The History Of Tom Jones, A Foundling / Fielding, Henry

                                      1749

                     THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING

                               by Henry Fielding

                                     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 1

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 tortise- 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.

  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.

  But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the
cookery of the author; for, as Mr. Pope tells us-

      True wit is nature to advantage drest;

      What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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
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."

  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 outpleaded
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 maidservant 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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high
a hill as Mr. Allworthy 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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!"

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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.

  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 preeminence, and schemes
to effect her intended discovery.

  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.

  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.

  Whenever Mrs. Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary
condescension to Miss 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.

  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.

  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 it is 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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  Though Mrs. Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny,
from the reasons above shown, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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?

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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?

  "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 beat 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?"

  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.

  "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."

  Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look
and decent voice thus 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

                                Chapter 8

  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.

  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
Shakespear, "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 Miss 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."

  *Things which do not appear are to be treated the same as those
which do not exist.- COKE

  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.

  At these words Miss 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.

  With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze
of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Miss 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."

  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.

  This behaviour of Miss 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.

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at
the least might gave 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.

  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.

  *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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 10

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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?

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 11

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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 passionately fond, that he
would most probably have contracted marriage with had he been
obliged to have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 12

  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.

  The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr. Allworthy;
and this was undertaken by the doctor.

  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-"

  "Indeed but he is," said Allworthy, "and a brother of mine too."

  "Bless me, sir!" said the doctor, "do you know the shocking affair?"

  "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."

  *Of her own right.

  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.

  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?

  "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.

  "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.

  "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."

  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.

                                Chapter 13

  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 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."

  Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time;
but he afterwards made a very notable 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.

  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.

 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!

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

                                    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 1

  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.

  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-

     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.

Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
than that 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  *By divine right.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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.

  He told his sister, if she pleased, the newborn 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.

  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 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."

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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.

  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 neighboring 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition

     To make a life of jealousy,

     And follow still the changes of the moon

     With fresh suspicions-

With her, as well as him,

     ----To be once in doubt,

     Was once to be resolv'd-----

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.

  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:

     ----Leve fit, quod bene fertur onus-

in English:

     A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne-

which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he
had often occasion to experience the truth.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 preeminence. 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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, 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.

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  *In one voice.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at
last took an opportunity to reveal 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.

  "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."

  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.

  "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."

  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.

  "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 world 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.

  "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.

  "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?"

  "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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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.

  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.

  But to return to Mrs. Wilkins, who, having executed her commission
with great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back
such 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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. Is
it 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."

  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, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 8

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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:

     Tu secanda marmora

       Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri

     Immemor, struis domos.

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."

                                Chapter 9

  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.

  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.

  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.

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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?

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                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

                               HER VIRTUES

                          AND OF HER AFFECTION.

                                    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 1

  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.

  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
conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in
the preceding 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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
horseloads themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any
such heathenish 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

     Fruges consumere nati,

"Born to consume the fruits of the earth"; so I make no manner of
doubt but that there are others

     Feras consumere nati,

"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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  "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?"

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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."

  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, must less dictate an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too
shocking to be conceived."

  "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 agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, "with a man who
asserts honour to be antecedent to 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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding
of 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.

  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 effectation, they have
become the worst of civil curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate
the most cruel mischiefs to their own species.

  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!

  Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want or
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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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!"

  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."

  "What fib, child?" cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.

  "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."

  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?"

  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."

  Mr. Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the
boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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).

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 AMEN.
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.

  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.

  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 comly 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 8

  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.

  This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a
neighbouring 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.

  "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.

  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 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.

  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:-

  "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."

  "Like whose, child?" 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 10

  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 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 reader. The
truth of which 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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                    BOOK IV

                         CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR

                                Chapter 1

  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-

     While- history with her comrade ale,

     Soothes the sad series of her serious tale.

  For 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.

  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 everlasting
watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be
proof against a newspaper of many volumes.

  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.

  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.

  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:-

  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.

  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
country-women will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to
answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able
to raise.

  And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next
chapter.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

 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!

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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:-

     Her lips were red, and one was thin,

     Compar'd to that was next her chin,

       Some bee had stung it newly.

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 Pure and eloquent blood

     Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought

     That one might almost say her body thought.

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,

     Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius.

     A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of
some previous matters may be necessary.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom
Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her
assistance.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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?"

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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."

  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."

  "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."

  "How!" says the parson, "do you then banish revelation? Am I talking
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."

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  "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."

  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--"

  "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 if pride was not forbidden," said Thwackum, "I might boast of
having taught him that duty which he himself assigned 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?"

  The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:-

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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?"

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  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.

  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 dangerous leaps for 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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 his backwardness to so fine a girl,
who seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to
receive 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 man's daughter from the motive of love,
and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  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, 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.

  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.

  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, giggling,
tittering, and laughing ensued among the women, that Mr. Allworthy was
obliged to exert his authority to preserve any decency among them.

                                Chapter 8

  A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican stile, 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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of
them in their flight overthrew each other.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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."

  "You need not upbraid me with that, mother," cried Molly; "you
yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you
was 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."

  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 interval occurred, he acquainted the company with 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!"

  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.

  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 portion, 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."

  "Well, but consider," cried George, "what answer shall I make to
madam?"

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 10

  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 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.

  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.

  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 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

     Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.

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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

  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."

  "I should be very sorry for that," says the parson.

  "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."

  "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

     Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris.

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."

  "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."

  "I thought," said the parson, "he had never been at the university."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

                                Chapter 11

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  "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."

  "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."

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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 nor to
think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the
unerring rule of 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.

                                Chapter 12

  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.

  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:-

  "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-"

  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."

  "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!--"

  "Stop thy torrent of impertinence," cries Sophia, "and see whether
my father wants 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those
of the body. For which reason, 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 ten unintelligible.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 13

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 on end on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his
back, and 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 sollicitous 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."

  "What misfortune?" replied Sophia eagerly; "I hope you have come
to no mischief?"

  "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."

  Sophia then screamed out, "Broke your arm! Heaven forbid."

  "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."

  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.

  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."

  The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on
foot, with his daughter and ones. 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 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.*

  *The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
sentiment is entirely left out 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.

                                Chapter 14

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the
audience, though 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  *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.

  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."

  "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 footman,
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."

  Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found
out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion.
"Honour," 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--"

  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.

                                     BOOK V

         CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR

                                Chapter 1

  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.

  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.

  *Every man is to be trusted in his own art.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  *An assertion without proof.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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

     Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes.

     Who by invented arts have life improved.

I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment,
called 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 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.

  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:

     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.

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,

     Sleepless himself to give 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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."

  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."

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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 controuled 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
bad 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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-

     --Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti

     Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,

     Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinoe.

     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 surprise. 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.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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.

  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 let towards her
bed-chamber; but when he came to the top, he, to his great surprise,
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.

  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.

  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 hei
much happier than she could be by leading a disreputable 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."-

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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 likely to plunge herself.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 counter-plotting 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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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. 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 Esculapian 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'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-

     Let guilt or fear

     Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;

     Indifferent in his choice to sleep or 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.

  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 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.

  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 in 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only
L500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother,
and except one other estate of L500 a-year, and the sum of L6000,
which I have bestowed in the following manner:

  "The estate of L500 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 L1000 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."

  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.

  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.

  "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.

  "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 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.-

  "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.

  "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.

  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.

  After this Mr. Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow,
and endeavoured to compose himself to rest.

                                Chapter 8

  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, 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 clothes 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.

  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.

  About an hour after they had left the sickroom, 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 this 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."

  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.

  It was now debated whether Mr. Allworthy should be informed of the
death of his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in s sister. n
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.

  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 sickroom; 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.

  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.

  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,

     Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,

     If there be none, then wipe away that none,

he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before
acquainted with.

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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 toast% he became
very soon literally 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."

  "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."

  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."

     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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 10

  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.

  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:

  "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."

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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

     Speluncam Blifil dux et divinus eandem

     Deveniunt-*

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.

  *A play on The Aeneid, IV, 124: "Dido and the Trojan prince to the
same cave shall come."

  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.

  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.

  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 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 utter forth every step he took, that this
alone must have abundantly satisfied Jones that he was (to use the
language of sportsmen) found sitting.

                                Chapter 11

  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),

     --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

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 sentinel over his love,
stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft
in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.

  *This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 12

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 our her arms, opened her
eyes, and cried, "Oh! heavens!" just as her father, aunt, and the
parson came up.

  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.

  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 excepied his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch
(for so he called his favourite 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."

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of
this history.

                                    BOOK VI

                          CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS

                                Chapter 1

  Of love

  In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the
passion of love; and in our succeeding book shall be forced to
handle this subject still more largely. It may not therefore in this
place be improper to apply ourselves to the examination of that modern
doctrine, by which certain philosophers, among many other wonderful
discoveries, pretend to have found out, that there is no such
passion in the human breast.

  Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect,
who are honourably mentioned by the late Dr. Swift, as having, by
the mere force of genius alone, without the least assistance of any
kind of learning, or even reading, discovered that profound and
invaluable secret that there is no God; or whether they are not rather
the same with those who some years since very much alarmed the
world, by showing that there were no such things as virtue or goodness
really existing in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from
pride, I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined
to suspect, that all these several finders of truth, are the very
identical men who are by others called the finders of gold. The method
used in both these searches after truth and after gold, being indeed
one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, and examining into a
nasty place; indeed, in the former instances, into the nastiest of all
places, A BAD MIND.

  But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the
truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be compared
together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between
the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder that had the impudence or
folly to assert, from the ill success of his search, that there was no
such thing as gold in the world? whereas the truth-finder, having
raked out that jakes, his own mind, and being there capable of tracing
no ray of divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or
loving, very fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such
things exist in the whole creation.

  To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these
philosophers, if they will be called so; and to show our own
disposition to accommodate matters peaceably between us, we shall here
make them some concessions, which may possibly put an end to the
dispute.

  First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the
philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a
passion.

  Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of
satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate
white human flesh, is by no means that passion for which I here
contend. This is indeed more properly hunger; and as no glutton is
ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, and to say he LOVES
such and such dishes; so may the lover of this kind, with equal
propriety, say, he HUNGERS after such and such women.

  Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable
concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, though it
satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth nevertheless
seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest of all our
appetites.

  And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a
different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to
call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above; and which
it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its delights to a
degree scarce imaginable by those who have never been susceptible of
any other emotions than what have proceeded from appetite alone.

  In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers
to grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human breasts a
kind and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by contributing to
the happiness of others. That in this gratification alone, as in
friendship, in parental and filial affection, as indeed in general
philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite delight. That if we
will not call such disposition love, we have no name for it. That
though the pleasures arising from such pure love may be heightened and
sweetened by the assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can
subsist alone, nor are they destroyed by the intervention of the
latter. Lastly, that esteem and gratitude are the proper motives to
love, as youth and beauty are to desire, and, therefore, though such
desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness overtakes its object;
yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or remove, from a
good mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and esteem
for its basis.

  To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest
instances, seems to be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed
only from that self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but
how unfair is this! Doth the man who recognizes in his own heart no
traces of avarice or ambition, conclude, therefore, that there are
no such passions in human nature? Why will we not modestly observe the
same rule in judging of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or
why, in any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, "put the world in
our own person?"

  Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is
one instance of that adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and
this almost universally. For there is scarce any man, how much
soever he may despise the character of a flatterer, but will
condescend in the meanest manner to flatter himself.

  To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above
observations, whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have
advanced.

  Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do
believe these matters with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their
exemplification in the following pages: if you do not, you have, I
assure you, already read more than you have understood; and it would
be wiser to pursue your business, or your pleasures (such as they
are), than to throw away any more of your time in reading what you can
neither taste nor comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to
you, must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind;
since possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we are
told such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; that
colour seemed to him to be very much like the sound of a trumpet:
and love probably may, in your opinion, very greatly resemble a dish
of soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.

                                Chapter 2

  The character of Mrs. Western. Her great learning and knowledge of
the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived
from those advantages

  The reader hath seen Mr. Western, his sister, and daughter, with
young Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr. Western's house,
where the greater part of the company spent the evening with much
joy and festivity. Sophia was indeed the only grave person; for as
to Jones, though love had now gotten entire possession of his heart,
yet the pleasing reflection on Mr. Allworthy's recovery, and the
presence of his mistress, joined to some tender looks which she now
and then could not refrain from giving him, so elevated our heroe,
that he joined the mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as
good-humoured people as any in the world.

  Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning
at breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual,
leaving her father and aunt together. The squire took no notice of
this change in his daughter's disposition. To say the truth, though he
was somewhat of a politician, and had been twice a candidate in the
country interest at an election, he was a man of no great observation.
His sister was a lady of a different turn. She had lived about the
court, and had seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that
knowledge which the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect
mistress of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her
erudition stop here. She had considerably improved her mind by
study; she had not only read all the modern plays, operas,
oratorios, poems, and romances- in all which she was a critic; but
had gone through Rapin's History of England, Eachard's Roman
History, and many French Memoires pour servir a 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.

  By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs. Western had now, as she
thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The
first hint of this she took from the behaviour of the young lady in
the field of battle; and the suspicion which she then conceived, was
greatly corroborated by some observations which she had made that
evening and the next morning. However, being greatly cautious to avoid
being found in a mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight
in her bosom, giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks,
nods, and now and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed
sufficiently alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother.

  Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her
observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when she was
alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles in the
following manner:-

  "Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary
in my niece lately?"- "No, not I," answered Western; "is anything the
matter with the girl?"- "I think there is," replied she; "and
something of much consequence too."- "Why, she doth not complain of
anything," cries Western; "and she hath had the small-pox."-
"Brother," returned she, "girls are liable to other distempers besides
the small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse." Here Western
interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged her, if anything
ailed his daughter, to acquaint him immediately; adding, "she knew he
loved her more than his own soul, and that he would send to the
world's end for the best physician to her." "Nay, nay," answered she,
smiling, "the distemper is not so terrible; but I believe, brother,
you are convinced I know the world, and I promise you I was never more
deceived in my life, if my niece be not most desperately in love."-
"How! in love!" cries Western, in a passion; "in love, without
acquainting me! I'll disinherit her; I'll turn her out of doors, stark
naked, without a farthing. Is all my kindness vor 'ur, and vondness
o'ur come to this, to fall in love without asking me leave?"- "But you
will not," answered Mrs. Western, "turn this daughter, whom you love
better than your own soul, out of doors, before you know whether you
shall approve her choice. Suppose she should have fixed on the very
person whom you yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry
then?"- "No, no," cries Western, "that would make a difference. If she
marries the man I would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I
shan't trouble my head about that." "That is spoken," answered the
sister, "like a sensible man; but I believe the very person she hath
chosen would be the very person you would choose for her. I will
disclaim all knowledge of the world, if it is not so; and I believe,
brother, you will allow I have some."- "Why, lookee, sister," said
Western, "I do believe you have as much as any woman; and to be sure
those are women's matters. You know I don't love to hear you talk
about politics; they belong to us, and petticoats should not meddle:
but come, who is the man?"- "Marry!" said she, "you may find him out
yourself if you please. You, who are so great a politician, can be at
no great loss. The judgment which can penetrate into the cabinets of
princes, and discover the secret springs which move the great state
wheels in all the political machines of Europe, must surely, with very
little difficulty, find out what passes in the rude uninformed mind of
a girl."- "Sister," cries the squire, "I have often warn'd you not to
talk the court gibberish to me. I tell you, I don't understand the
lingo: but I can read a journal, or the London Evening Post. Perhaps,
indeed, there may be now and tan a verse which I can't make much of,
because half the letters are left out; yet I know very well what is
meant by that, and that our affairs don't go so well as they should
do, because of bribery and corruption."- "I pity your country
ignorance from my heart," cries the lady.- "Do you?" answered Western;
"and I pity your town learning; I had rather be anything than a
courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some people, I
believe, are."- "If you mean me," answered she, "you know I am a
woman, brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides-" - "I do
know you are a woman," cries the squire, "and it's well for thee that
art one; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick
long ago."- "Ay, there," said she, "in that flick lies all your
fancied superiority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger
than ours. Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat
us; or, such is the superiority of our understanding, we should make
all of you what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are
already- our slaves."- "I am glad I know your mind," answered the
squire. "But we'll talk more of this matter another time. At present,
do tell me what man is it you mean about my daughter?"- "Hold a
moment," said she, "while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for
your sex; or else I ought to be angry too with you. There-- I have
made a shift to gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what think
you of Mr. Blifil? Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless
on the ground? Did she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again
the moment we came up to that part of the field where he stood? And
pray what else should be the occasion of all her melancholy that night
at supper, the next morning, and indeed ever since?"- "Fore George!"
cries the squire, "now you mind me on't, I remember it all. It is
certainly so, and I am glad on't with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a
good girl, and would not fall in love to make me angry. I was never
more rejoiced in my life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our
two estates. I had this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly
the two estates are in a manner joined together in matrimony already,
and it would be a thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed,
there be larger estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I
had rather bate something, than marry my daughter among strangers and
foreigners. Besides, most o' zuch great estates be in the hands of
lords, and I heate the very name of themmun. Well but, sister, what
would you advise me to do; for I tell you women know these matters
better than we do?"- "Oh, your humble servant, sir," answered the
lady: "we are obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything.
Since you are pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I
think you may propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no
indecorum in the proposal's coming from the parent of either side.
King Alcinous, in Mr. Pope's Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses.
I need not caution so politic a person not to say that your daughter
is in love; that would indeed be against all rules." "Well," said the
squire, "I will propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick,
if he should refuse me." "Fear not," cries Mrs. Western; "the match is
too advantageous to be refused." "I don't know that," answered the
squire: "Allworthy is a queer b--ch, and money hath no effect o'un."
"Brother," said the lady, "your politics astonish me. Are you really
to be imposed on by professions? Do you think Mr. Allworthy hath
more contempt for money than other men because he professes more? Such
credulity would better become one of us weak women, than that wise sex
which heaven hath formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would
make a fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. They would soon
persuade you, that they take towns out of mere defensive
principles." "Sister," answered the squire, with much scorn, "let your
friends at court answer for the towns taken; as you are a woman, I
shall lay ho blame upon you; for I suppose they are wiser than to
trust women with secrets." He accompanied this with so sarcastical a
laugh, that Mrs. Western could bear no longer. She had been all this
time fretted in a tender part (for she was indeed very deeply
skilled in these matters, and very violent in them), and therefore,
burst forth in a rage, declared her brother to be both a clown and a
blockhead, and that she would stay no longer in his house.

  The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was,
however, in many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all
those wise tenets, which are so well inculcated in that
Politico-Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just
value and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise
well skilled in the exact value of reversions, expectations, &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.

  Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose
escape from the stable no place but the window was left open, he
next applied himself to his sister; softened and soothed her, by
unsaying all he had said, and by assertions directly contrary to those
which had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned the eloquence of Sophia to
his assistance, who, besides a most graceful and winning address,
had the advantage of being heard with great favour and partiality by
her aunt.

  The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs. Western, who
said, "Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those
have their use in the army of the empress queen, so you likewise
have some good in you. I will therefore once more sign a treaty of
peace with you, and see that you do not infringe it on your side; at
least, as you are so excellent a politician, I may expect you will
keep your leagues, like the French, till your interest calls upon
you to break them."

                                Chapter 3

  Containing two defiances to the critics

  The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen
in the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the
proposal to Allworthy, that Mrs. Western had the utmost difficulty
to prevent him from visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for
this purpose.

  Mr. Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr. Western at the
time when he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged
out of the custody of physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on
all occasions, both the highest and the lowest) of fulfilling his
engagement.

  In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last
chapter, and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from
certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some
apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion for
Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of wiping out all
such suspicions, and for that purpose to put an entire constraint on
her behaviour.

  First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart
with the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest
gaiety in her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to
Mr. Blifil, and took not the least notice of poor Jones the whole day.

  The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter,
that he scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in
watching opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by
winks and nods to his sister; who was not at first altogether so
pleased with what she saw as was her brother.

  In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at
first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in her niece;
but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she soon attributed
this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered the many hints she had
given her niece concerning her being in love, and imagined the young
lady had taken this way to rally her out of her opinion, by an
overacted civility: a notion that was greatly corroborated by the
excessive gaiety with which the whole was accompanied. We cannot
here avoid remarking, that this conjecture would have been better
founded had Sophia lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square,
where young ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and
playing with that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods
and groves an hundred miles distant from London.

  To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters
much that our own art be wound up, if I may use the expression, in the
same key with theirs: for very artful men sometimes miscarry by
fancying others wiser, or, in other words, greater knaves, than they
really are. As this observation is pretty deep, I will illustrate it
by the following short story. Three countrymen were pursuing a
Wiltshire thief through Brentford. The simplest of them seeing "The
Wiltshire House," written under a sign, advised his companions to
enter it, for there most probably they would find their countryman.
The second, who was wiser, laughed at this simplicity; but the
third, who was wiser still, answered, "Let us go in, however, for he
may think we should not suspect him of going amongst his own
countrymen." They accordingly went in and searched the house, and by
that means missed overtaking the thief, who was at that time but a
little way before them; and who, as they all knew, but had never
once reflected, could not read.

  The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a
secret is communicated, since every gamester will agree how
necessary it is to know exactly the play of another, in order to
countermine him. This will, moreover, afford a reason why the wiser
man, as is often seen, is the bubble of the weaker, and why many
simple and innocent characters are so generally misunderstood and
misrepresented; but what is most material, this will account for the
deceit which Sophia put on her politic aunt.

  Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, Mr.
Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty of what his
sister had told him, took Mr. Allworthy aside, and very bluntly
proposed a match between Sophia and young Mr. Blifil.

  Mr. Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter at any
unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His mind was, indeed,
tempered with that philosophy which becomes a man and a Christian.
He affected no absolute superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all
joy and grief; but was not at the same time to be discomposed and
ruffled by every accidental blast, by every smile or frown of fortune.
He received, therefore, Mr. Western's proposal without any visible
emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said the
alliance was such as he sincerely wished; then launched forth into a
very just encomium on the young lady's merit; acknowledged the offer
to be advantageous in point of fortune; and after thanking Mr. Western
for the good opinion he had professed of his nephew, concluded, that
if the young people liked each other, he should be very desirous to
complete the affair.

  Western was a little disappointed at Mr. Allworthy's answer, which
was not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt whether the young
people might like one another with great contempt, saying, "That
parents were the best judges of proper matches for their children:
that for his part he should insist on the most resigned obedience from
his daughter: and if any young fellow could refuse such a
bed-fellow, he was his humble servant, and hoped there was no harm
done."

  Allworthy endeavoured to soften this resentment by many eulogiums on
Sophia, declaring he had no doubt but that Mr. Blifil would very
gladly receive the offer; but all was ineffectual; he could obtain
no other answer from the squire but- "I say no more- I humbly hope
there's no harm done- that's all." Which words he repeated at least a
hundred times before they parted.

  Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be
offended at this behaviour; and though he was so averse to the
rigour which some parents exercise on their children in the article of
marriage, that he had resolved never to force his nephew's
inclinations, he was nevertheless much pleased with the prospect of
this union; for the whole country resounded the praises of Sophia, and
he had himself greatly admired the uncommon endowments of both her
mind and person. To which I believe we may add, the consideration of
her vast fortune, which, though he was too sober to be intoxicated
with it, he was too sensible to despise.

  And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I
must and will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, of
which Mr. Allworthy was in reality as great a pattern as he was of
goodness.

  True wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr. Hogarth's poor
poet may have writ against riches, and in spite of all which any
rich well-fed divine may have preached against pleasure, consists
not in the contempt of either of these. A man may have as much
wisdom in the possession of an affluent fortune, as any beggar in
the streets; or may enjoy a handsome wife or a hearty friend, and
still remain as wise as any sour popish recluse, who buries all his
social faculties, and starves his belly while he well lashes his back.

  To say truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all worldly
blessings in an eminent degree; for as that moderation which wisdom
prescribes is the surest way to useful wealth, so can it alone qualify
us to taste many pleasures. The wise man gratifies every appetite
and every passion, while the fool sacrifices all the rest to pall
and satiate one.

  It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously
avaricious. I answer, Not wise in that instance. It may likewise be
said, That the wisest men have been in their youth immoderately fond
of pleasure. I answer, They were not wise then.

  Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as so hard
to learn by those who never were at her school, only teaches us to
extend a simple maxim universally known and followed even in the
lowest life, a little farther than that life carries it. And this
is, not to buy at too dear a price.

  Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand
market of the world, and constantly applies it to honours, to
riches, to pleasures, and to every other commodity which that market
affords, is, I will venture to affirm, a wise man, and must be so
acknowledged in the worldly sense of the word; for he makes the best
of bargains, since in reality he purchases everything at the price
only of a little trouble, and carries home all the good things I
have mentioned, while he keeps his health, his innocence, and his
reputation, the common prices which are paid for them by others,
entire and to himself.

  From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, which
complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath
made the best bargain, nor dejected when the market is empty, or
when its commodities are too dear for his purchase.

  But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass
too far on the patience of a good-natured critic. Here, therefore, I
put an end to the chapter.

                                Chapter 4

  Containing sundry curious matters

  As soon as Mr. Allworthy returned home, he took Mr. Blifil apart,
and after some preface, communicated to him the proposal which had
been made by Mr. Western, and at the same time informed him how
agreeable this match would be to himself.

  The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil;
not that his heart was pre-engaged; neither was he totally
insensible of beauty, or had any aversion to women; but his
appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, by philosophy,
or by study, or by some other method, easily to subdue them: and as to
that passion which we have treated of in the first chapter of this
book, he had not the least tincture of it in his whole composition.

  But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of which
we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty of Sophia formed
so notable an object; yet was he altogether as well furnished with
some other passions, that promised themselves very full
gratification in the young lady's fortune. Such were avarice and
ambition, which divided the dominion of his mind between them. He
had more than once considered the possession of this fortune as a very
desirable thing, and had entertained some distant views concerning it;
but his own youth, and that of the young lady, and indeed
principally a reflection that Mr. Western might marry again, and
have more children, had restrained him from too hasty or eager a
pursuit.

  This last and most material objection was now in great measure
removed, as the proposal came from Mr. Western himself. Blifil,
therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr. Allworthy, that
matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet thought; but that he
was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly care, that he should in
all things submit himself to his pleasure.

  Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity
arose from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any original phlegm in
his disposition; for he had possessed much fire in his youth, and
had married a beautiful woman for love. He was not therefore greatly
pleased with this cold answer of his nephew; nor could he help
launching forth into the praises of Sophia, and expressing some wonder
that the heart of a young man could be impregnable to the force of
such charms, unless it was guarded by some prior affection.

  Blifil assured him he had no such guard; and then proceeded to
discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that he
would have stopt the mouth of a parent much less devoutly inclined
than was his uncle. In the end, the good man was satisfied that his
nephew, far from having any objections to Sophia, had that esteem
for her, which in sober and virtuous minds is the sure foundation of
friendship and love. And as he doubted not but the lover would, in a
little time, become altogether as agreeable to his mistress, he
foresaw great happiness arising to all parties by so proper and
desirable an union. With Mr. Blifil's consent therefore he wrote the
next morning to Mr. Western, acquainting him that his nephew had
very thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready
to wait on the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept
his visit.

  Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately
returned answer; in which, without having mentioned a word to his
daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for opening the scene of
courtship.

  As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest of his
sister, whom he found reading and expounding the Gazette to parson
Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to attend near a quarter
of an hour, though with great violence to his natural impetuosity,
before he was suffered to speak. At length, however, he found an
opportunity of acquainting the lady, that he had business of great
consequence to impart to her; to which she answered, "Brother, I am
entirely at your service. Things look so well in the north, that I was
never in a better humour."

  The parson then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with all which
had passed, and desired her to communicate the affair to Sophia, which
she readily and chearfully undertook; though perhaps her brother was a
little obliged to that agreeable northern aspect which had so
delighted her, that he heard no comment on his proceedings; for they
were certainly somewhat too hasty and violent.

                                Chapter 5

  In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt

  Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. The
moment she saw Mrs. Western, she shut the book with so much eagerness,
that the good lady could not forbear asking her, What book that was
which she seemed so much afraid of showing? "Upon my word, madam,"
answered Sophia, "it is a book which I am neither ashamed nor afraid
to own I have read. It is the production of a young lady of fashion,
whose good understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose
good heart is an honour to human nature." Mrs. Western then took up
the book, and immediately after threw it down, saying- "Yes, the
author is of a very good family; but she is not much among people one
knows. I have never read it; for the best judges say, there is not
much in it."- "I dare not, madam, set up my own opinion," says
Sophia, "against the best judges, but there appears to me a great deal
of human nature in it; and in many parts so much true tenderness and
delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear."- "Ay, and do you love to
cry then?" says the aunt. "I love a tender sensation," answered the
niece, "and would pay the price of a tear for it at any
time."- "Well, but show me," said the aunt, "what was you reading
when I came in; there was something very tender in that, I believe,
and very loving too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah! child, you
should read books which would teach you a little hypocrisy, which
would instruct you how to hide your thoughts a little better."- I
hope, madam," answered Sophia, "I have no thoughts which I ought to be
ashamed of discovering."- "Ashamed! no," cries the aunt, "I don't
think you have any thoughts which you ought to be ashamed of; and yet,
child, you blushed just now when I mentioned the word loving. Dear
Sophy, be assured you have not one thought which I am not well
acquainted with; as well, child, as the French are with our motions,
long before we put them in execution. Did you think, child, because
you have been able to impose upon your father, that you could impose
upon me? Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting
all that friendship for Mr. Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little too
much of the world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again.
I tell you it is a passion you need not be ashamed of. It is a passion
I myself approve, and have already brought your father into the
approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your inclination; for I
would always have that gratified, if possible, though one may
sacrifice higher prospects. Come, I have news which will delight
your very soul. Make me your confident, and I will undertake you shall
be happy to the very extent of your wishes." "La, madam," says Sophia,
looking more foolishly than ever she did in her life, "I know not what
to say- why, madam, should you suspect?"- "Nay, no dishonesty,"
returned Mrs. Western. "Consider, you are speaking to one of your own
sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced you speak to a friend.
Consider, you are only revealing to me what I know already, and what I
plainly saw yesterday, through that most artful of all disguises,
which you had put on, and which must have deceived any one who had not
perfectly known the world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I
highly approve." "La, madam," says Sophia, "you come upon one so
unawares, and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind- and
certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections assembled
together- but is it possible my father and you, madam, can see with my
eyes?" "I tell you," answered the aunt, "we do entirely approve; and
this very afternoon your father hath appointed for you to receive your
lover." "My father, this afternoon!" cries Sophia, with the blood
starting from her face.- "Yes, child," said the aunt, "this afternoon.
You know the impetuosity of my brother's temper. I acquainted him with
the passion which I first discovered in you that evening when you
fainted away in the field. I saw it in your fainting. I saw it
immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that evening at supper, and
the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have seen the
world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but he immediately
wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it yesterday, Allworthy
consented (as to be sure he must with joy), and this afternoon, I tell
you, you are to put on all your best airs." "This afternoon!" cries
Sophia. "Dear aunt, you frighten me out of my senses." "O, my dear,"
said the aunt, "you will soon come to yourself again; for he is a
charming young fellow, that's the truth on't." "Nay, I will own," says
Sophia, "I know none with such perfections. So brave, and yet so
gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so civil, so genteel,
so handsome! What signifies his being base born, when compared with
such qualifications as these?" "Base born? What do you mean?" said the
aunt, "Mr. Blifil base born!" Sophia turned instantly pale at this
name, and faintly repeated it. Upon which the aunt cried, "Mr.
Blifil- ay, Mr. Blifil, of whom else have we been talking?" "Good
heavens," answered Sophia, ready to sink, "of Mr. Jones, I thought;
I am sure I know no other who deserves-" "I protest," cries the
aunt, "you frighten me in your turn. Is it Mr. Jones, and not Mr.
Blifil, who is the object of your affection?" "Mr. Blifil!" repeated
Sophia. "Sure it is impossible you can be in earnest; if you are, I am
the most miserable woman alive." Mrs. Western now stood a few
moments silent, while sparks of fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At
length, collecting all her force of voice, she thundered forth in
the following articulate sounds:

  "And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by
allying yourself to a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns submit to
such contamination? If you have not sense sufficient to restrain
such monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of our family would
have prevented you from giving the least encouragement to so base an
affection; much less did I imagine you would ever have had the
assurance to own it to my face."

 "Madam," answered Sophia, trembling, "what I have said you have
extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever mentioned the name of
Mr. Jones with approbation to any one before; nor should I now had I
not conceived he had your approbation. Whatever were my thoughts of
that poor, unhappy young man, I intended to have carried them with
me to my grave- to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek
repose." Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and,
in all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a
spectacle which must have affected almost the hardest heart.

  All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt.
On the contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage.- "And I
would rather," she cried, in a most vehement voice, "follow you to
your grave, than I would see you disgrace yourself and your family by
such a match. O Heavens! could I have ever suspected that I should
live to hear a niece of mine declare a passion for such a fellow?
You are the first- yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name
who ever entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted for
the prudence of its women"- here she ran on a full quarter of an
hour, till, having exhausted her breath rather than her rage, she
concluded with threatening to go immediately and acquaint her brother.

  Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her hands,
begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn from her; urging
the violence of her father's temper, and protesting that no
inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her to do anything which
might offend him.

  Mrs. Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having
recollected herself, said, "That on one consideration only she would
keep the secret from her brother; and this was, that Sophia should
promise to entertain Mr. Blifil that very afternoon as her lover,
and to regard him as the person who was to be her husband."

  Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt's power to deny her anything
positively; she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr.
Blifil, and be as civil to him as possible; but begged her aunt that
the match might not be hurried on. She said, "Mr. Blifil was by no
means agreeable to her, and she hoped her father would be prevailed on
not to make her the most wretched of women."

  Mrs. Western assured her, "That the match was entirely agreed
upon, and that nothing could or should prevent it. I must own," said
she, "I looked on it as on a matter of indifference; nay, perhaps, had
some scruples about it before, which were actually got over by my
thinking it highly agreeable to your own inclinations; but now I
regard it as the most eligible thing in the world: nor shall there be,
if I can prevent it, a moment of time lost on the occasion."

  Sophia replied, "Delay at least, madam, I may expect from both
your goodness and my father's. Surely you will give me time to
endeavour to get the better of so strong a disinclination as I have at
present to this person."

  The aunt answered, "She knew too much of the world to be so
deceived; that as she was sensible another man had her affections, she
should persuade Mr. Western to hasten the match as much as possible.
It would be bad politics, indeed," added she, "to protract a siege
when the enemy's army is at hand, and in danger of relieving it. No,
no, Sophy," said she, "as I am convinced you have a violent passion
which you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put
your honour out of the care of your family: for when you are married
those matters will belong only to the consideration of your husband. I
hope, child, you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes
you; but if you should not, marriage hath saved many a woman from
ruin."

  Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper
to make her an answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr.
Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as she could, for on that
condition only she obtained a promise from her aunt to keep secret the
liking which her ill fortune, rather than any scheme of Mrs.
Western, had unhappily drawn from her.

                                Chapter 6

  Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs. Honour, which may a
little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may
have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader

  Mrs. Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we
have seen in the last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived
Mrs. Honour. She was at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been
summoned to the keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding
dialogue, where she had continued during the remaining part of it.
At her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing motionless, with
the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she immediately
ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, and then
began, "O Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?"- "Nothing,"
cries Sophia. "Nothing! O dear madam!" answers Honour, "you must not
tell me that, when your ladyship is in this taking, and when there
hath been such a preamble between your ladyship and Madam Western."-
"Don't teaze me," cries Sophia; "I tell you nothing is the matter.
Good heavens! why was I born?"- "Nay, madam," says Mrs. Honour, "you
shall never persuade me that your la'ship can lament yourself so for
nothing. To be sure I am but a servant; but to be sure I have been
always faithful to your la'ship, and to be sure I would serve your
la'ship with my life."- "My dear Honour," says Sophia, "'tis not in
thy power to be of any service to me. I am irretrievably undone."-
"Heaven forbid!" answered the waiting-woman; "but if I can't be of any
service to you, pray tell me, madam- it will be some comfort to me to
know- pray, dear ma'am, tell me what's the matter."- "My father,"
cries Sophia, "is going to marry me to a man I both despise and
hate."- "O dear, ma'am," answered the other, "who is this wicked man?
for to be sure he is very bad, or your la'ship would not despise
him."- "His name is poison to my tongue," replied Sophia: "thou wilt
know it too soon." Indeed, to confess the truth, she knew it already,
and therefore was not very inquisitive as to that point. She then
proceeded thus: "I don't pretend to give your la'ship advice, whereof
your la'ship knows much better than I can pretend to, being but a
servant; but, ifackins! no father in England should marry me against
my consent. And, to be sure, the 'squire is so good, that if he did
but know your la'ship despises and hates the young man, to be sure he
would not desire you to marry him. And if your la'ship would but give
me leave to tell my master so. To be sure, it would be more properer
to come from your own mouth; but as your la'ship doth not care to foul
your tongue with his nasty name-" - "You are mistaken, Honour," says
Sophia; "my father was determined before he ever thought fit to
mention it to me."- "More shame for him," cries Honour: "you are to go
to bed to him, and not master: and thof a man may be a very proper
man, yet every woman mayn't think him handsome alike. I am sure my
master would never act in this manner of his own head. I wish some
people would trouble themselves only with what belongs to them; they
would not, I believe, like to be served so, if it was their own case;
for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as how all men are not
equally agreeable. And what signifies your la'ship having so great a
fortune, if you can't please yourself with the man you think most
handsomest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a pity some
folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I should not
mind it myself; but then there is not so much money; and what of that?
your la'ship hath money enough for both; and where can your la'ship
bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must allow that
he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest, properest man
in the world."- "What do you mean by running on in this manner to me?"
cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance. "Have I ever given any
encouragement for these liberties?"- "Nay, ma'am, I ask pardon; I
meant no harm," answered she; "but to be sure the poor gentleman hath
run in my head ever since I saw him this morning. To be sure, if your
la'ship had but seen him just now, you must have pitied him. Poor
gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to him; for he
hath been walking about with his arms across, and looking so
melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me almost cry
to see him."- "To see whom?" says Sophia. "Poor Mr. Jones," answered
Honour. "See him! why, where did you see him?" cries Sophia, "By the
canal, ma'am," says Honour. "There he hath been walking all this
morning, and at last there he laid himself down: I believe he lies
there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my modesty, being a
maid, as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma'am, let me
go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is there still."- "Pugh!"
says Sophia. "There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone
before this time, to be sure. Besides, why- what- why should you go to
see? besides, I want you for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and
gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner." Honour
did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on; when,
looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her hat was
tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon
of a different colour; and then giving Mrs. Honour repeated charges
not to leave her work on any account, as she said it was in violent
haste, and must be finished that very day, she muttered something more
about going to the grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and
walked, as fast as her tender trembling limbs could carry her,
directly towards the canal.

  Jones had been there as Mrs. Honour had told her; he had indeed
spent two hours there that morning in melancholy contemplation on
his Sophia, and had gone out from the garden at one door the moment
she entered it at another. So that those unlucky minutes which had
been spent in changing the ribbons, had prevented the lovers from
meeting at this time;- a most unfortunate accident, from which my
fair readers will not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I
strictly forbid all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance
which I have recounted only for the sake of the ladies, and upon which
they only are at liberty to comment.

                                Chapter 7

  A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be
drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full length

  It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that
misfortunes do not come single. This wise maxim was now verified by
Sophia, who was not only disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but
had the vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, in order to
receive a visit from the man she hated.

  That afternoon Mr. Western, for the first time, acquainted his
daughter with his intention; telling her, he knew very well that she
had heard it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this,
nor could she prevent a few pearls from stealing into her eyes. "Come,
come," says Western, "none of your maidenish airs; I know all; I
assure you sister hath told me all."

  "Is it possible," says Sophia, "that my aunt can have betrayed me
already?"- "Ay, ay," says Western; "betrayed you! ay. Why, you
betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You showed your fancy very
plainly, I think. But you young girls never know what you would be at.
So you cry because I am going to marry you to the man you are in love
with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the same
manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we were
married: Mr. Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put an end to
your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un every
minute."

  Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to
her: and she determined to go through that disagreeable afternoon with
as much resolution as possible, and without giving the least suspicion
in the world to her father.

  Mr. Blifil soon arrived; and Mr. Western soon after withdrawing,
left the young couple together.

  Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the
gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the unbecoming
modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often attempted to speak,
and as often suppressed his words just at the very point of utterance.
At last out they broke in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained
compliments, which were answered on her side by downcast looks, half
bows, and civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the
ways of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour
for a modest assent to his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene
which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the room,
he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself
that he should soon have enough of her company.

  He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success;
for as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart of his
mistress which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it never
entered his head. Her fortune and her person were the sole objects
of his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to obtain the absolute
property; as Mr. Western's mind was so earnestly bent on the match;
and as he well knew the strict obedience which Sophia was always ready
to pay to her father's will, and the greater still which her father
would exact, if there was occasion. This authority, therefore,
together with the charms which he fancied in his own person and
conversation, could not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a young
lady, whose inclinations were, he doubted not, entirely disengaged.

  Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have
often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the
character which Jones bore all over the country (how justly, let the
reader determine), of being one of the wildest fellows in England,
might render him odious to a lady of the most exemplary modesty.
Perhaps his suspicions might be laid asleep by the behaviour of
Sophia, and of Jones himself, when they were all in company
together. Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there
was not another self in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones to the
bottom, and had in reality a great contempt for his understanding, for
not being more attached to his own interest. He had no apprehension
that Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for any lucrative
motives, he imagined they would sway very little with so silly a
fellow. Blifil, moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still
went on, and indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones
really loved him from his childhood, and had kept no secret from
him, till his behaviour on the sickness of Mr. Allworthy had
entirely alienated his heart; and it was by means of the quarrel which
had ensued on this occasion, and which was not yet reconciled, that
Mr. Blifil knew nothing of the alteration which had happened in the
affection which Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.

  From these reasons, therefore, Mr. Blifil saw no bar to his
success with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that of all
other young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and it had indeed
entirely answered his expectations.

  Mr. Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his
mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so enamoured with
his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception of him, that the old
gentleman began to caper and dance about his hall, and by many other
antic actions to express the extravagance of his joy; for he had not
the least command over any of his passions; and that which had at
any time the ascendant in his mind hurried him to the wildest
excesses.

  As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty
kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went
instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no sooner found than he
poured forth the most extravagant raptures, bidding her chuse what
clothes and jewels she pleased; and declaring that he had no other use
for fortune but to make her happy. He then caressed her again and
again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the most
endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on earth.

  Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did
not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not
unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than ordinary),
thought she should never have a better opportunity of disclosing
herself than at present, as far at least as regarded Mr. Blifil; and
she too well foresaw the necessity which she should soon be under of
coming to a full explanation. After having thanked the squire,
therefore, for all his professions of kindness, she added, with a look
full of inexpressible softness, "And is it possible my papa can be
so good to place all his joy in his Sophy's happiness?" which
Western having confirmed by a great oath, and a kiss; she then laid
hold of his hand, and, falling on her knees, after many warm and
passionate declarations of affection and duty, she begged him "not
to make her the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to
marry a man whom she detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir,"
said she, "for your sake, as well as my own, since you are so very
kind to tell me your happiness depends on mine."- "How! what!" says
Western, staring wildly. "Oh! sir," continued she, "not only your poor
Sophy's happiness; her very life, her being, depends upon your
granting her request. I cannot live with Mr. Blifil. To force me
into this marriage would be killing me."- "You can't live with Mr.
Blifil?" says Western. "No, upon my soul I can't," answered Sophia.
"Then die and be d--d," cries he, spurning her from him. "Oh! sir,"
cries Sophia, catching hold of the skirt of his coat, "take pity on
me, I beseech you. Don't look and say such cruel-- Can you be unmoved
while you see your Sophy in this dreadful condition? Can the best of
fathers break my heart? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel,
lingering death?"- "Pooh! pooh!" cries the squire; "all stuff and
nonsense; all maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill
you?"- "Oh! sir," answered Sophia, "such a marriage is worse than
death. He is not even indifferent; I hate and detest him."- "If you
detest un never so much," cries Western, "you shall ha'un." This he
bound by an oath too shocking to repeat; and after many violent
asseverations, concluded in these words: "I am resolved upon the
match, and unless you consent to it I will not give you a groat, not a
single farthing; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in the
street, I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. This is my
fixed resolution, and so I leave you to consider on it." He then broke
from her with such violence, that her face dashed against the floor;
and he burst directly out of the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate
on the ground.

  When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing
his friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not
forbear enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appearances. Upon
which the squire immediately acquainted him with the whole matter,
concluding with bitter denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic
lamentations of the misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate to
have daughters.

  Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of
Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead with this
relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, as he
afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr. Western,
which seemed to require more impudence than a human forehead was
ever gifted with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might
endeavour to obtain her concurrence with her father's inclinations.

  If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for
the contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded him.
He thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and said,
"Go, go, prithee, try what canst do;" and then swore many execrable
oaths that he would turn her out of doors unless she consented to
the match.

                                Chapter 8

  The meeting between Jones and Sophia

  Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just
risen from the ground, where her father had left her, with the tears
trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from her lips. He
presently ran to her, and with a voice full at once of tenderness
and terrour, cried, "O my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?" She
looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and then said,
"Mr. Jones, for Heaven's sake how came you here?- Leave me, I beseech
you, this moment."- "Do not," says he, "impose so harsh a command
upon me- my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily
could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood."- "I
have too many obligations to you already," answered she, "for sure you
meant them such." Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and
then bursting into an agony, cried, "Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you save
my life? my death would have been happier for us both."- "Happier for
us both!" cried he. "Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as
Sophia's- I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?"
Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he
spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her
hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she
hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in
silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on
Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground: at last she recovered
strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain
ruin would be the consequence of their being found together; adding,
"Oh, Mr. Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel
afternoon." "I know all, my Sophia," answered he; "your cruel father
hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you."- "My
father sent you to me!" replied she: "sure you dream."- "Would to
Heaven," cries he, "it was but a dream! Oh, Sophia, your father hath
sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to solicit
you in his favour. I took any means to get access to you. O speak to
me, Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever
doated like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this
gentle hand- one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me- nothing
less than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered
the respect and awe with which you have inspired me." She stood a
moment silent, and covered with confusion; then lifting up her eyes
gently towards him, she cried, "What would Mr. Jones have me
say?"- "O do but promise," cries he, "that you never will give
yourself to Blifil."- "Name not," answered she, "the detested sound.
Be assured I never will give him what is in my power to withhold from
him."- "Now then," cries he, "while you are so perfectly kind, go a
little farther, and add that I may hope."- "Alas!" says she, "Mr.
Jones, whither will you drive me? What hope have I to bestow? You know
my father's intentions."- "But I know," answered he, "your compliance
with them cannot be compelled."- "What," says she, "must be the
dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least
concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my
father's misery."- "He is himself the cause," cries Jones, "by
exacting a power over you which Nature hath not given him. Think on
the misery which I am to suffer if I am to lose you, and see on which
side pity will turn the balance."- "Think of it!" replied she: "can
you imagine I do not feel the ruin which I must bring on you, should I
comply with your desire? It is that thought which gives me
resolution to bid you fly from me for ever, and avoid your own
destruction."- "I fear no destruction," cries he, "but the loss of
Sophia. If you would save me from the most bitter agonies, recall that
cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part with you, indeed I cannot."

  The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being
unable to withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to
hold it; when the scene, which I believe some of my readers will think
had lasted long enough, was interrupted by one of so different a
nature, that we shall reserve the relation of it for a different
chapter.

                                Chapter 9

  Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former

  Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be
proper to recount what had past in the hall during their tender
interview.

  Soon after Jones had left Mr. Western in the manner above mentioned,
his sister came to him, and was presently informed of all that had
passed between her brother and Sophia relating to Blifil.

  This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an
absolute breach of the condition on which she had engaged to keep
her love for Mr. Jones a secret. She considered herself, therefore, at
full liberty to reveal all she knew to the squire, which she
immediately did in the most explicit terms, and without any ceremony
or preface.

  The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never
once entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest minutes
of his affection towards that young man, or from suspicion, or on
any other occasion. He did indeed consider a parity of fortune and
circumstances to be physically as necessary an ingredient in marriage,
as difference of sexes, or any other essential; and had no more
apprehension of his daughter's falling in love with a poor man, than
with any animal of a different species.

  He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister's
relation. He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, having
been almost deprived of his breath by the violence of the surprize.
This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual in other cases after an
intermission, with redoubled force and fury.

  The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery
from the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a
round volley of oaths and imprecations. After which he proceeded
hastily to the apartment where he expected to find the lovers, and
murmured, or rather indeed roared forth, intentions of revenge every
step he went.

  As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and
Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into some
pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation of Love,
that bashful boy, who cannot speak in public, and is never a good
companion to more than two at a time; here, while every object is
serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly through the shattered
clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts
from the mossy bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds
the red regimentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear
shakes her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling
tottering limbs.

  Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the
place, are cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at
Salisbury, if the great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as well
as some of his setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his chains,
and dreadfully hum forth the grumbling catch along the gallery; the
frighted strangers stand aghast; scared at the horrid sound, they seek
some place of shelter from the approaching danger; and if the
well-barred windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to
escape the threatening fury now coming upon them.

  So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her
father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing,
cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I
believe the youth himself would, from some prudent considerations,
have preferred another place of abode at this time, had his terror
on Sophia's account given him liberty to reflect a moment on what
any other ways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake
whatever affected her.

  And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object
which instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the
ghastly appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover's
arms. This tragical sight Mr. Western no sooner beheld, than all his
rage forsook him; he roared for help with his utmost violence; ran
first to his daughter, then back to the door calling for water, and
then back again to Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then
was, nor perhaps once recollecting that there was such a person in the
world as Jones; for indeed I believe the present circumstances of
his daughter were now the sole consideration which employed his
thoughts.

  Mrs. Western and a great number of servants soon came to the
assistance of Sophia with water, cordials, and everything necessary on
those occasions. These were applied with such success, that Sophia
in a very few minutes began to recover, and all the symptoms of life
to return. Upon which she was presently led off by her own maid and
Mrs. Western: nor did that good lady depart without leaving some
wholesome admonitions with her brother, on the dreadful effects of his
passion, or, as she pleased to call it, madness.

  The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as it
was delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration: at
least, if he did understand it, he profited very little by it; for
no sooner was he cured of his immediate fears for his daughter, than
he relapsed into his former frenzy, which must have produced an
immediate battle with Jones, had not parson Supple, who was a very
strong man, been present, and by mere force restrained the squire from
acts of hostility.

  The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very suppliant
manner to Mr. Western, whom the parson held in his arms, and begged
him to be pacified; for that, while he continued in such a passion, it
would be impossible to give him any satisfaction.

  "I wull have satisfaction o' thee," answered the squire: "so doff
thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I'll lick thee as well as wast
ever licked in thy life." He then bespattered the youth with abundance
of that language which passes between country gentlemen who embrace
opposite sides of the question; with frequent applications to him to
salute that part which is generally introduced into all
controversies that arise among the lower orders of the English
gentry at horse-races, cock-matches, and other public places.
Allusions to this part are likewise often made for the sake of the
jest. And here, I believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In
reality, it lies in desiring another to kiss your a-- for having just
before threatened to kick his; for I have observed very accurately,
that no one ever desires you to kick that which belongs to himself,
nor offers to kiss this part in another.

  It may likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand kind
invitations of this sort, which every one who hath conversed with
country gentlemen must have heard, no one, I believe, hath ever seen a
single instance where the desire hath been complied with;- a great
instance of their want of politeness; for in town nothing can be
more common than for the finest gentlemen to perform this ceremony
every day to their superiors, without having that favour once
requested of them.

  To all such wit, Jones very calmly answered, "Sir, this usage may
perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred on me; but
there is one you can never cancel; nor will I be provoked by your
abuse to lift my hand against the father of Sophia."

  At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than before; so
that the parson begged Jones to retire; saying, "You behold, sir,
how he waxeth wrath at your abode here; therefore let me pray you
not to tarry any longer. His anger is too much kindled for you to
commune with him at present. You had better, therefore, conclude
your visit, and refer what matters you have to urge in your behalf
to some other opportunity."

  Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately departed.
The squire now regained the liberty of his hands, and so much temper
as to express some satisfaction in the restraint which had been laid
upon him; declaring that he should certainly have beat his brains out;
and adding, "It would have vexed one confoundedly to have been
hanged for such a rascal."

  The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peacemaking
endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against anger, which might
perhaps rather have tended to raise than to quiet that passion in some
hasty minds. This lecture he enriched with many valuable quotations
from the antients, particularly from Seneca; who hath indeed so well
handled this passion, that none but a very angry man can read him
without great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this
harangue with the famous story of Alexander and Clitus; but as I
find that entered in my common-place under title Drunkenness, I
shall not insert it here.

  The squire took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything
he said; for he interrupted him before he had finished, by calling for
a tankard of beer; observing (which is perhaps as true as any
observation on this fever of the mind) that anger makes a man dry.

  No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than he renewed
the discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution of going the next
morning early to acquaint Mr. Allworthy. His friend would have
dissuaded him from this, from the mere motive of good-nature; but
his dissuasion had no other effect than to produce a large volley of
oaths and curses, which greatly shocked the pious ears of Supple;
but he did not dare to remonstrate against a privilege which the
squire claimed as a freeborn Englishman. To say truth, the parson
submitted to please his palate at the squire's table, at the expense
of suffering now and then this violence to his ears. He contented
himself with thinking he did not promote this evil practise, and
that the squire would not swear an oath the less, if he never
entered within his gates. However, though he was not guilty of ill
manners by rebuking a gentleman in his own house, he paid him off
obliquely in the pulpit: which had not, indeed, the good effect of
working a reformation in the squire himself; yet it so far operated on
his conscience, that he put the laws very severely in execution
against others, and the magistrate was the only person in the parish
who could swear with impunity.

                                Chapter 10

  In which Mr. Western visits Mr. Allworthy

  Mr. Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his nephew, well
satisfied with the report of the young gentleman's successful visit to
Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, more on account of the young
lady's character than of her riches), when Mr. Western broke
abruptly in upon them, and without any ceremony began as follows:-

  "There, you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have brought
up your bastard to a fine purpose; not that I believe you have had any
hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, designedly: but there
is a fine kettle-of-fish made on't up at our house." "What can be
the matter, Mr. Western?" said Allworthy. "O, matter enow of all
conscience: my daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard,
that's all; but I won't ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a
brass varden. I always thought what would come o' breeding up a
bastard like a gentleman, and letting un come about to vok's houses.
It's well vor un I could not get at un: I'd a lick'd un; I'd a spoil'd
his caterwauling; I'd a taught the son of a whore to meddle with
meat for his master. He shan't ever have a morsel of meat of mine,
or a varden to buy it: if she will ha un, one smock shall be her
portion. I'd sooner ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it may
be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation with." "I am heartily sorry,"
cries Allworthy. "Pox o' your sorrow, says Western; "it will do me
abundance of good when I have lost my only child, my poor Sophy,
that was the joy of my heart, and all the hope and comfort of my
age; but I am resolved I will turn her out o' doors; she shall beg,
and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny, not a hapeny shall
she ever hae o' mine. The son of a bitch was always good at finding
a hare sitting, an be rotted to'n: I little thought what puss he was
looking after; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in his life.
She shall be no better than carrion: the skin o'er is all he shall ha,
and zu you may tell un." "I am in amazement," cries Allworthy, "at
what you tell me, after what passed between my nephew and the young
lady no longer ago than yesterday." "Yes, sir," answered Western,
"it was after what passed between your nephew and she that the whole
matter came out. Mr. Blifil there was no sooner gone than the son of a
whore came lurching about the house. Little did I think when I used to
love him for a sportsman that he was all the while a-poaching after my
daughter." "Why truly," says Allworthy, "I could wish you had not
given him so many opportunities with her; and you will do me the
justice to acknowledge that I have always been averse to his staying
so much at your house, though I own I had no suspicion of this
kind." "Why, zounds," cries Western, "who could have thought it?
What the devil had she to do wi'n? He did not come there a courting to
her; he came there a hunting with me." "But was it possible," says
Allworthy, "that you should never discern any symptoms of love between
them, when you have seen them so often together?" "Never in my life,
as I hope to be saved," cries Western: "I never so much as zeed him
kiss her in all my life; and so far from courting her, he used
rather to be more silent when she was in company than at any other
time; and as for the girl, she was always less civil to'n than to
any young man that came to the house. As to that matter, I am not more
easy to be deceived than another; I would not have you think I am,
neighbour." Allworthy could scarce refrain laughter at this; but he
resolved to do a violence to himself; for he perfectly well knew
mankind, and had too much good-breeding and good-nature to offend
the squire in his present circumstances. He then asked Western what he
would have him do upon this occasion. To which the other answered,
"That he would have him keep the rascal away from his house, and
that he would go and lock up the wench; for he was resolved to make
her marry Mr. Blifil in spite of her teeth." He then shook Blifil by
the hand, Blifil by the hand, and swore he would have no other
son-in-law. Presently after which he took his leave; saying his
house was in such disorder that it was necessary for him to make haste
home, to take care his daughter did not give him the slip; and as
for Jones, he swore if he caught him at his house, he would qualify
him to run for the geldings' plate.

  When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long silence
ensued between them; all which interval the young gentleman filled
up with sighs, which proceeded partly from disappointment, but more
from hatred; for the success of Jones was much more grievous to him
than the loss of Sophia.

  At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and he
answered in the following words:- "Alas! sir, can it be a question
what step a lover will take, when reason and passion point different
ways? I am afraid it is too certain he will, in that dilemma, always
follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit all thoughts of a
woman who places her affections on another; my passion bids me hope
she may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I
conceive an objection may be raised, which, if it could not fully be
answered, would totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean
the injustice of endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of
which he seems already in possession; but the determined resolution of
Mr. Western shows that, in this case, I shall, by so doing, promote
the happiness of every party; not only that of the parent, who will
thus be preserved from the highest degree of misery, but of both the
others, who must be undone by this match. The lady, I am sure, will be
undone in every sense; for, besides the loss of most part of her own
fortune, she will be not only married to a beggar, but the little
fortune which her father cannot withhold from her will be squandered
on that wench with whom I know he yet converses. Nay, that is a
trifle; for I know him to be one of the worst men in the world; for
had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto endeavoured to conceal,
he must have long since abandoned so profligate a wretch." "How!" said
Allworthy; "hath he done anything worse than I already know? Tell
me, I beseech you?" "No," replied Blifil; "it is now past, and perhaps
he may have repented of it." "I command you, on your duty," said
Allworthy, "to tell me what you mean." "You know, sir," says Blifil,
"I never disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since it may
now look like revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever
entered my heart; and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his
petitioner to you for your forgiveness." "I will have no
conditions," answered Allworthy; "I think I have shown tenderness
enough towards him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me
for." "More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved," cries Blifil; "for
in the very day of your utmost danger, when myself and all the
family were in tears, he filled the house with riot and debauchery. He
drank, and sung, and roared; and when I gave him a gentle hint of
the indecency of his actions, he fell into a violent passion, swore
many oaths, called me rascal, and struck me." "How!" cries
Allworthy; "did he dare to strike you?" "I am sure," cries Blifil,
"I have forgiven him that long ago. I wish I could so easily forget
his ingratitude to the best of benefactors; and yet even that I hope
you will forgive him, since he must have certainly been possessed with
the devil: for that very evening, as Mr. Thwackum and myself were
taking the air in the fields, and exulting in the good symptoms then
first began to discover themselves, we unluckily saw him engaged
with a wench in a manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr. Thwackum, with
more boldness than prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when (I am
sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man, and beat him so
outrageously that I wish he may have yet recovered the bruises. Nor
was I without my share of the effects of his malice, while I
endeavoured t6 protect my tutor; but that I have long forgiven; nay, I
prevailed with Mr. Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to inform
you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him. And now, sir,
since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this matter, and your
commands have obliged me to discover the whole, let me intercede
with you for him." "O child!" said Allworthy, "I know not whether I
should blame or applaud your goodness, in concealing such villany a
moment: but where is Mr. Thwackum? Not that I want any confirmation of
what you say; but I will examine all the evidence of this matter, to
justify to the world the example I am resolved to make of such a
monster."

  Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated
every circumstance which the other had deposed; nay, he produced the
record upon his breast, where the handwriting of Mr. Jones remained
very legible in black and blue. He concluded with declaring to Mr.
Allworthy, that he should have long since informed him of this matter,
had not Mr. Blifil, by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him.
"He is," says he, "an excellent youth: though such forgiveness of
enemies is carrying the matter too far."

  In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the
parson, and to prevent the discovery at that time; for which he had
many reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt to be softened and
relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. Besides, he imagined
that if the story was told when the fact was so recent, and the
physician about the house, who might have unravelled the real truth,
he should never be able to give it the malicious turn which he
intended. Again, he resolved to hoard up this business, till the
indiscretion of Jones should afford some additional complaints; for he
thought the joint weight of many facts falling upon him together,
would be the most likely to crush him; and he watched, therefore, some
such opportunity as that with which fortune had now kindly presented
him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the matter for a
time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of his friendship to Jones,
which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr. Allworthy.

                                Chapter 11

  A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to affect
the good-natured reader

  It was Mr. Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, not even to
turn away a servant, in a passion. He resolved therefore to delay
passing sentence on Jones till the afternoon.

  The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual; but his heart was
too much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief too was a good deal
aggravated by the unkind looks of Mr. Allworthy; whence he concluded
that Western had discovered the whole affair between him and Sophia;
but as to Mr. Blifil's story, he had not the least apprehension; for
of much the greater part he was entirely innocent; and for the
residue, as he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he
suspected no remembrance on the other side. When dinner was over,
and the servants departed, Mr. Allworthy began to harangue. He set
forth, in a long speech, the many iniquities of which Jones had been
guilty, particularly those which this day had brought to light; and
concluded by telling him, "That unless he could clear himself of the
charge, he was resolved to banish him his sight for ever."

  Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay,
indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr. Allworthy, in
recounting the drunkenness, &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 acknowledge the
whole, and, like a criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy;
concluding, "That though he must own himself guilty of many follies
and inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what would
be to him the greatest punishment in the world."

  Allworthy answered, "That he had forgiven him too often already,
in compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now
found he was an abandoned reprobate, and such as it would be
criminal in any one to support and encourage. Nay," said Mr. Allworthy
to him, "your audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls
upon me to justify my own character in punishing you. The world who
have already censured the regard I have shown for you may think,
with some colour at least of justice, that I connive at so base and
barbarous an action- an action of which you must have known my
abhorrence: and which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour,
as well as for my friendship, you would never have thought of
undertaking. Fie upon it, young man! indeed there is scarce any
punishment equal to your crimes, and I can scarce think myself
justifiable in what I am now going to bestow on you. However, as I
have educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked
into the world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find
something which may enable you, with industry, to get an honest
livelihood; but if you employ it to worse purposes, I shall not
think myself obliged to supply you farther, being resolved, from
this day forward, to converse no more with you on any account. I
cannot avoid saying, there is no part of your conduct which I resent
more than your ill-treatment of that good young man (meaning Blifil)
who hath behaved with so much tenderness and honour towards you."

  These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A
flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of
speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before
he was able to obey Allworthy's peremptory commands of departing;
which he at length did, having first kissed his hands with a passion
difficult to be affected, and as difficult to be described.

  The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in
which Jones then appeared to Mr. Allworthy, he should blame the rigour
of his sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, either from this
weakness, or from some worse motive, condemned this justice and
severity as the highest cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had
before censured the good man for the kindness and tenderness shown
to a bastard (his own, according to the general opinion), now cried
out as loudly against turning his own child out of doors. The women
especially were unanimous in taking the part of Jones, and raised more
stories on the occasion than I have room, in this chapter, to set
down.

  One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this
occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper which
Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds;
but all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some said naked,
from the house of his inhuman father.

                                Chapter 12

  Containing love-letters, etc.

  Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that
his clothes and everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he
should order them.

  He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding,
and indeed scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook
obstructing his passage, he threw himself down by the side of it;
nor could he help muttering with some little indignation, "Sure my
father will not deny me this place to rest in!"

  Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his
hair from his head, and using most other actions which generally
accompany fits of madness, rage, and despair.

  When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion,
he began to come a little to himself. His grief now took another turn,
and discharged itself in a gentler way, till he became at last cool
enough to reason with his passion, and to consider what steps were
proper to be taken in his deplorable condition.

  And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The
thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart asunder; but the
consideration of reducing her to ruin and beggary still racked him, if
possible, more; and if the violent desire of possessing her person
could have induced him to listen one moment to this alternative, still
he was by no means certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes
at so high an expense. The resentment of Mr. Allworthy, and the injury
he must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and
lastly, the apparent impossibility of his success, even if he would
sacrifice all these considerations to it, came to his assistance;
and thus honour at last backed with despair, with gratitude to his
benefactors, and with real love to his mistress, got the better of
burning desire, and he resolved rather to quit Sophia, than pursue her
to her ruin.

  It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the
glowing warmth which filled his breast on the first contemplation of
this victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so agreeably,
that his mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness; but this was only
momentary: Sophia soon returned to his imagination, and allayed the
joy of his triumph with no less bitter pangs than a good-natured
general must feel, when he surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of
whose blood he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender
ideas lay murdered before our conqueror.

  Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour,
as the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewell
letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off,
where, being furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:-

  MADAM,-

  When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my letter
contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full, that no
language can express its dictates.

  I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.

  Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I imagined
they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness and
tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of those
pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing, which
you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment's concern; for,
after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.

  O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire
you to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
severely punished.- I am unable to say more.- May guardian angels
protect you for ever!

  He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor
indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic
disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his
pocket-book, which he had received from Mr. Allworthy, which he had
never opened, and which now first occurred to his memory.

  The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with
which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook
side, in order to search for the things which he had there lost. In
his way he met his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with
him on his misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and
indeed those of all the neighbourhood.

  Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily
went back with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of
grass in the meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he
had been; but all to no purpose, for they found nothing; for,
indeed, though the things were then in the meadow, they omitted to
search the only place where they were deposited; to wit, in the
pockets of the said George; for he had just before found them, and
being luckily apprized of their value. had very carefully put them
up for his own use.

  The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr. Jones to recollect
if he had been in no other place: "For sure," said he, "if you had
lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still; for
this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by." And indeed it
was by great accident that he himself had passed through that field,
in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
poulterer at Bath the next morning.

  Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him
earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?

  George answered with some hesitation, "Sir, you know you may command
me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power
to do you any service." In fact, the question staggered him; for he
had, by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr.
Western's service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some
small matter of him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety,
by being desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great
pleasure he promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours
which he would not have gladly conferred on Mr. Jones; for he bore
as much gratitude towards him as he could, and was as honest as men
who love money better than any other thing in the universe,
generally are.

  Mrs. Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which
this letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper
returned home to Mr. Western's, and Jones walked to an alehouse at
half a mile's distance, to wait for his messenger's return.

  George no sooner came home to his master's house than he met with
Mrs. Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous
questions, he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at
the same time another from her, for Mr. Jones; which Honour told him
she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to despair of
finding any means of delivering it.

  The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
received Sophia's letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
breaking it open, read as follows:-

  SIR,-

  It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
to see them bestowed.

  Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred
times as often. His passion now brought all tender desires back into
his mind. He repented that he had writ to Sophia in the manner we have
seen above; but he repented more that he had made use of the
interval of his messenger's absence to write and dispatch a letter
to Mr. Allworthy, in which he had faithfully promised and bound
himself to quit all thoughts of his love. However, when his cool
reflections returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither
mended nor altered by Sophia's billet, unless to give him some
little glimpse of hope, from her constancy, of some favourable
accident hereafter. He therefore resumed his resolution, and taking
leave of Black George, set forward to a town about five miles distant,
whither he had desired Mr. Allworthy, unless he pleased to revoke
his sentence, to send his things after him.

                                Chapter 13

  The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which none of her
sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And
the discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience

  Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable
manner. During a large part of them she had been entertained by her
aunt with lectures of prudence, recommending to her the example of the
polite world, where love (so the good lady said) is at present
entirely laughed at, and where women consider matrimony, as men do
offices of public trust, only as the means of making their fortunes,
and of advancing themselves in the world. In commenting on which
text Mrs. Western had displayed her eloquence during several hours.

  These sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste
or inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than
her own thoughts, that formed the entertainment of the night, during
which she never once closed her eyes.

  But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet,
having no avocation from it, she was found there by her father at
his return from Allworthy's, which was not till past ten o'clock in
the morning. He went directly up to her apartment, opened the door,
and seeing she was not up, cried, "Oh! you are safe then, and I am
resolved to keep you so." He then locked the door, and delivered the
key to Honour, having first given her the strictest charge, with great
promises of rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of
punishment in case should betray her trust.

  Honour's orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of
her room without the authority of the squire himself, and to admit
none to her but him and her aunt; but she was herself to attend her
with whatever Sophia pleased, except only pen, ink, and paper, of
which she was forbidden the use.

  The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at
dinner; which she obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again
conducted to her prison.

  In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she
received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or
thrice over, and then threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a
flood of tears. Mrs. Honour expressed great astonishment at this
behaviour in her mistress; nor could she forbear very eagerly
begging to know the cause of this passion. Sophia made her no answer
for some time, and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by
the hand, and cried, "O Honour! I am undone." "Marry forbid," cries
Honour: "I wish the letter had been burnt before I had brought it to
your la'ship. I'm sure I thought it would have comforted your la'ship,
or I would have seen it at the devil before I would have touched
it." "Honour," says Sophia, "you are a good girl, and it is vain to
attempt concealing longer my weakness from you; I have thrown away
my heart on a man who hath forsaken me." "And is Mr. Jones,"
answered the maid, "such a perfidy man?" "He hath taken his leave of
me," says Sophia, "for ever in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to
forget him. Could he have desired that if he had loved me? Could he
have borne such a thought? Could he have written such a word?" "No,
certainly, ma'am," cries Honour; "and to be sure, if the best man in
England was to desire me to forget him, I'd take him at his word.
Marry, come up! I am sure your la'ship hath done him too much honour
ever to think on him;- a young lady who may take her choice of all
the young men in the country. And to be sure, if I may be so
presumptuous as to offer my poor opinion, there is young Mr. Blifil,
who, besides that he is come of honest parents, and will be one of the
greatest squires all hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion,
a more handsomer and a more politer man by half; and besides, he is
a young gentleman of a sober character, and who may defy any of the
neighbours to say black is his eye; he follows no dirty trollops,
nor can any bastards be laid at his door. Forget him, indeed! I
thank Heaven I myself am not so much at my last prayers as to suffer
any man to bid me forget him twice. If the best he that wears a head
was for to go for to offer to say such an affronting word to me, I
would never give him my company afterwards, if there was another young
man in the kingdom. And as I was a saying, to be sure, there is
young Mr. Blifil." "Name not his detested name," cries Sophia. "Nay,
ma'am," says Honour, "if your la'ship doth not like him, there be more
jolly handsome young men that would court your la'ship, if they had
but the least encouragement. I don't believe there is arrow young
gentleman in this county, or in the next to it, that if your la'ship
was but to look as if you had a mind to him, would not come about to
make his offers directly." "What a wretch dost thou imagine me," cries
Sophia, "by affronting my ears with such stuff! I all detest all
mankind." "Nay, to be sure, ma'am," answered Honour, "your la'ship
hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them. To be used ill by
such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow."- "Hold your blasphemous
tongue," cries Sophia: "how dare you mention his name with
disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his poor bleeding heart
suffered more when he writ the cruel words than mine from reading
them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I am ashamed of
the weakness of my own passion, for blaming what I ought to admire.
O Honour! it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he
sacrifices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me hath
driven him to despair." "I am very glad," says Honour, to hear your
la'ship takes that into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be
nothing less than ruin to give your mind to one that is turned out
of doors, and is not worth a farthing in the world." "Turned out of
doors! " cries Sophia hastily: "how! what dost thou mean?" "Why, to be
sure, ma'am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr. Jones
having offered to make love to your la'ship than the squire stripped
him stark naked, and turned him out of doors!" "Ha!" says Sophia, "I
have been the cursed, wretched cause of his destruction! Turned
naked out of doors! Here, Honour, take all the money I have; take
the rings from my fingers. Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find
him immediately." "For Heaven's sake, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour,
"do but consider, if my master should miss any of these things, I
should be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg your la'ship
not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, I think,
is enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master can never know
anything of the matter." "Here, then," cries Sophia, "take every
farthing I am worth, find him out immediately, and give it him. Go,
go, lose not a moment."

  Mrs. Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen
guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her
father was very liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.

  Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the
alehouse; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he
should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, however,
immediately started at this suggestion, and began to upbraid him
with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his avarice answered, That
his conscience should have considered the matter before, when he
deprived poor Jones of his L500. 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 L500 was a matter of very little hazard; whereas the
detaining the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of
discovery.

  By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory
in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments
on his honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.

                                Chapter 14

  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 roundheads and Hanover
rats. Pox! I hope the times are a coming when we shall make fools of
them, and every man shall enjoy his own. That's all, sister; and every
man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the
Hanover rats have eat up all our corn, and left us nothing but turneps
to feed upon."- "I protest, brother," cries she, "you are now got
beyond my understanding. Your jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to
me perfectly unintelligible."- "I believe"' cries he, "you don't care
to hear o'em; but the country interest may succeed one day or other
for all that."- "I wish," answered the lady, "you would think a
little of your daughter's interest; for, believe me, she is in greater
danger than the nation."- "Just now," said he, "you chid me for
thinking on her, and would ha' her left to you."- "And if you will
promise to interpose no more," answered she, "I will, out of my regard
to my niece, undertake the charge."- "Well, do then," said the
squire, "for you know I always agreed, that women are the properest to
manage women."

  *The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
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.

                                    BOOK VII

                             CONTAINING THREE DAYS

                                Chapter 1

  A comparison between the world and the stage

  The world hath 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.

  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 Drurylane.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison.
So the immortal Shakespear-

     ----Life's a poor player,

     That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

     And then is heard no more.

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.

     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 party 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.

  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.

  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.

  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 L500 from his friend and
benefactor.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 tomorrow. 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 2

  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:-

  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

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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."

  "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.

  "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."

  "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, 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."

  "If I was not as great philosopher as Socrates himself," returned
Mrs. Western, "you would overcome my patience. What objection can
you have to the young gentleman?"

  "A very solid objection, in my opinion," says Sophia- "I hate 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."

  "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."

  "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, brother is resolved; nay, since you talk of inclinations, I
shall advise him to hasten the treaty. Inclinations!"

  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."

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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."

  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.

  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 L3000 a year, and her fortune no more
than a bare L8000. 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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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?"

  "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?"

 "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?"

  "Indeed, sir," says Sophia, "I have great obligations to my aunt.
She hath been 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?"

  "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."

  "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."

  "Pardon me, sir," cries Sophia. "I do not say so."

  "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."

  "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."

  Whether Sophia intended it or not, 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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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.

  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.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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--"

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

 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.-

  "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."

  "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 after a
fiddle, with no very agreeable partner; and surely they will assist me
in running from so detestable a partner for life."- "Oh Heaven,
ma'am! doth your la'ship know what you are saying?" cries Honour;
"would you think of walking about the country by night and
alone?"- "Not alone," answered the lady; "you have promised to bear
me company."- "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."

  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 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 8

  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 L3000 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. 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.

  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."

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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

  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.

  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
mitigations; 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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back
to Mr. Jones.

                                Chapter 10

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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?"

  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.

  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, his 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.

  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.

  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
shouldest 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 L100 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."

  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 tha? 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.

  The subject of the Quaker's discourse had so deeply affected
Jones, that he stared very wildly all the time 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.

  "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."

  "What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?" answered the
Quaker. "Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man."

  "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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 11

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  The gentleman who had been all night tippling at the ale-house,
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.

  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
waistcoat 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  "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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 12

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "Then you have been at school, Mr. Northerton?" said 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."

  "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."

  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."

  "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."

  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?"

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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,"
cried Jones, "that you are one of the most impudent rascals upon
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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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 waistcoat; 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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).

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 13

  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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "Indeed, madam," said the lieutenant, "you do the volunteer wrong: I
dare swear he is 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."

  "O fie, madam!" said the lieutenant, smiling; "all is rather too
bloody-minded a wish."

  "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."

  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.

  *No man ever became extremely wicked all at once.

  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 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.

  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.

  "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'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."

  "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 to-night; 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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "But suppose," says Jones, "I should grow worse, and die of the
consequences of my present wound?"

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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?"

  "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 have an opportunity of
doing yourself justice." Here he gave Jones a hearty buss, shook him
by the 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.

                                Chapter 14

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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."

  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.

  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."

  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.

  "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."

  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."

  *In the aforementioned sense.

  "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-"

  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.

  The serjeant very civilly took his leave, fully satisfied with his
merchandize, and not a little pleased with his dexterous recovery from
the false step into which his opinion of the sick man's
light-headedness had betrayed him.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 15

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and
sitting down by his bedside, acquainted him with the scene which had
happened below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of
the centinel.

  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."

  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 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.

                                   BOOK VIII

                           CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS

                                Chapter 1

  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,*(2) 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.

  *By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
every reader in the world.

  *(2) It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.

  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.

  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.

  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 horselaugh in the reader would be any
great prejudice or mortification.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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,

     -Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;

     Vel duo, vel nemo;

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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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.

  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 L500 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!"

     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.

  "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 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  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.

  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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  "It is an eating fever then," says the landlady; "for he hath
devoured two swinging 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 corrected, 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."

  "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."

  "Paymaster!" said the doctor, staring; "why, I've a gentleman
under my hands, have I not?"

  "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."

  "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.

  "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."

  "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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  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, 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.

  Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was
preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.

  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.

  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.

  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."-*(2) "Again!" said Jones; "I fancy you are good at capping
verses."- "Excuse me, sir," said the barber, "non tanto me dignor
honore."*(3) 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."-*(4) "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,*(5) 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."

  *Make haste slowly.

  *(2) We cannot all of us do everything.

  *(3) I am not worthy of so much honor.

  *(4) Hard to share.

  *(5) Thus these tears.

  "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."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  *A play of words on lucus, a grove, and lucere, to shine: "a grove
from not being light"; thus, a non-sequitor.

  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."

                                Chapter 5

  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 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 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 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 love
good-nature and thence became amoris abundantia erga te."

  *The reader will readily understand most of what the "most learned
of barbers" says.

  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."

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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."*

  *Time, the devourer of 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."

  "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.

                                Chapter 6

  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 wound; he enquired therefore 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 for 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 here
above three months, he hath done several great cures."

  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.

  "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."

  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 it 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.

  "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."

  "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*(2); 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 interrupt us." He did so, and then 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 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, 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 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."

  *A quote of Aeneas'speech to Dido, The Aeneid II, 3: "O queen, you
bid me call to mind the unspeakable grief."

  *(2) Power is strengthened by union.

  "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."

  "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."

  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 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, 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.

  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.

  *Let us despair of nothing while Teucer is our leader, and we are
under his auspices.

  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.

  "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."

  This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the
barber departed, in order to prepare everything for his intended
expedition.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  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 of
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.

  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 horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and married by my
landlady for certain 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 in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress
of the profit, so she was 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.

  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 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 "for I was one, you know."- "Yes,"
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 answered the wife: "if he had been 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 my 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 in haste or so, it doth not
become such a one as you to twitter me. He was a husband to me, 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 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.

  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.

  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 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.

                                Chapter 8

  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.

  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; 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 very morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied
in her house.

  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.

  Besides Mr. Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat
down at table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed very same who had
brought the news of 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.

  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.

  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.

  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 rainwater,
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."

  "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?"

  "The name o' un?" answered Petty-fogger; "why, he is 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."

  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 mam who
never injured me? I promise you every syllable of what I have said
is fact, 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 henceforwards
conceived so ill an opinion of her guest, that she heartily wished him
out of 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 9

  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

  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 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 lefthand 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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 10

  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; 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.

  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 a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let 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 well 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.

  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 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 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 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.

  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.

  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 nick-nacks and curiosities, which might
have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.

  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, 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."

  "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.

  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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  "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?"

  "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."

  "Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going," answered the
old man, "I have obligations to you which I can never return."

  "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 am sorry, young gentleman," answered the stranger, "that you have
any reason to be so unhappy at your years."

  "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, 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."

  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."

  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?"

  "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 ordinary 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, and 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."

  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.

  The gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may
read in the next chapter.

                                Chapter 11

  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 L300 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.

  "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."

  "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."

  Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger
proceeded.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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, come into full possession of
till he arrived 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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."

  "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:-

  "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.

  "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.

  "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!"

  "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 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.

  "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 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.

  "The time of the assizes some 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 the sessions, discharged for want of procecution. 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."

  "Perhaps," cries Partridge, "he did not care to have your blood upon
his hands; he was in the right on't. If any person was to hanged
upon my evidence, I should never able to lie alone afterwards, for
fear 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
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.

  Partridge then proceeded thus: "In the parish where I was born,
there lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and he had a son names
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, 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
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,
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 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, fell upon Frank; and Frank, who was 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
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."

  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!"

  "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.

                                Chapter 12

  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.

  "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 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "It was as 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 my 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.

  *Riches, the incentives to evil, are dug out of the earth.

  "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.

  "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.'

  "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.

  "'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.'"

  "Nubbing cheat!" cries Partridge: "pray, sir, what is that?"

  "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.

  "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."

  "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 rush 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.

  "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.

  "We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr. Watson, to my
surprize, pulled out a large sum of money 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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, 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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."

  "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."

  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.

                                Chapter 13

  In which the foregoing story is farther continued

  "My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.'

  "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.'

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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 for 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."

  "Not at all," cries Partridge; "Lud forbid we should be tired with
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-

     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

Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his
imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and
proceeded thus:-

  "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.

  "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,' 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 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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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."

  "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.

                                Chapter 14

  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.

  "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.

  "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.'

  "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.

  "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.'

  "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.

  "'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?"

  "I answered I had only a bill for L50, which I delivered him, and
promising to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a
little more advice, 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.

  "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.'

  "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.

  "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.'

  "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 town. His advices, however, were seldom authentic;
for he would swallow almost anything a truth- a humour which many
made use of to impose upon 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.

  "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.

  "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."

  "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:-

  "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.

  "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."

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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."

  "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 already spent: but you will give me leave to wish
for some further opportunity of the excellent observations which a man
of your sense and knowledge of the world must 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 and impatient ears, the stranger
proceeded in the next chapter.

                                Chapter 15

  A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr. Jones
and the Man on the Hill

  "In Italy the landlords are very silent. 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 a louange are sure to lose
no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think
they are pretty much alike 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 please to enrich the several parts of this globe; a which, as
it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it
admirably the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.
Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole
creation that him any dishonour, and with that I have long since
avoided bolding any conversation."

  "You will pardon me," cries Jones; "but I have always imagined
that there is in this work you mention as great variety as in all
the rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and
climates have, I am introduced the utmost diversity into human
nature."

  "Very little indeed," answered the other: to "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.

  "As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps
may have done through a croud at a show- 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."

  "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.

  "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."

  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."

  "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 proper, 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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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.

  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."

  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.

                                    BOOK IX

                            CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS

                                Chapter 1

  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 book-sellers, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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. Scribimus indocti doctique passim,* 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.

  *--Each desperate blockhead dares to write:

   Verse is the trade of every living wight.- MR. FRANCIS

  Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world,
who always denominates 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 hive 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.

  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.

  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.

  The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that the 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, 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.

  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 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 belleslettres 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.

  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 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.

  *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.

  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 controls 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.

  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 make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a 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.

                                Chapter 2

  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 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: we despair of making those who have seen this prospect admire
our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether who have not
seen it would understand it.

  Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his
eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, he was
looking at with so much attention? "Alas! sir," answered he with a
sigh, was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
land be between me and my own home!"- "Ay, ay, young gentleman,"
cries the other, "and your sighing, from what you love better 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
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 my
thoughts were employed as you have guessed."

  They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the
north-west, and which hangs a vast and extensive wood. Here they 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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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."

  "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."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  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 conveniences. 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.

  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.

  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 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."

  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 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.

                                Chapter 3

  The arrival of Mr. Jones with his lady at 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.

  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,
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 best of her way to the
chamber.

  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 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.

  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 a house of ill repute, to all
those where they are suffered to be carried on.

  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 adherred to, and this her virtuous guests, who did not travel
in rags, would very reasonably have expected of 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 assulted him
over 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.

  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?"

  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.

  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 cheekbones 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.

  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
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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 4

  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.

  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.

  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?"

  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 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."

  "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."

  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."

  "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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 proceed
to acquaint the reader.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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 simile, 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.

  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 of
mentioned by Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own
language, the whole artillery 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
aerial beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on
this occasion.

  "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."

  "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.

  "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.

  "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 surprise 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.

  "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 conquerer
enjoyed the usual fruits of her victory."

  Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we
think proper to end the chapter.

                                Chapter 6

  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.

  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.

  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 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
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; she gave me a guinea for the use of my cloaths."- "A very
good lady indeed!" cries the "and if you had not been a little
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 You must be meddling
with what did not belong to you, and throw in your fool's
discourse."- "Well, well," answered he; past cannot be mended, so
there's an end of the matter." "Yes," cries she, "for this 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 done." The landlady was
going to reply, was prevented by the peace-making 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.

  *The truth begets hatred.

  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 misfortunes in the
world, I write gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple 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. "Amicis 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 wheather, 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 shape 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 it 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."*(2) - "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.

  *Alas! I am not what I was.

  *(2) This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an effront,
is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not 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 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?"

  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.

                                Chapter 7

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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, are not
obliged to do a violence to our nature by any comments to the
disadvantage of the loveliest part of the 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.

  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.

  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 seaports in Wales, and thence might
make his escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs. Waters declared
she would bear him company; and for which was able to furnish him with
money, a very material article to Mr. Northerton, she having then in
her pocket three banknotes to the amount of L90, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                     BOOK X

              IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS

                                Chapter 1

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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

     --nulla virtute redemptum

     A vitiis--*

in 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.

  *Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue.

  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.

  And now, my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will,
if you please, once more set forward with our history.

                                Chapter 2

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  To say the truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among
the polished part 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock
to the deceny 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?"

  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."

  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 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."

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                                Chapter 3

  A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chambermaid, 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

  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.

  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.

  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 casel 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."

  "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."

  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 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 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."

  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.

  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.

  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 clothes
with great expedition, ran down to the protection of the company, whom
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.

  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.

  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.

  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 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.

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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."

  "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.

  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."

  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.

  *A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off the
shapes of women.

                                Chapter 4

  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 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 guests, 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."

  *Deceit.

  "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."

  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.

  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."

  "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.

  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 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."

  "And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young
Squire Allworthy?" said Abigail.

  "Who should he be," answered Partridge, "but the son and heir of the
great Squire Allworthy, of 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."

  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; 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."

  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.

                                Chapter 5

  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.

  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 it or no."

  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 menfolks, 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.

  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."

  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.

  While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believer, 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 curisity, 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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  The reader will be plea