, had revealed to him the secret of his birth during her last visit). The overwhelming joy they both felt is beyond my ability to describe, so I won’t even try. After Allworthy lifted Jones from where he had fallen to the ground and embraced him, he exclaimed, “Oh my child! How could I have been so wrong? How have I hurt you? What can I ever do to make up for the cruel and unfair suspicions I’ve had, and for all the pain they caused you?” “Haven’t I been made whole now?” Jones replied. “Even if I had suffered ten times more, it would be worth it now. Oh my dear uncle, this kindness and tenderness is too much for me. I can’t handle the overwhelming joy that is flooding over me. To be back in your presence, to be in your good graces again; to be warmly received by my great, noble, and generous benefactor again.” “Indeed, child,” Allworthy said, “I have treated you harshly.” He then explained Blifil’s betrayal and reiterated his deep regret for being misled into treating Jones so poorly. “Oh, don’t say that!” answered Jones; “You have treated me nobly. Even the wisest person could be deceived like you were, and under such deception, the best would act just as you did. Your kindness shone through your anger, just as it appeared then. I owe everything to that kindness, which I have not deserved. Please don’t make me feel guilty by taking your generous thoughts too far. I assure you, sir, I haven’t faced more punishment than I deserve; and my future will be dedicated to earning the happiness you now give me. Believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hasn’t been wasted on me: though I have sinned greatly, I am not beyond redemption. Thankfully, I had the chance to reflect on my past. Although I cannot accuse myself of any terrible villainy, I can see my follies and vices that are more than enough to regret and be ashamed of; foolishness that has led to dreadful consequences and brought me to the brink of ruin.” “I’m glad to hear you speak so sensibly, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “because I am sure that hypocrisy (good heavens! how I’ve been deceived by it in others!) was never one of your faults, so I believe everything you say. You now see, Tom, the dangers that mere imprudence can pose to virtue (for I am now convinced that you care about virtue a lot). Prudence is truly the duty we owe ourselves; if we neglect it and become our own enemies, we can’t be surprised if the world fails to meet its duty to us. When a man lays the groundwork for his own ruin, others will, I’m afraid, be all too willing to build upon it. However, you say you’ve acknowledged your mistakes and plan to change. I believe you entirely, my dear child, and from this moment on, I will never remind you of them. Remember them only as a lesson to help you avoid them in the future; but also remember, for your comfort, that there’s a significant difference between those mistakes that can be seen as mere imprudence and those that stem from true villainy. The former might be more likely to lead a person to ruin, but if they reform, their character can eventually be restored; the world may reconcile with them over time, and they may find some pleasure in reflecting on the dangers they’ve escaped. But true villainy, my boy, once discovered, is irreversible; the stains it leaves cannot be washed away over time. The judgment of society will pursue the wretch, their scorn will humiliate him publicly; and if shame drives him into solitude, he will do so with all the fears like a weary child afraid of monsters retreating to bed alone. His tortured conscience will haunt him. Rest, like a false friend, will abandon him. Wherever he looks, horror awaits him; if he looks back, useless regret follows him; if he looks forward, inescapable despair stares him down, until, like a convicted prisoner locked in a dungeon, he loathes his situation but fears the reckoning that may free him from it. Cheer yourself up, I say, my child, for this is not your situation; rejoice with gratitude towards him who has allowed you to recognize your wrongs before they could lead to the disaster that would have come from continuing in those wrongs. You have turned away from them, and the future now seems bright, where happiness is within your reach.” At these words, Jones let out a deep sigh; when Allworthy noticed, he said, “Sir, I won’t hide anything from you: I fear there is one consequence of my wrongs that I will never be able to fix. Oh, my dear uncle! I have lost a treasure.” “You don’t need to say more,” replied Allworthy; “I’ll be straightforward with you; I know what you mourn; I have met the young lady and talked to her about you. I must insist on this as proof of your honesty in everything you’ve said and your commitment to change: you must fully abide by the young lady’s decision, whether it’s in your favor or not. She has already endured enough pressures that I despise thinking about; she should not be subjected to any more constraints from my family. I know her father will be just as quick to torment her on your account as he has been before; but I’m determined she will suffer no more confinement, no more force, no more unhappy moments.” “Oh, my dear uncle!” Jones replied, “Please, I ask you to place a command on me that would allow me to earn merit through my obedience. Believe me, sir, the only thing I could disobey you on would be anything that causes my Sophia distress. No, if I’ve drawn her displeasure beyond hope of forgiveness, just that, along with the dreadful thought of causing her misery, would be enough to crush me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only extra blessing heaven could grant me; but it is a blessing that I must owe solely to her.” “I won’t flatter you, child,” said Allworthy; “I fear your situation is dire: I’ve never seen a stronger sign of an unchangeable resolution than what I saw in her vehement rejections of your affections; for which, perhaps, you understand better than I do.” “Oh, sir! I understand all too well,” answered Jones; “I have sinned against her beyond all hope of forgiveness; and guilty as I am, my guilt appears to her in a much darker light than it really is. Oh, my dear uncle! I find my mistakes are irreparable; and all your goodness cannot save me from doom.”
A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself; to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be shewn into a parlour, went down to him.
A servant informed them that Mr. Western was downstairs because he was eager to see Jones and couldn’t wait until the afternoon. Jones, whose eyes were filled with tears, asked his uncle to keep Western entertained for a few minutes until he composed himself. The kind man agreed and, after having Mr. Western shown into a parlor, went down to meet him.
Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so inexorable I never saw.”
Mrs. Miller barely heard that Jones was alone (since she hadn't seen him since he got out of prison) before she rushed into the room. She walked up to Jones and warmly congratulated him on his newfound uncle and their happy reconciliation, saying, “I wish I could give you good news for another reason, my dear child; but I've never seen anything so unforgiving.”
Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant. “Why then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, and have explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a single instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town: I am afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she had forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness of her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. `I once fancied madam.' and she, `I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr Jones; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an angelic creature, that is the truth on't.” “O, Mrs Miller!” answered Jones, “can I bear to think that I have lost such an angel?” “Lost! no,” cries Mrs Miller; “I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes, nay, if she would remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little beyond the truth again; for I told her you had refused her; but indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little comfort; when I mentioned the young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but when I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant; and these were her very words: `I will not deny but that I believe he has some affection for me.'”
Jones, looking a bit surprised, asked her what she meant. “Well,” she replied, “I’ve talked to your young lady and explained everything to her as my son Nightingale told me. She shouldn’t doubt the letter anymore; I’m sure of it because I told her my son Nightingale is ready to swear, if she wants, that it was all his own idea, and he wrote the letter himself. I pointed out that the reason for sending the letter should make you more appealing to her since it was all for her sake, clearly showing that you’re determined to leave behind all your reckless ways. I told her you hadn’t been unfaithful to her even once since you saw her in town: I’m afraid I may have gone too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your future actions will prove me right. I know I’ve said all I can, but it’s been pointless. She remains steadfast. She says she’s forgiven many mistakes because of youth; but she expressed such disgust for the character of a libertine that she completely shut me down. I tried several times to defend you, but her accusations were too valid to ignore. Honestly, she’s a beautiful woman and one of the sweetest, most sensible people I’ve ever met. I could have almost kissed her for one remark she made. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca or a bishop. ‘I once thought, madam,’ she said, ‘that I had discovered great goodness in Mr. Jones; for that I admit I had sincere admiration; but a complete lack of morals can corrupt the best heart in the world; and all a well-meaning libertine can expect is that we should mix some pity with our contempt and disgust.’ She’s truly an angelic person, that’s the truth.” “Oh, Mrs. Miller!” Jones replied, “how can I bear to think I’ve lost such an angel?” “Lost! No,” Mrs. Miller exclaimed; “I hope you haven’t lost her yet. Decide to leave those bad habits behind, and you might still have a chance. Even if she remains unyielding, there’s another young lady, a lovely girl with a great fortune, who is completely in love with you. I heard about it just this morning and told Miss Western; I even stretched the truth a bit by saying you had rejected her, but I knew you would. And I must offer you a bit of comfort: when I mentioned the young lady’s name, who is none other than the lovely widow Hunt, I thought she went pale; but when I said you had refused her, I swear her face turned bright red in an instant; and these were her exact words: ‘I won’t deny that I believe he has some feelings for me.’”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over him.
Here, the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room, even by Allworthy's authority; though this, as we have often seen, had an amazing influence over him.
Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One Christian must forget and forgive another.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones, “I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.” “A't,” says Western, “then give me thy fist; a't as hearty an honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment.” Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire being unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.
Western immediately approached Jones, exclaiming, “My old friend Tom, I’m so glad to see you! Let’s forget all that’s happened before; I never meant any offense to you. As Allworthy knows, and you know it yourself, I mistook you for someone else, and when someone means no harm, what does it matter if they say something in haste? We should all forgive each other.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones, “that I will never forget how much I owe you; but as for any offense towards me, I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Well then,” said Western, “give me your hand; you’re as good and honest a fellow as anyone in the kingdom. Come with me; I’ll take you to your lady right now.” At this point, Allworthy intervened, and since the squire couldn’t convince either the uncle or nephew, he had to agree to postpone introducing Jones to Sophia until the afternoon. At that time, Allworthy, both out of compassion for Jones and to satisfy Western’s eagerness, was persuaded to promise to be at the tea-table.
The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very material, it shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit Mr Western again returned home.
The conversation that followed was quite nice, and if it had happened earlier in our story, we would have shared it with our reader; but since we only have time to focus on what's really important, it’s enough to say that everything was settled for the afternoon visit, and Mr. Western went home again.
Chapter xi. — The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
When Mr Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr Nightingale's, had attended the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeons' oaths, that the wounded person was out of all manner of danger from his wound, he was discharged.
When Mr. Western left, Jones started to tell Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller that his freedom had been secured by two noble lords, who, along with two surgeons and a friend of Mr. Nightingale, had met with the magistrate who had committed him. The magistrate, based on the surgeons' sworn statements that the injured person was in no danger from his wound, released him.
One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once; but the other had greatly surprized him by asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was.
One of these lords, he said, he had seen before, but only once; however, the other really surprised him by asking for his forgiveness for an offense he had committed against him, which he claimed was entirely due to not knowing who he was.
Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was this:—The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the behaviour of Mr Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have condemned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken.
Now, the reality of the situation, which Jones was unaware of until later, was this: The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had hired, following Lady Bellaston's suggestion, to force Jones into the navy as a vagabond, when he came to report to his lordship the incident we’ve discussed, spoke very positively about Mr. Jones's behavior in every way. He strongly assured Lord Fellamar that he must have mistaken the person because Jones was definitely a gentleman. This made his lordship, who was a man of honor and would never want to do something that the world would generally condemn, start to feel quite concerned about the advice he had received.
Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of the duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other nobleman, who depended much on the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the right; for the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up and signed between the parties.
Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to have dinner with the Irish peer, who, during a discussion about the duel, shared his thoughts on Fitzpatrick. He certainly didn’t do justice to Fitzpatrick's character, especially when it came to his wife. He claimed she was the most innocent and wronged woman alive, and that it was out of pity that he had taken up her cause. He then expressed his intention to visit Fitzpatrick's place the next morning to try to convince him to agree to a separation from his wife, who, the peer mentioned, was afraid for her life if she ever went back to living with her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to accompany him so he could learn more about Jones and the details of the duel because he was quite uneasy about his own involvement. As soon as his lordship hinted at his willingness to help free the lady, the other nobleman jumped at the chance, believing that Lord Fellamar's support would pressure Fitzpatrick into agreeing; and he might have been right, because the moment the poor Irishman saw that these noble peers had taken up his wife's cause, he gave in, and soon enough, an agreement for separation was drafted and signed by both parties.
Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs Waters concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord's further enquiry concerning Mr Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs Waters after her interview with Dowling.
Fitzpatrick, who had been reassured by Mrs. Waters about his wife's innocence regarding Jones at Upton, or maybe for other reasons, was now so indifferent to the situation that he spoke highly of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame for himself, and said that Jones had acted very much like a gentleman and a man of honor. When Lord Fellamar asked more about Mr. Jones, Fitzpatrick told him that Jones was the nephew of a very wealthy and fashionable gentleman, which was the information he had just received from Mrs. Waters after her meeting with Dowling.
Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured, and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr Jones's liberty, being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was confined, to whom he behaved as we have already related.
Lord Fellamar now believed it was his duty to do everything he could to make amends to a gentleman he had wronged so terribly. Without any thought of rivalry (since he had completely given up on thoughts of Sophia), he decided to secure Mr. Jones's freedom, being reassured by both Fitzpatrick and his surgeon that the wound was not life-threatening. He therefore persuaded the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was being held, treating him as we've already mentioned.
When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from Mrs Waters as what he had discovered from Mr Dowling.
When Allworthy got back to his place, he quickly took Jones into his room and then filled him in on everything, both what he had heard from Mrs. Waters and what he had found out from Mr. Dowling.
Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account, but without making any comment or observation upon it. And now a message was brought from Mr Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not. “Consider, dear sir,” cries Jones, in a trembling voice. “I have considered,” answered Allworthy, “and you yourself shall carry my message to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose ruin he hath so villanously contrived.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to whom?—my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously—indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only from black and rancorous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard.” Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes, “O my child! to what goodness have I been so long blind!”
Jones was truly shocked and worried by this account, but he didn’t make any comments about it. Just then, a message arrived from Mr. Blifil asking if his uncle was free to see him. Allworthy flinched and went pale, then with more passion than he had ever shown before, he told the servant to inform Blifil that he didn’t know him. “Please, dear sir,” Jones said in a shaky voice. “I have thought it over,” Allworthy replied, “and you yourself will deliver my message to that villain. No one can convey the sentence of his own destruction as properly as the one whose downfall he has so wickedly plotted.” “Excuse me, dear sir,” Jones responded; “just think for a moment and I’m sure you’ll see the opposite. What might be justice from someone else would be an insult coming from me; and to whom?—my own brother and your nephew. He didn’t treat me so cruelly—indeed, that would have been worse than anything he has done. Fate may lead people who aren’t truly bad to commit injustices; but insults come only from malicious and vengeful minds and there’s no justification for them. I urge you, sir, not to act on this in your current state of anger. Remember, my dear uncle, I wasn’t condemned without a chance to defend myself.” Allworthy paused in silence for a moment, then embraced Jones, tears streaming down his face, and said, “Oh my child! How blind I have been to your goodness all this time!”
Mrs Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying, “My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest day.” And next Mr Allworthy himself received the same congratulations. To which he answered, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs Miller, I am beyond expression happy.” Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled—being indeed no other than Mr Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.
Mrs. Miller entered the room at that moment, after a gentle knock that went unnoticed, and seeing Jones in his uncle’s arms, the poor woman, overwhelmed with joy, fell to her knees and began offering ecstatic thanks to heaven for what had happened. Then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, exclaiming, “My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand times on this blessed day.” Next, Mr. Allworthy received the same congratulations, to which he replied, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am beyond words happy.” After a few more expressions of delight exchanged all around, Mrs. Miller suggested they both head down to dinner in the parlor, where she mentioned a very happy group was gathered—namely Mr. Nightingale and his bride, along with his cousin Harriet and her groom.
Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment, for that they had much private business to discourse of; but would not resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper.
Allworthy politely declined to join the group for dinner, explaining that he had arranged for a small meal for himself and his nephew in his own room since they needed to discuss some private matters. However, he couldn’t help but promise the kind woman that both he and Jones would join her for supper.
Mrs Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? “for indeed,” says she, “I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my house.”—Allworthy answered, “He was as uneasy as herself on the same account.” “Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case, leave the matter to me, I'll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you. Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” “There will be no need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; “if you will carry him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord.” “Will I?” said Mrs Miller; “I never did anything in my life with a better will.” Here Jones interfered, and said, “He had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr Allworthy pleased, be himself the messenger. I know,” says he, “already enough of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the dreadful consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit, alas! is this poor man to die in his present situation.” This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs Miller. She left the room, crying, “You are too good, Mr Jones, infinitely too good to live in this world.” But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. “My good child,” said he, “I am equally astonished at the goodness of your heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for repentance! That would be a shocking consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own discretion; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness; for I shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either to our bounty or our conversation.”
Mrs. Miller then asked what should be done with Blifil. “Honestly,” she said, “I can’t feel at ease with such a villain in my house.” Allworthy replied, “He feels just as uneasy about it as you do.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, “if that’s the case, leave it to me; I’ll show him the door in no time, I guarantee it. There are a couple of strong guys downstairs.” “There’s no need for any violence,” Allworthy said. “If you deliver a message from me, I’m sure he’ll leave on his own.” “Will I?” Mrs. Miller responded. “I’ve never been more willing to do something in my life.” At this point, Jones stepped in and said, “I’ve thought this over more carefully, and if Mr. Allworthy wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be the one to deliver the message. I already know what you want, sir, and I’d prefer to communicate it in my own words. Please, sir,” he continued, “consider the awful consequences of forcing him into despair. How unfit, alas, is this poor man to die in his current state.” This suggestion had no impact on Mrs. Miller. She left the room, saying, “You’re too good, Mr. Jones, far too good to be in this world.” But it affected Allworthy more deeply. “My dear child,” he said, “I’m equally amazed by your kindness and your insight. Heaven forbid that this wretch should be denied any means or time for repentance! That would truly be a horrifying thought. So go to him and use your own judgment, but don’t give him any false hopes about my forgiveness, because I won’t forgive villainy beyond what my religion requires, and that doesn’t extend to our generosity or conversation.”
Jones went up to Blifil's room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprized into it unawares, against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for themselves.
Jones went up to Blifil's room and found him in a situation that stirred his pity, although it might have sparked less sympathetic feelings in others. He threw himself onto his bed, where he lay in despair, overwhelmed with tears; not the kind that come from genuine remorse, washing away the guilt from those who have been led astray unknowingly, even those who are usually virtuous; no, these tears were like those of a terrified thief in a cart, driven by a self-concern that even the most savage souls rarely lack.
It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.
It would be frustrating and boring to describe this situation in detail. It's enough to say that Jones was overly kind. He did everything he could think of to lift Blifil’s spirits before he told him the news from his uncle that he had to leave the house that evening. He offered to give him any money he needed, assured him that he completely forgave everything he had done against him, promised to treat him like a brother from now on, and vowed to do everything possible to make peace with his uncle.
Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before remarkably wicked.
Blifil was initially moody and quiet, weighing in his mind whether he should deny everything; but, realizing the evidence was too overwhelming against him, he eventually chose to confess. He then asked his brother for forgiveness in the most intense way, throwing himself on the ground and kissing his feet; in short, he was now as notably humble as he had previously been notably wicked.
Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man; repeating, at the same time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to lessen them; for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.
Jones couldn't completely hide his disdain, and it showed a bit on his face at this extreme servility. As soon as he could, he lifted his brother off the ground and advised him to face his troubles more like a man; he also repeated his promises to do everything he could to ease them. Blifil, expressing his unworthiness, showered him with thanks. After declaring that he would immediately move to another place, Jones returned to his uncle.
Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery which he had made concerning the £500 bank-notes. “I have,” said he, “already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment, that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person.”
Among other things, Allworthy now informed Jones about the discovery he had made regarding the £500 banknotes. “I have,” he said, “already talked to a lawyer, who tells me, to my great surprise, that there is no punishment for this kind of fraud. In fact, when I think about this guy’s awful ingratitude toward you, I consider a highway robber to be an innocent person in comparison.”
“Good Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible?—I am shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in the world.——The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to withstand; for smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I believe he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or two ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the like.”
“Oh my goodness!” says Jones, “is this really possible?—I’m absolutely shocked by this news. I thought he was the most honest person in the world.——The temptation of such a large amount was too much for him to resist; after all, I’ve received smaller amounts safely through his help. Honestly, my dear uncle, you should let me call it weakness instead of ingratitude; I believe the poor guy loves me and has done me some favors that I’ll never forget. In fact, I think he has regretted this very act; just a day or two ago, when my situation seemed most desperate, he came to see me in my confinement and offered me any amount of money I needed. Think about it, sir—what a temptation it must be for a man who has experienced such painful distress to have a sum that could secure him and his family from ever having to suffer like this again.”
“Child,” cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be punished; at least as far as I can punish him.”
“Child,” shouts Allworthy, “you take this forgiving attitude too far. Such misguided mercy is not just a weakness; it borders on injustice and is really harmful to society, as it encourages wrongdoing. I might have been able to forgive this guy’s dishonesty, but never his ingratitude. And let me say, when we feel tempted to excuse dishonesty, we are as kind and merciful as we should be; and I admit I’ve gone that far myself. I’ve often felt sympathy for a highwayman’s fate when I’ve been on the grand jury, and I’ve intervened with the judge on behalf of those who had mitigating circumstances in their cases. But when dishonesty comes with a deeper crime, like cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or something similar, compassion and forgiveness become mistakes. I’m sure this guy is a villain, and he will be punished; at least as much as I can punish him.”
This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr Western now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his cloaths.
This was said in such a serious tone that Jones felt it was best not to respond; besides, the time set by Mr. Western was approaching quickly, and he barely had enough time to get ready. So, the conversation came to an end, and Jones went to another room where Partridge was waiting with his clothes, as instructed.
Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage.
Partridge had barely seen his master since the exciting discovery. The poor guy couldn't contain or express his joy. He acted like someone out of control and made almost as many blunders while getting Jones ready as I've seen Harlequin make while getting himself ready on stage.
His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, “I always told your honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other have it in your power to make my fortune.” Jones assured him that this boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his master.
His memory, however, was far from lacking. He now recalled many signs and predictions of this fortunate event, some of which he had noticed at the time, but many more that came to him now; he also included the dreams he had the night before meeting Jones. He finished by saying, “I always knew that something was telling me you would one day have the chance to make me successful.” Jones promised him that this feeling would definitely prove true for him, just like all the other signs had proven true for himself, which only added to the excitement the poor guy was already feeling about his master.
Chapter xii. — Approaching still nearer to the end.
Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only, to recommend her work.
Jones, now fully dressed, accompanied his uncle to Mr. Western's. He was undeniably one of the most handsome people anyone could see, and just his looks alone would have captivated most women. However, we hope it has already been made clear in this story that when Nature created him, she didn’t solely depend, as she sometimes does, on just this quality to promote her creation.
Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper, overheard by all present, “So much the better for Tom;—for d—n me if he shan't ha the tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost ready to sink from his chair.
Sophia, despite her anger, was presented in the best light possible, which I leave my female readers to consider. She looked so incredibly beautiful that even Allworthy, upon seeing her, couldn't help but whisper to Western that he thought she was the most remarkable person in the world. Western replied, in a whisper that everyone could hear, "That’s great for Tom; I swear he’s going to have his way with her." At those words, Sophia turned completely red, while Tom's face went pale, and he looked like he might faint in his chair.
The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.
The tea table was hardly moved when Western pulled Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had important business to discuss and needed to speak to him right away in private, before he forgot it.
The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might have well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was, however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence.
The lovers were now alone, and it may seem odd to many readers that those who had so much to say when danger and challenges surrounded their conversations, and who seemed eager to throw themselves into each other's arms despite the obstacles, now that they were safe and free to say or do whatever they wanted, both remained silent and motionless for a while. A casual observer might reasonably think they were indifferent to each other; yet, strangely enough, this was the case. They both sat with their eyes cast down on the ground and stayed in complete silence for several minutes.
Mr Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said—
Mr. Jones tried a couple of times to speak during this time, but he couldn't manage it, muttering or more like sighing some jumbled words. Finally, Sophia, partly out of sympathy for him and partly to change the topic she knew he was trying to discuss, said—
“Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery.” “And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said Jones, sighing, “while I have incurred your displeasure?”—“Nay, sir,” says she, “as to that you best know whether you have deserved it.” “Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you yourself are as well apprized of all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?”—“I think, Mr Jones,” said she, “I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct.”—“Alas! madam,” answered he, “it is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must condemn me.—Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true account.” He then insisted much on the security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter as that into her power, “which,” said he, “I have dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you.” “I do not, I cannot,” says she, “believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shews you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy?” “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom.” “Sincere repentance, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof in my power,” answered Jones eagerly. “Time,” replied she; “time alone, Mr Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of persevering in them.” “Do not imagine it,” cries Jones. “On my knees I intreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve.” “Let it then,” said she, “be the business of some part of your life to shew me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word?”
“Of course, sir, you’re the luckiest man in the world to have made this discovery.” “And can you truly, madam, think of me as lucky,” said Jones with a sigh, “when I have upset you?” “Well, sir,” she replied, “only you know whether you’ve earned that displeasure.” “Indeed, madam,” he responded, “you are quite aware of all my faults. Mrs. Miller has informed you of the entire truth. Oh, my Sophia, will I never be able to hope for your forgiveness?” “I think, Mr. Jones,” she said, “that I can mostly rely on your own sense of justice, and I’ll leave it to you to judge your own actions.” “Alas! madam,” he replied, “I seek mercy, not justice, from you. I know justice must condemn me. —Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that, I solemnly declare you have been correctly informed.” He then emphasized the assurance Nightingale had given him about a reasonable excuse for breaking things off, if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship had accepted his offer; but he admitted that he had been very foolish to put such a letter in her hands, “which,” he said, “I have suffered greatly for, considering the effect it has on you.” “I do not, and cannot,” she said, “believe anything about that letter other than what you want me to believe. My actions make it clear that I don’t think it means much. And yet, Mr. Jones, do I not have enough to be upset about? After what happened at Upton, so quickly to become involved with another woman, while I thought, and you claimed, that your heart was aching for me? You’ve acted very strangely. Can I really believe the feelings you’ve professed to me are genuine? Or, if I can, what happiness can I expect with a man capable of such inconsistency?” “Oh! my Sophia,” he cried, “don’t doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that has ever heated a human heart. Think, most wonderful creature, of my unfortunate situation, of my despair. If I, my Sophia, could have even imagined the slightest chance of being allowed to throw myself at your feet in this way, no other woman could have inspired a thought that the strictest virtue could have condemned. Inconstancy to you! Oh Sophia! If you can find it in your heart to forgive what’s happened, don’t let any cruel future worries stop your mercy towards me. No regret has ever been more genuine. Oh! let it bring me back to my heaven in this dear embrace.” “True repentance, Mr. Jones,” she answered, “will earn the forgiveness of a sinner, but it’s from someone who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind can be deceived; there’s no flawless way to prevent that. However, you must expect that if I am persuaded by your repentance to forgive you, I will insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof you want,” Jones replied eagerly. “Time,” she said; “time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that you are truly remorseful and have decided to give up these wrong actions, which I would detest you for if I believed you capable of continuing them.” “Do not think that,” Jones exclaimed. “On my knees, I implore you for your trust, a trust which it will be my life's mission to earn.” “Then let it be,” she said, “that part of your life shows me that you deserve it. I believe I have been clear enough in telling you that when I see you earn my trust, you will receive it. After what’s happened, sir, can you expect me to simply take your word?”
He replied, “Don't believe me upon my word; I have a better security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to doubt.” “What is that?” said Sophia, a little surprized. “I will show you, my charming angel,” cried Jones, seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. “There, behold it there in that lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but your own.” Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing again her brow into a frown—“If I am to judge,” said she, “of the future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of the room.” “By heaven, by all that is sacred!” said Jones, “it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the heart.” “I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia, very gravely, “who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of making such a distinction.” “I will learn it,” said Jones. “I have learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart.” “Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this must be from time. Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your mind is altered too.” “O! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank thy goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my prosperity?——Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope——O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.—I will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short trial. O! tell me when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.” “When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,” said she, “I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not.”—“O! don't look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do not, I dare not press you.—Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. O! consider the impatience of love.”—“A twelvemonth, perhaps,” said she. “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “you have named an eternity.”—“Perhaps it may be something sooner,” says she; “I will not be teazed. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy.”—“Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold a name.——O! transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia happy?”—“Indeed, sir,” said she, “that day is in your own power.”—“O! my dear, my divine angel,” cried he, “these words have made me mad with joy.——But I must, I will thank those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss.” He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before.
He replied, “Don't just take my word for it; I have something better, a proof of my loyalty that's impossible to see and doubt.” “What’s that?” asked Sophia, a bit surprised. “I’ll show you, my lovely angel,” exclaimed Jones, grabbing her hand and leading her to the mirror. “Look at that beautiful figure, that face, those eyes, that mind shining through those eyes; can a man who possesses these things be unfaithful? Impossible! My Sophia, they would captivate even a Dorimant or a Lord Rochester. You wouldn’t doubt it if you could see yourself through anyone else's eyes but your own.” Sophia blushed and smiled a little but then forced her brow into a frown. “If I’m to judge the future by the past,” she said, “my image will fade from your heart when I'm out of sight just like it would from this mirror when I leave the room.” “By heaven, by everything sacred!” said Jones, “it has never left my heart. The delicacy of your gender can't grasp the crudity of ours, nor how little some sorts of affection have to do with the heart.” “I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia very seriously, “who doesn’t refine himself enough to be as incapable as I am of making such a distinction.” “I’ll learn it,” said Jones. “I’ve already learned it. The first moment I hoped my Sophia might be my wife taught me that right away; from then on, all the other women became just as unimportant to my senses as they were to my heart.” “Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this has to come with time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, has changed, and I assure you I’m very pleased with that change. You’ll now have every chance to be near me and show me that your mind has changed too.” “Oh! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank you for your kindness! Are you really so good as to say you find joy in my success?—Believe me, madam, you alone have given meaning to that success, as it has brought me the sweet hope—oh! my Sophia, let it not be a distant hope.—I will obey your wishes. I won’t dare push for anything more than you allow. Yet I beseech you to set a short time for me to prove this is absolutely true.” “Now that I have come this far willingly, Mr. Jones,” she said, “I expect not to be pressured. No, I won’t.”—“Oh! don’t look at me like that, my Sophia,” he cried. “I do not, I dare not press you. Yet please, just once more allow me to ask you to set a timeline. Oh! consider the impatience of love.”—“Maybe a year,” she suggested. “Oh! my Sophia,” he exclaimed, “you’ve named an eternity.”—“It might be a little sooner,” she replied; “I won’t be nagged. If your feelings for me are what I hope they are, you should be content now.”—“Content? Sophia, don’t call the overwhelming happiness I feel by such a cold word. Oh! what a joyful thought! Am I not certain that the blessed day will come when I can call you mine; when fears will be gone; when I can have the precious, vast, exquisite joy of making my Sophia happy?”—“Indeed, sir,” she said, “that day is in your hands.”—“Oh! my dear, my divine angel,” he cried, “your words have driven me mad with joy. But I must, I will thank those lovely lips that have sweetly spoken my bliss.” He then pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a passion he had never dared before.
At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, “To her, boy, to her, go to her.——That's it, little honeys, O that's it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved.” “Let me beseech you, sir,” says Jones, “don't let me be the occasion”——“Beseech mine a——,” cries Western. “I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks.——I tell thee 'tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! she'd have the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?” “Why should I confess, sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you are so well acquainted with my thoughts?”——“That's a good girl,” cries he, “and dost consent then?” “No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such consent.”—-“And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says Western.—“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I can tell thee,” replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou dost love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.” “Pray, sir,” said Jones, interfering——“I tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to disoblige and contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi' un thy hand this moment.”—“Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you.—There is my hand, Mr Jones.” “Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning?” says Western.—“I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries she.—“Why then to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,” says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently crying out—“Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without now, a talking with that d—d lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.
At that moment, Western, who had been listening for a while, burst into the room and shouted with his loud hunting voice, “Go to her, boy, go to her.——That's it, little honeys, O that's it! Well! What's the deal, is it all sorted? Has she set the date, boy? Is it going to be tomorrow or the next day? It can't be pushed off for more than a day, I’m determined.” “Please, sir,” said Jones, “don't let me be the cause of this”—“Don't give me that nonsense,” yelled Western. “I thought you were a guy with more guts than to give in to a bunch of timid behaviors.——I tell you, it's all nonsense. Zoodikers! She'd have the wedding tonight if she could. Wouldn't you, Sophy? Come on, admit it, and be honest for once. What's wrong? Why aren't you talking?” “Why should I admit anything, sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you already know what I’m thinking?”——“That’s a good girl,” he shouted, “so do you agree then?” “No, not at all, sir,” replied Sophia, “I have given no such agreement.”——“And you won’t want it tomorrow or the next day then?” Western asked. “Honestly, sir,” she said, “I have no such plans.” “But I can tell you,” he replied, “the only reason you don’t is that you love being disobedient and annoying your father.” “Please, sir,” said Jones, stepping in——“You’re just being foolish,” Western shouted. “When I forbade her, it was all about sighing and whining and writing letters; now that I’m for you, she’s against you. It’s just the spirit of contradiction, that’s all. She refuses to be guided or controlled by her father, that’s the whole truth of it. She just wants to upset and contradict me.” “What does my dad want me to do?” Sophia cried. “What do I want you to do?” he asked, “Well, give him your hand right now.” “Alright, sir,” said Sophia, “I will obey you.——Here’s my hand, Mr. Jones.” “Well, will you agree to have him tomorrow morning?” Western asked. “I will listen to you, sir,” she replied. “Then tomorrow morning will be the day,” he declared. “Then tomorrow morning shall be the day, dad, since you insist,” Sophia said. Jones then fell to his knees and kissed her hand in overwhelming joy, while Western started to dance around the room, suddenly shouting, “Where the devil is Allworthy? He’s outside talking to that damned lawyer Dowling when he should be focused on other things.” He then rushed out to find him, conveniently leaving the lovers to enjoy a few tender moments alone.
But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won't believe me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married to-morrow?” “Such are your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and I dare not be guilty of disobedience.” “I hope, madam,” cries Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,” cries Western, “but if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring her to.” “I hope not, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least constraint.” “Why, there,” cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed, papa,” cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men. And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it.” “His best endeavours!” cries Western, “that he will, I warrant un.——Harkee, Allworthy, I'll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please Jupiter, we'll make a night on't.” “Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you must excuse me; both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his happiness.”—“Engaged!” quoth the squire, “never tell me.—I won't part with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry.” “You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!” answered Allworthy; “I have given a solemn promise, and that you know I never break.” “Why, prithee, who art engaged to?” cries the squire.——Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the company.——“Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with thee, and so shall Sophy! for I won't part with thee to-night; and it would be barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” This offer was presently embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from her father that he would not mention a syllable concerning her marriage.
But he soon came back with Allworthy, saying, “If you won’t believe me, you can ask her yourself. Have you given your consent, Sophia, to get married tomorrow?” “It’s what you want, sir,” Sophia replied, “and I can’t disobey.” “I hope, madam,” Allworthy said, “that my nephew will deserve such goodness and will always appreciate the great honor you’ve brought to my family. An alliance with such a charming and excellent young lady would indeed be an honor to the highest in England.” “Yes,” Western exclaimed, “but if I had let her wait around, you might not have had that honor yet; I had to use a bit of fatherly authority to get her to agree.” “I hope not, sir,” Allworthy responded. “I hope there’s no coercion.” “Well, there,” Western said, “you can get her to take it all back if you want. Do you regret your promise, Sophia?” “Honestly, papa,” she replied, “I don’t regret it, nor do I believe I ever will, because it's a promise in favor of Mr. Jones.” “Then, nephew,” Allworthy exclaimed, “I congratulate you very warmly; I think you’re the happiest of men. And, madam, I trust you’ll allow me to congratulate you on this joyful occasion; indeed, I’m sure you’ve given yourself to someone who will appreciate your great worth and will at least do his best to deserve it.” “His best efforts!” Western said, “I bet he will! — Listen, Allworthy, I’ll bet you five pounds to a crown that we have a boy tomorrow in nine months; but please tell me what you’d like! Do you want Burgundy, Champagne, or something else? Because, by Jupiter, we’re going to celebrate.” “Actually, sir,” Allworthy replied, “you must excuse me; both my nephew and I are committed to something else before I realized this happiness was upon us.” “Committed!” the squire said, “don’t tell me that. I won’t let you leave me tonight for any reason. You’ll have dinner here, if it pleases the lord Harry.” “You must forgive me, my dear neighbor!” Allworthy answered. “I’ve made a solemn promise, and you know I never break them.” “Well, who are you committed to?” the squire asked. — Allworthy then explained, along with details about the company. — “Goodness!” the squire gasped, “I’ll go with you, and so will Sophy! I won’t let you leave tonight; it would be cruel to separate Tom and the girl.” Allworthy quickly accepted this offer, and Sophia agreed after getting a private promise from her father that he wouldn’t say a word about her marriage.
Chapter the last.
In which the history is concluded.
Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on his father, who received him much more kindly than he expected. There likewise he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his new-married daughter.
Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to visit his father, who welcomed him much more warmly than he expected. There he also met his uncle, who had returned to town in search of his newly married daughter.
This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to the young gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of contention about the government of their children, both heartily despising the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now endeavoured, as much as he could, to palliate the offence which his own child had committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This desire of triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to sup with him that evening at Mrs Miller's.
This marriage was the luckiest thing that could have happened to the young man; because these brothers were always at odds about how to raise their kids, both completely disapproving of each other's methods. As a result, each of them tried as hard as possible to defend their child's wrongdoings while criticizing the other's match. This desire to outdo his brother, combined with the many points Allworthy had made, influenced the old man so much that he met his son with a smile and actually agreed to have dinner with him that evening at Mrs. Miller's.
As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most immoderate affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him to a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his daughter and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly go to her. And when he arrived there he scarce suffered her to fall upon her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness which affected all who saw him; and in less than a quarter of an hour was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had himself joined their hands.
As for the other man, who truly loved his daughter with overwhelming affection, it wasn't hard to persuade him to make up. As soon as his nephew told him where his daughter and her husband were, he said he would go to her immediately. When he got there, he barely let her kneel before him before he picked her up and hugged her with a warmth that touched everyone who witnessed it. Within less than fifteen minutes, he was as close with both her and her husband as if he had married them himself.
In this situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his company arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs Miller, who no sooner saw Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened; and so great was her friendship to Jones, that it added not a few transports to those she felt on the happiness of her own daughter.
In this situation, when Mr. Allworthy and his group arrived to bring happiness to Mrs. Miller, she immediately guessed everything that had happened upon seeing Sophia. Her strong friendship with Jones only added to the joy she felt for her own daughter’s happiness.
There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people met together, where every one was so perfectly happy as in this company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the least perfect content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son, notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be satisfied with his son's choice; and, perhaps, the presence of Sophia herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his concern, as a thought now and then suggested itself that his son might have had that lady, or some other such. Not that any of the charms which adorned either the person or mind of Sophia created the uneasiness; it was the contents of her father's coffers which set his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could not bear to think his son had sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs Miller.
I don’t think there have been many times when a group of people gathered together where everyone was as perfectly happy as in this company. Among them, the father of young Nightingale felt the least content. Despite his love for his son, the influence and arguments of Allworthy, along with the other motive mentioned earlier, he couldn't fully accept his son's choice. And maybe the presence of Sophia herself made his concerns a bit worse, as he sometimes thought that his son could have had her or someone like her. It wasn't any of Sophia's qualities, whether in her appearance or her character, that bothered him; it was the wealth of her family that he longed for. Those were the things he couldn't bear to think his son had given up for Mrs. Miller's daughter.
The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not been two of the best-tempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in their breasts; for neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving homage, or, rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from all around her. But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she exacted; for she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability as by all her other perfections.
The brides were both very attractive women, but they were completely overshadowed by Sophia's beauty. If they hadn't been two of the best-natured girls in the world, it might have sparked some jealousy in them; neither of their husbands could take their eyes off Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving tribute, or rather, like a remarkable being being adored by everyone around her. But the admiration they showed was genuine, not something she demanded; she was known for her modesty and friendliness just as much as for all her other qualities.
The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those the most who had been most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and fears gave such a relish to their felicity as even love and fortune, in their fullest flow, could not have given without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet, as great joy, especially after a sudden change and revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry of the whole company; which Western observed with great impatience, often crying out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so grave? Hast lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; sha't drink another glass.” And, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes sing a merry song, which bore some relation to matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead. Nay, he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the room, if Mr Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice by a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began, indeed, once to debate the matter, and assert his right to talk to his own daughter as he thought fit; but, as nobody seconded him, he was soon reduced to order.
The evening was filled with genuine happiness. Everyone was joyful, especially those who had been the unhappiest before. Their past struggles and fears made their joy even sweeter, something that love and good fortune alone couldn’t have provided without such a contrast. However, great joy, particularly after sudden changes in circumstances, tends to be quiet and is felt more in the heart than expressed in words. As a result, Jones and Sophia seemed the least cheerful of the group; Mr. Western noticed this with frustration, frequently calling out to them, “Why aren't you talking, boy? Why do you look so serious? Have you lost your tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; you should drink another glass.” To liven things up, he would sometimes sing a cheerful song about marriage and losing one's virginity. In fact, he almost pushed the topic far enough to make her leave the room if Mr. Allworthy hadn’t intervened, sometimes with a look, and once or twice with a “Fie! Mr. Western!” He did start to argue his right to speak to his own daughter as he saw fit, but since no one supported him, he quickly fell back in line.
Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he insisted on their meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the lovely Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated as the mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the honours of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in the chapel at Doctors'-Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs Miller, were the only persons present.
Despite this small restraint, he was so happy with the cheerfulness and friendliness of the group that he insisted they meet again the next day at his place. They all agreed; and the lovely Sophia, who had privately become a bride as well, took on the role of hostess, or as people politely put it, she did the honors at the table. That morning, she had given her hand to Jones in the chapel at Doctors' Commons, where Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Western, and Mrs. Miller were the only attendees.
Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company, who were that day to dine with him, should be acquainted with her marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs Miller, and Jones undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public entertainment which, in compliance with her father's will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against her own inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy she went through the day pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into the second bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper, drank a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth, there was not a person present made wiser by this discovery; for Mrs Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband to his sister, and she to all the rest.
Sophia had earnestly asked her father that none of the guests dining with him that day should know about her marriage. The same request was made to Mrs. Miller, and Jones assured Allworthy he would keep it quiet. This somewhat eased Sophia's discomfort about attending the public event that she was obligated to go to, despite her own strong reservations. Confident in this secrecy, she managed to get through the day relatively well, until the squire, who was now on his second bottle, could no longer contain his excitement and toasted the bride. Everyone quickly raised their glasses in agreement, causing great embarrassment for our poor blushing Sophia and deep concern for Jones about her reaction. To be honest, no one in the room ended up any wiser from this revelation; Mrs. Miller had whispered it to her daughter, who told her husband, who then shared it with his sister, and she passed it on to everyone else.
Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies, and the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, by degrees, deserted by all the company except the uncle of young Nightingale, who loved his bottle as well as Western himself. These two, therefore, sat stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long after that happy hour which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her enraptured Jones.
Sophia took the first chance to step away with the ladies, while the squire continued drinking, gradually being left alone by everyone except for the uncle of young Nightingale, who enjoyed his drinks just as much as Western did. So, the two of them kept drinking together throughout the entire evening, well beyond that joyful moment when the lovely Sophia was handed over to the eager embrace of her captivated Jones.
Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy expectation, Mr Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind; for what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered.
So, reader, we have finally wrapped up our story, and to our great delight, even if it might surprise you, Mr. Jones turns out to be the happiest person alive; because honestly, I have never found any happiness in this world that compares to having a woman like Sophia.
As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we will proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.
As for the other people who have played a significant role in this history, since some might want to know a bit more about them, we will go ahead, using as few words as possible, to satisfy that curiosity.
Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle £200 a-year upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200 miles distant from London, and lays up £200 a-year out of it, in order to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a neighbouring borough, which he has bargained for with an attourney there. He is also lately turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect, whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom.
Allworthy has not yet been persuaded to meet Blifil, but he has agreed to the persistent requests of Jones, supported by Sophia, to provide him with £200 a year; to which Jones has secretly added a third. With this income, he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200 miles from London, and saves £200 a year from it to buy a seat in the next parliament from a nearby borough, which he has negotiated with a local attorney. He has also recently become a Methodist, hoping to marry a very wealthy widow from that faith, whose estate is located in that part of the country.
Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; and as to Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate himself with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr Allworthy hath lately taken Mr Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her children.
Square died shortly after he wrote the letter mentioned earlier; as for Thwackum, he is still at his vicarage. He has made many unsuccessful attempts to win back Allworthy’s trust or to get in good with Jones, flattering them both to their faces while talking bad behind their backs. Meanwhile, Mr. Allworthy has recently welcomed Mr. Abraham Adams into his home, and Sophia has become quite fond of him, stating that he will be responsible for the education of her children.
Mrs Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of the town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three times the income of her fortune, without running into debt. She maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in acts of friendship to her repays all obligations she owes her husband.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband and still holds on to what’s left of her fortune. She lives respectably in the nicer part of town and is such a skilled budgeter that she manages to spend three times the income from her fortune without going into debt. She maintains a close friendship with the wife of the Irish peer and repays all the favors she owes her husband through acts of kindness towards her.
Mrs Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent two months together with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the latter a formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to Jones as a perfect stranger, and, with great civility, wished him joy on his marriage.
Mrs. Western quickly made up with her niece Sophia, and they spent two months together in the countryside. When Lady Bellaston returned to town, she paid a formal visit to Sophia, treating Jones like a complete stranger and politely congratulating him on his marriage.
Mr Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the neighbourhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable intercourse subsists between the two families.
Mr. Nightingale has bought a property for his son near Jones, where the young man, his wife, Mrs. Miller, and her little daughter live, and the two families have a very friendly relationship.
As to those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into the country, had a pension of £60 a-year settled upon her by Mr Allworthy, and is married to Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western hath bestowed a considerable living.
As for the less fortunate, Mrs. Waters went back to the countryside, received a yearly pension of £60 from Mr. Allworthy, and married Parson Supple, who, at Sophia's request, Western granted a substantial position.
Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and was never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his family, but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.
Black George, upon hearing about the discovery, ran off and was never heard from again; Jones gave the money to his family, but not equally, as Molly received the largest portion.
As for Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and he hath again set up a school, in which he meets with much better encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage on foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect.
As for Partridge, Jones has arranged a salary of £50 a year for him; and he has started a school again, where he is receiving much better support than before. There's also a proposal for marriage between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, with Sophia's help, is likely to succeed.
We now return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, within two days after their marriage, attended Mr Western and Mr Allworthy into the country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater part of his estate, to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser house of his in another part of the country, which is better for hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing everything in their power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended with such success, that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his life till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to himself, where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is still as ready as formerly to play to him whenever he desires it; for Jones hath assured her that, as, next to pleasing her, one of his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old man; so, the great duty which she expresses and performs to her father, renders her almost equally dear to him with the love which she bestows on himself.
We now return to say goodbye to Mr. Jones and Sophia, who, just two days after their wedding, went with Mr. Western and Mr. Allworthy to the countryside. Western has handed over his family home and most of his estate to his son-in-law and has moved to a smaller house in another part of the country that's better for hunting. In fact, he often visits Mr. Jones, who, along with his daughter, loves to do everything they can to make him happy. Their efforts are so successful that the old man says he's never been happier in his life. He has a sitting room and an ante-room just for himself, where he drinks with whoever he likes; and his daughter is just as eager as ever to play for him whenever he asks. Jones has assured her that, next to making her happy, one of his greatest pleasures is contributing to the old man's happiness. So, the great care she shows for her father makes her almost as dear to him as the love she gives to Jones.
Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl, of whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his time in the nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little grand-daughter, who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of dogs in England.
Sophia has already given him two lovely children, a boy and a girl. The old man is so fond of them that he spends a lot of his time in the nursery, where he says the chatter of his little granddaughter, who is over a year and a half old, is sweeter than the best sounds of dogs in England.
Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and hath omitted no instance of shewing his affection to him and his lady, who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice, has been corrected by continual conversation with this good man, and by his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively parts.
Allworthy was also very generous to Jones regarding the marriage, and he made sure to express his affection for him and his wife, who love him like a father. Any tendency toward vice in Jones has been corrected through constant conversation with this good man and by his relationship with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He has also, by reflecting on his past mistakes, gained a level of discretion and wisdom that is quite rare in someone as spirited as he is.
To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman, than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their relations and friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his Sophia.
To wrap up, there isn't a better man and woman than this loving couple, and you can't imagine anyone happier. They share the purest and deepest love for each other, a love that grows stronger every day through kind gestures and mutual respect. Their behavior toward their family and friends is just as lovely as it is toward each other. They're so generous, understanding, and kind to those less fortunate that every neighbor, tenant, and servant is grateful for the day Mr. Jones married his Sophia.
FINIS.
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