Henry Fielding.........................................................................................................................................1

Book I. Containing As Much Of The Birth Of The Foundling As Is Necessary Or Proper To Acquaint The

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

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

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 dn their dinner without controul.

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been usual with

the honest and wellmeaning 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

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

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 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

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

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

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 abovementioned 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

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

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

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 Suchaone, 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

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

Chapter 3. An odd accident which befel Mr. Allworthy at his return home. The decent behaviour of Mrs.

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 misspend 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

womanservant 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 lookingglass, 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,

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 fiftysecond 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,

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 fellowcreatures. 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

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

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

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

Chapter 4. The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his escape; and the great

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

It stood on the southeast side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the

northeast by a grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile, and yet high

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

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 lefthand 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

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

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,

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

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 goodnatured side of

the question, intimated some compassion for the helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity

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

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

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

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

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

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 baseborn 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

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

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

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

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 hidingplaces. He proudly beats the air, conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended

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

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

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

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 goodnature, 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 illwill towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 7. Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once through the whole chapter,

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of old, out of society; at least, from the society

"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,

"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

"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

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

"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

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

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

Chapter 8. A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more amusement, but less

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 studydoor 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

*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

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 laughterloving goddess; nor was it one of those smiles

which Lady Seraphina shoots from the stagebox, 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

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

This behaviour of Miss Bridget greatly surprised Mrs. Deborah; for this wellbred 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

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

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

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

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

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

goodnatured 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

*Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons without virtue or sense, in all stations; and

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

Chapter 10. The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of two brothers, a doctor

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

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

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

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

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

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 thirtyfive years of age. He was of a middle size, and what is called wellbuilt. He

had a scar on his forehead, which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for he was a

halfpay 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,

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

It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed with a lady of so saintlike 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

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

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

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

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

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 cherrycheeks, small, lilywhite hands,

sloeblack 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 periwigmaker, 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 fopmakers 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 drawingroom, would have been the contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies

there. The former of these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, illfancied, and out of fashion. As for the latter,

we have expressly described it above. So far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherrycoloured, 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

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 quicksighted,

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,

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

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

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 lookout, no glance, gesture, or word

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

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

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,

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

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

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,

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"

"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

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

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

"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

"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 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

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

Chapter 13. Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear

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

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

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

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

Mr. Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's behalf, and desired to know what offence the

doctor had committed; when the hardhearted 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

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

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

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

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

He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and promised to return soon again; and took

leave of his brother with so welldissembled 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

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

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

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

Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique. Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate

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

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

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

Chapter 2. Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a great discovery made by

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

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

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, 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

baseborn 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

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

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 fountainhead.

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

Chapter 3. The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly contrary to those of

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 bestnatured 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,

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

Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had married out of Mr. Allworthy's kitchen

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

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

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 maidservant, 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 beforementioned 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.

Was once to be resolv'd she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and begone, for

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

A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the

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,

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,

Chapter 4. Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were ever recorded in domestic

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

But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce twentyfour 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

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

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 coffeehouses;

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

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,

This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called,

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

"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

"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

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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,

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,

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

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.

But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs. Wilkins at this discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his

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

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

"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, Christianlike 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

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

"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

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 fellowcreatures;

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

"I mean," said the captain, "Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster, what do you call him? Partridge, the father

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.

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

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

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

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

At the time appointed, before Mr. Allworthy himself, at Paradisehall, came as well the said Partridge, with

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

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

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

Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he admitted he had made the abovementioned

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

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 abed 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

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

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 lawbook, would be the means of

creating an eternal dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of much perjury, and of much

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

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

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

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

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

bettertempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her brother to restore the annuity; in which,

though goodnature might have some share, yet a stronger and more natural motive will appear in the next

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

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

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 smallpox, and died.

The justice which Mr. Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met with universal approbation; but no

sooner had he felt its consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to compassionate his case; and

presently after, to blame that as rigour and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed

against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy and forgiveness.

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.

Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and the unknown person having now

discontinued the lastmentioned charity, resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in

Chapter 7. A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from hatred: with a short

Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had he not reaped the harvest he hoped for,

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

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 wellbred 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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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, 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 malapropos, 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:

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

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, and an epitaph in the true stile

Mr. Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the accustomed hour in the supperroom,

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

"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

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

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

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, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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 case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her husband: for as he was past all the assistance of

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

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

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

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

The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a large progress towards oblivion, had

not the friendship of Mr. Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph, which was

written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one who perfectly well knew the captain.

The 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

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

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

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

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

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

An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of these two lads more fairly before the

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

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

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

Fruges consumere nati, "Born to consume the fruits of the earth"; so I make no manner of doubt but that there

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, overpersuaded 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

The gentleman himself was at that time on horseback, 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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same apprehensions with the youth; for whose

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

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

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

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

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

"Honour!" cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, "mere stubbornness and obstinacy! Can honour teach any

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

Chapter 3. The character of Mr. Square the philosopher, and of Mr. Thwackum the divine; with a dispute

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

Chapter 4. Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish incident, which perhaps requires

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

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

Chapter 5. The opinions of the divine and the philosopher concerning the two boys; with some reasons for

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

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

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,

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

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,

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 poorspirited 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, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly understood, afford a very useful lesson to those

welldisposed 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

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 goodnatured disposition in Tom Jones

The reader may remember that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little horse, as a kind of smartmoney for

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

"Oho!" says Thwackum, "you will not! then I will have it out of your brh"; that being the place to which he

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

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 oversincere; 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

"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."

"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,

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

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 halfprice. He therefore deposited the said halfprice 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

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

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

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 beforementioned, 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

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 nightgown, and other things, to the use of this

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

Shortlived 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

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

Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr. Western. He had so greatly recommended himself to that

gentleman, by leaping over fivebarred 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

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 pastrycook; 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

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,

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

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

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 kettledrums, which denote the heroe's approach, he is generally ushered on the

stage by a large troop of half a dozen sceneshifters; and how necessary these are imagined to his

King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an alehouse 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 brothermanager) 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

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 lordmayor 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 basketwoman, 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 abovementioned basketwoman. Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine with the utmost

solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile, and all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration

of our reader. Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of our male readers who have any hearts, to

read no farther, were we not well assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will appear, as it

is really a copy from nature, many of our fair countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any passion,

and to answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able to raise.

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 sharppointed nose of bitterbiting 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 birthday, 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

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 Kitcat. 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

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;

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

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 middlesized 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,

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

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,

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

Chapter 3. Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling incident that happened some years

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

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,

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

Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had

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

The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than forgetting all the favours it had received from

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

"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

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

"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 nowadays! 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

"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

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

"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 partridgemew. 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,

"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

"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

generousspirited action: I have learning enough to see that. Dn me, here's Tom's health! I shall love the

Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon resumed, had not Mr. Allworthy

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

"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,

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

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 selfinterest, 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 Roastmeat, 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

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

today?" 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 goodnature." She then recounted the story to her maid, and

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

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 dogkennel, 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 goodnature, than he might perhaps have done had he had the

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

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

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.

"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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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 trunkmaker 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and who was esteemed one of the

Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar souls cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags

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 goodwill 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

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

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

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 selflove. Such can never receive any

kind of satisfaction from another, without loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is owing, and without

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.

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

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

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 drawingroom, 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

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

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

Chapter 8. A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican stile, and which none but the classical reader can

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

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,

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

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 welldressed lady.

Molly had too much spirit to bear this treatment tamely. Having therefore but hold, as we are diffident of

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,

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

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 newdug 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 thighbone in her hand, fell

in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of

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 sweetlywinding 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 tobaccobox

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

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

wellscratched 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 thighbone 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

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

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 farfetched as well

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

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

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

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

"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 goodnatured 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

Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer's heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote

or any knighterrant 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

Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had only one with them; but as Square

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

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

"You need not upbraid me with that, mother," cried Molly; "you yourself was broughttobed of sister there,

"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

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

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

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 avoot. 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

"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

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

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 horsemedicine, 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

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

The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr. Western, and was at his return invited by that gentleman to

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

Mr. Supple, the curate of Mr. Allworthy's parish, made one of the company. He was a goodnatured 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

At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the roastbeef, 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 roastbeef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say grace, and to

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 evensong, 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

"And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?" cries Western; "I thought it might have been some

"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

"Why, ay," says the squire, "I believe I do know a little of that matter, as you say. But come, Tommy, drink

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. Dn un, what a sly bch 'tis. Ay, ay, as sure as twopence, Tom is the veather of the

"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

"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

"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

"Yes, yes, he was," says the squire: "and many a wench have we two had together. As arrant a whoremaster

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?

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 overmodest than overforward"; a

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 halfhour's nap, he summoned his daughter to her harpsichord; but she

begged to be excused that evening, on account of a violent headache. 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

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

Chapter 11. The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some observations for which we have been forced

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

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

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

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

"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

"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,

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

Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, "Well, I will discharge my mittimus. You may send the

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

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 wellbred laws of custom, I

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 selfaccusation. 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

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

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

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

Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in the tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn

to all these beforementioned 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

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

Chapter 12. Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the same fountain with those in the

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 nextdoor 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

"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 draggletails; 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

"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,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop to any such proceeding, by

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

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 ahunting

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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 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

*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

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

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

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: "Dn me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, dn 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

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

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

Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the bonesetting, 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 waitingwoman, had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was speaking:

but as a lookingglass, 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

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

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

"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 youI 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

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.

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

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 prosaicomiepic 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 drawingroom!

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

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

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

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 dancingmaster, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it

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

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

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

A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot, indeed, range him under any general head

Who by invented arts have life improved. I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment,

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

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

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:

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

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

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 2. In which Mr. Jones receives many friendly visits during his confinement; with some fine

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

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

Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too considered a sickbed 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

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

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 sickroom, 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

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 belowstairs with thick parson Thwackum. He hath

been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a judgment upon thee. Dn 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! Dn un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats on, I should have lent un o flick;

for I love thee dearly, my boy, and dn 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 tomorrow 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

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

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 bittersweet; 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 outlive 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

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.

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

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

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

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

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, goodhumour, greatness of mind, or

sweetness of disposition, had been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this

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

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

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

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 abed. Tom had

no objection to this situation of his mistress, and immediately ascended the ladder which let towards her

bedchamber; 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

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

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 tomorrow, I would not give my company to him. No, I shall always hate and despise

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,

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

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

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

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 wellchosen presents from the philosopher so softened and

unguarded the girl's heart, that a favourable opportunity became irresistible, and Square triumphed over the

It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the abovementioned 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

abovestairs 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

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,

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,

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

Chapter 6. By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct some abuse which he

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he grew

pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and

his countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged him to speak to her, as to drink her

health at table, his tongue was sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame, trembled. And

if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal

from his bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to throw daily in his way.

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

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 quicksighted

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

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

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

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 heartaches 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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

"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

"Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only L500 ayear, which is to revert to you

after the death of your mother, and except one other estate of L500 ayear, and the sum of L6000, which I

"The estate of L500 ayear 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;

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,

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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.

Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny stream which so plentifully rose above

the two mountainous cheekbones 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

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

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 abovestairs? "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. "Goodlackaday!" 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,

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

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

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,

If there be none, then wipe away that none, he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just

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

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

Chapter 9. Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on that saying of AEschines, that

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 chamberdoor, 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 abovementioned 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

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

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

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

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

"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

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."

*"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

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,

To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation, that men who are illnatured 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 goodhumoured, the avaricious, and all other

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 worstnatured 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 illnatured, exercised on these occasions: nay, it is common for the combatants to express

goodwill for each other even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth generally ends in a battle,

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

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

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

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, "Dn 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

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,

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

Chapter 10. Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of other more grave writers, who have

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

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

"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 beforementioned 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

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 beforementioned 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

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

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

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 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

Chapter 11. In which a simile in Mr. Pope's period of a mile introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly

As in the season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar denote that gentle dalliance, which in the

wellwooded* forest of Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the loftycrested 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

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

*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,

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

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

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

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 dn'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 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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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 foxhounds, the

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

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

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

But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall content myself, therefore, with this short

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

"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

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

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

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 truthfinder and the goldfinder may very

properly be compared together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between the two; for who

ever heard of a goldfinder 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 truthfinder, 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

First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the philosophers, are entirely free from the least

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

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

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

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

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 selfadmonition 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,

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

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 roastbeef.

Chapter 2. The character of Mrs. Western. Her great learning and knowledge of the world, and an

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 goodhumoured 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, as they are at present practised in the beaumonde. 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

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

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

smallpox." "Brother," returned she, "girls are liable to other distempers besides the smallpox, 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 bch, 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

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 PoliticoPeripatetic school of

Exchangealley. 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, 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

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

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

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

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,

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

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,

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

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

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 bedfellow, he was his

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

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 wellfed 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

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

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

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

But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass too far on the patience of a goodnatured

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

The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil; not that his heart was preengaged; 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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 goodnatured 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 waitingwoman; "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

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

Chapter 7. A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be drawn, and a scene of a

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;

"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 twentyfour 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

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 farfetched and

highstrained 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

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,

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

Mr. Western took care to waylay 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

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 dd," 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

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

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

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.

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

Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be proper to recount what had past in the

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

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

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

As when two doves, or two woodpigeons, 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

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

setterson 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 wellbarred windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to

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

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

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

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

"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 horseraces, cockmatches, 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

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,

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

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

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 commonplace 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

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 goodnature; 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

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

"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

kettleoffish 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 apoaching 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 goodbreeding and goodnature 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 soninlaw. 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

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

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

Chapter 11. A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to affect the goodnatured reader

It was Mr. Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, not even to turn away a servant, in a passion. He

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

Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation;

for as Mr. Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, 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 illtreatment of that good young man (meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with so much

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

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.

Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that his clothes and everything else should

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

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

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 goodnatured general must feel, when he

surveys the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender

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

When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your goodnature will pardon any inconsistency

or absurdity which my letter contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full, that no language can

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

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

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 pocketbook, which

he had received from Mr. Allworthy, which he had never opened, and which now first occurred to his

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

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,

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

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

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

The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having received Sophia's letter from him,

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

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 twentyfour 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

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

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

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

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 belowstairs, delivered him the purse,

which contained sixteen guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her father was very

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

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."* "Dn

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,

*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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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 abovementioned 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

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

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

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, 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

Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of Nature (and no author ought to write

anything besides dictionaries and spellingbooks 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 today 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

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

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 illbreeding, and the same illnature, 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.

Jones received his effects from Mr. Allworthy's early in the morning, with the following answer to his letter:

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

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

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

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

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

This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he eagerly embraced it; and having presently hired

But before we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort awhile to Mr. Western's, and see what further

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

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,

"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,

"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

"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 outoffashion 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

"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

"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

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, "Dn me then if shatunt ha'un,

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 ft." 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

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

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

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 dn'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 upperservant 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, bdy, and abuse of women, and of the

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 goodhumoured 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

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

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

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

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 dd b to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your father too, and don't

"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

"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

"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

"The English of all which is," answered the squire, "that I am in the wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the

"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

"So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate," says Sophia, "if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced

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 tomorrow, 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

"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

"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 goodnatured woman, and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me

"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

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 waitingwoman did more harm

than good, and at last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an angry voice she

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

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

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

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

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

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

soninlaw 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

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

"Formalities! with a pox!" answered the squire. "Pooh, all stuff and nonsense! I tell thee, she shall ha' thee

tomorrow: 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 soninlaw 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

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 tomorrow morning." Sophia turned

pale at these words, and repeated eagerly, "Tomorrow morning!" "Yes, ma'am," replied the trusty

waitingwoman, "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

"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

"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 firearms; 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

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,

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 tonight, I

warrant I get discharged this afternoon." It was then resolved that she should pack up some linen and a

nightgown 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

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 crossexamined 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

Mrs. Western's maid claimed great superiority over Mrs. Honour on several accounts. First, her birth was

higher; for her greatgrandmother 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

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

sirname; for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sirname 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 servingwoman of a

countrygirl." "Don't abuse my lady," cries Honour: "I won't take that of you; she's as much better than

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

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

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

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

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 goodnatured woman, and ordinarily of a forgiving temper. She had lately remitted

the trespass of a stagecoachman, who had overturned her postchaise 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

earrings; at the same time dning her, and saying, "Such handsome bs as you don't want jewels to set

them off, and be dn'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 illbreeding."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 bankbill 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

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

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

puppetshow, 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.

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

tonight." "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

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 righthand 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

These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a plain welllooking 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 tonight. 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 publichouse.

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

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

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

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 soninlaw 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

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

"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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and was a hearty wellwisher 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

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 alehouse, was prevailed on by some arguments which

a corporal had put into his hands, to undertake the same expedition. And now the portmanteau belonging to

Mr. Jones being put up in the baggagecart, 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,

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

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

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

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

The new soldiers were now produced before the officer, who having examined the sixfeet 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

"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

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

The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolution, shook him by the hand, and invited him to

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

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 illwill 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

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 illwill 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

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, goodnatured 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

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

"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."

"Dn 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; dn me, if ever I come at it, if I don't burn it. And there's

"Ay, dn 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 dn 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 dn 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

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

"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

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

"Sir," answered Jones, "so far from having been at the university, I have even had the advantage of yourself,

"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

"Well said, young volunteer," cries the lieutenant. "Upon my word, Northerton, you had better let him alone;

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

But the lieutenant, who was the toastmaster, was not contented with Sophia only. He said, he must have her

sirname; 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:

dn 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 Bridgesstreet." 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

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,

"dn 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

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

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

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 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

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

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 abovementioned 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

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

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

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

Chapter 13. Containing the great address of the landlady, the great learning of a surgeon, and the solid

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,

"Ay! ay! good lackaday!" 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

"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 lackaday, 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

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

"Not at all, sir," answered she; "I am not at all bloodyminded, 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 windowlights,

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 watergruel." "Won't you allow him sackwhey?" said the landlady. "Ay, ay,

sackwhey," 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

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

"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

"I'll try, however," answered Jones, "if you please, and will be so kind to lend me a sword, for I have none

"My sword is heartily at your service, my dear boy," cries the lieutenant, kissing him: "you are a brave lad,

and I love your spirit; but I fear your strength; for such a blow, and so much loss of blood, must have very

much weakened you; and though you feel no want of strength in your bed, yet you most probably would after

a thrust or two. I can't consent to your taking him out tonight; but I hope you will be able to come up with us

before we get many days' march advance; and I give you my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the man

"I wish," said Jones, "it was possible to decide this matter tonight: now you have mentioned it to me, I shall

"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

"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

"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

"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

sickbed? 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 tonight, and I promise you

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

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

Chapter 14. A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers ought to venture upon in an evening,

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

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

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 silverhilted; only a good blade, and such as may become a

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 lightheaded. 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 silverhilted, 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

Being instantly returned with the sword, he delivered it to Jones, who took it and drew it; and then told the

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

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

"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

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

"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.

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 lightheadedness had

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 newpurchased 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

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 lightcoloured 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 churchyard, 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

Whether fear or courage was the occasion of his firing, or whether he took aim at the object of his terror, I

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

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

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

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

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 lastmentioned 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

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

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

That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of such a person, we shall not delay a

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

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 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

abovementioned 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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

Chapter 1. A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being much the longest of all our

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lurkingplace, and walking softly behind his friend into his chamber, discharged a pistolball 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

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

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

This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of character; and it requires a very

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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 undervalue 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 today and gone

tomorrow 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!"

"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 bedside? 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 baseborn 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

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 downstairs; 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

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

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

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

"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

"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

"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

"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

Chapter 4. In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever recorded in history, the

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 illhumoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was preparing, and was, according to his

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, 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

"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

goodnature; 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 bestnatured 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

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

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

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 byeblow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many of

these byeblows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband used to say, never affront any customer

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

goodnature 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

*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 openhearted, 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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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."

"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

"Mr. Barber, or Mr. Surgeon, or Mr. Barbersurgeon," 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 milkwhite 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

"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

"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

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 milkwhite

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,

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

*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

"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

This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber departed, in order to prepare

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 jointstool 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 smartmoney, 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 horseracing, and cockfighting, 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,

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 horseflesh. Indeed, he is young, and hath not seen much of the for I believe he hath been at very

few horseraces." "Oho! he is one of your order, is he?" replies the landlady: "he must be a gentleman to be

sure, if he is a horseracer. The devil fetch such gentry! I am sure I wish I had never seen any of them. I have

reason to love horseracers 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." "Dn your first husband!" cries he. "Don't dn 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 dn'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

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

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

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

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

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

goodnatured woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must be of very morose disposition who

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

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 pettyfogger, without sense or knowledge of any kind; one of those who

may be termed trainbearers to the law; a sort of supernumeraries in the profession, who are the hackneys of

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 pettyfogger before; and though he

concluded, from the outward appearance and behaviour of the man, that he usurped a freedom with his

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 pettyfogger, 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 pettyfogger; "a pretty gentleman, truly! Why, he's the bastard of a fellow

who was hanged for horsestealing. 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 servantmaids 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

"And very justly too, I protest," cries Dowling; "I would turn my own son out of doors, if he was guilty of

"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

Pettyfogger 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

As Mrs. Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the pettyfogger 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,

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 pettyfogger 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

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 wellbred, 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

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

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

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 midwinter) 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

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?" "Alackaday!"

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 lookingglass 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 tonight, 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, longsided dame, mentioned by Hudibras that manyeyed, manytongued,

manymouthed, manyeared 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

abovementioned 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 fellowtraveller 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

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.

We have already observed, that he was a very goodnatured 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.

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

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 publichouse or

no, I am sure if they be Christians that well there, they will not refuse a little houseroom to persons in our

miserable condition." Jones at length yielded to the earnest supplications of Partridge, and both together made

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 halfacrown; 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

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,

Many circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his opinion. Her living, as he then imagined,

by herself in so lonely a place; and in a house, the outside of which seemed much too good for her, but its

inside was furnished in the most neat and elegant manner. To say the truth, Jones himself was not a little

surprized at what he saw; for, besides the extraordinary neatness of the room, it was adorned with a great

number of nicknacks and curiosities, which might have engaged the attention of a virtuoso.

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?" "Alackaday, 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, "Dn your blood, show us your money this instant. Your money, you

"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

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

"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 fellowcreature 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

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

moonlight, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to death. And to be certain it must have been some

"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

"Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going," answered the old man, "I have obligations to you which

"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

"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

"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

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

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.

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

"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

"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

"Yes, yes," cries Partridge, "I have seen such mothers; I have been abused myself by them, and very unjustly;

"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 schoolboys

"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

"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 twentyfive. 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 twentyone,

"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

"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 highmettled, had a violent flow of animal spirits, was a little ambitious, and extremely

"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 vicechancellor, and very narrowly escaped

"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,

"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. Selfmurder 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 breechespocket, 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

"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 vicechancellor, 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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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 grammarschool 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 psalmsingers 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 horseflesh 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 halfanhour. 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

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

"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.

"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

"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

"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

"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 fellowcollegiate; 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

"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 muttonchop in haste; so that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beefsteak 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 muttonchop?" "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

"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. Dn me if I don't honour you for it; for, as I hope for salvation, I would

"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,

"'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

"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

"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 downstairs 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

"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 upstairs; but I made

such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar,

"We now went directly to the gamingtable, 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

"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

"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

"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 gamingtable; 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

"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

"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

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

"My fellowcollegiate 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

"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

"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. Today wallowing in luxury, and

tomorrow reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being often on my back in the

"One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gamingtable, 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

"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 serjeantsurgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and was a very

generous goodnatured man, and ready to do any service to his fellowcreatures. 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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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

"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 afishing 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

"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

"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

"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.

"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

"I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this heathenish, or indeed diabolical,

principle of the lawfulness of selfmurder; 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,

"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

"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

"'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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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 hotheaded 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

"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 byeroads, 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

"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

"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

"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

"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,

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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 tonight shows that even

here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but

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,

"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

"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 gamingtable? 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

"Alas! young man," answered the stranger, "you have lived, you confess, but a very short time in the world: I

"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

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 booksellers, or to the great loss

of time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to

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 writingmaster, 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

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

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

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

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 doomsdaybook 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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2. Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr. Jones met with in his walk with the

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;

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

They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the northwest, 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

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 goodnature, can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that

The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the humanangelic 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

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

"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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 abovesaid 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 halfnaked 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 goodtempered 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

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 halfadozen 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

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

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

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 twohanded 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 manlike, 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

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

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 goodnatured 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 wellscratched 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

Chapter 4. In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to hostilities, and causes the conclusion of

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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; "dn me, I hate to

see two people bear illwill 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, dn 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

Chapter 5. An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a description of a battle of the

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

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

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

twentyfour hours had procured him; but his dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to other matters

Mr. Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very little, was, in reality, one of the

handsomest young fellows in the world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the most

apparent marks of sweetness and goodnature. 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 goodnature

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 goodhumoured; and had a flow of animal spirits which

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 universallyreceived 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, 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

dancingmasters 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

lookingglass, 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

"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

"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

"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

"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 goodhumour,

"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,

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

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

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 goodwill, 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 peacemaking 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

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 grammarschool 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." "Dn 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.

*(2) This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an effront, is a term in logic, and means that the

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

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

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 illnatured and selfish, than the desires

of those females who can be contented enough to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided they

Chapter 7. Containing a fuller account of Mrs. Waters, and by what means she came into that distressful

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 wellbred 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

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

Mrs. Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an intimacy with the abovementioned

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 reencounter 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,

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

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 lastmentioned 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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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 playhouse critics understand enough of Latin to

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

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

In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the admiration and affection of a

welldisposed 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

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

Chapter 2. Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very extraordinary adventures which ensued

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 halfdrunk 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

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

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

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, 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

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, are in music,

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

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

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 bawdyhouse; 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

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

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

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

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

innkeepers and their servants; with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which

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

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

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

"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 halfyear than they ordered last night; and so easy and goodhumoured 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

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

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

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

The footman and postboy 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

screechowl 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

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 Irish footman was retired to bed, and the postboy 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

And now arrived another postboy 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 postboy

instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell to her courtsies, and her ladyships, with great

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

"I wish, madam," quoth the latter, "your ladyship would not think of going any farther tonight. I am terribly

"Why sure," cries the landlady, "her ladyship's honour can never intend it. O, bless me! farther tonight,

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

"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

"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

"Why, Susan," cries the landlady, "is there a fire lit yet in the Wildgoose? 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 Wildgoose."

"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

"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

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 postboy sung forth the praises of her goodness, which were

likewise echoed by the other postboy, 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

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

*A celebrated mantuamaker 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 waitingwoman returned to the kitchen to regale

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

"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 horseflesh, 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 postboy 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 today? 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

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 "marrycomeups, as good flesh and

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 postboys, 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

"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

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

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

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

Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal and then repaired back to her mistress, when the

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

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 mudcart, 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 lilywhite 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

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

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 illlooked a villain. Besides, such profligate rakes as Mr.

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 illsecured. To give the bestnatured 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 sackwhey. 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 falsehearted 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 postboy to get

Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty waitingwoman, "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 pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had the honour of being more than once

remembered already in this history. This muff, ever since the departure of Mr. Jones, had been the constant

companion of Sophia by day, and her bedfellow by night; and this muff she had at this very instant upon her

arm; whence she took it off with great indignation, and, having writ her name with her pencil upon a piece of

paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the maid to convey it into the empty bed of Mr. Jones, in which, if he

did not find it, she charged her to take some method of conveying it before his eyes in the morning.

Then, having paid for what Mrs. Honour had eaten, in which bill was included an account for what she

herself might have eaten, she mounted her horse, and, once more assuring her companion that she was

Chapter 6. Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly

It was now past five in the morning, and other company began to rise and come to the kitchen, among whom

were the serjeant and the coachman, who, being thoroughly reconciled, made a libation, or, in the English

In this drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour of Partridge, who, when the serjeant

drank a health to King George, repeated only the word King; nor could he be brought to utter more; for

though he was going to fight against his own cause, yet he could not be prevailed upon to drink against it.

Mr. Jones, being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he returned we must beg to be excused from

relating), summoned Partridge from this agreeable company, who, after a ceremonious preface, having

"It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may sometimes learn counsel from a fool; I wish,

therefore, I might be so bold as to offer you my advice, which is to return home again, and leave these horrida

bella, these bloody wars, to fellows who are contented to swallow gunpowder, because they have nothing else

to eat. Now, everybody knows your honour wants for nothing home; when that's the case, why should any

"Partridge," cries Jones, "thou art certainly a coward; I wish, therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and

"I ask your honour's pardon," cries Partridge; "I spoke on your account more than my own; for as to me,

Heaven knows my circumstances are bad enough, and I am so far from being afraid, that I value a pistol, or a

blunderbuss, or any such thing, no more than a popgun. Every man must die once, and what signifies the

manner how? besides, perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a leg. I assure you, sir, I was

never less afraid in my life; and so, if your honour is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in

that case, I wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way of travelling, for a great

gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here are two or three good horses in the stable, which the landlord

will certainly make no scruple of trusting you with; but, if he should, I can easily contrive to take them; and,

let the worst come to the worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you are going to fight in his cause."

Now, as the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and both dealt only in small matters, he

would never have attempted a roguery of this kind, had he not imagined it altogether safe; for he was one of

those who have more consideration of the gallows than of the fitness of things; but, in reality, he thought he

might have committed this felony without any danger; for, besides that he doubted not but the name of Mr.

Allworthy would sufficiently quiet the landlord, he conceived they should be altogether safe, whatever turn

affairs might take; as Jones, he imagined, would have friends enough on one side, and as his friends would as

When Mr. Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal, he very severely rebuked him, and that

in such bitter terms, that the other attempted to laugh it off, and presently turned the discourse to other

matters; saying, he believed they were then in a bawdyhouse, and that he had with much ado prevented two

wenches from disturbing his honour in the middle of the night. "Heyday!" says he, "I believe they got into

your chamber whether I would or no; for here lies the muff of one of them on the ground." Indeed, as Jones

returned to his bed in the dark, he had never perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in leaping into his bed, he

had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge now took up, and was going to put into his pocket, when Jones

desired to see it. The muff was so very remarkable, that our heroe might possibly have recollected it without

the information annexed. But his memory was not put to that hard office; for at the same instant he saw and

read the words Sophia Western upon the paper which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a

moment, and he eagerly cried out, "Oh Heavens! how came this muff here?" "I know no more than your

honour," cried Partridge; "but I saw it upon the arm of one of the women who would have disturbed you, if I

would have suffered them." "Where are they?" cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and laying hold of his cloaths.

"Many miles off, I believe, by this time," said Partridge. And now Jones, upon further enquiry, was

sufficiently assured that the bearer of this muff was no other than the lovely Sophia herself.

The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks, his words, his actions, were such as beggar

all description. After many bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he ordered the poor

fellow, who was frightened out of his wits, to run down and hire him horses at any rate; and a very few

minutes afterwards, having shuffled on his clothes, he hastened downstairs to execute the orders himself,

But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the kitchen, it will be necessary to recur to what had

The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish gentlemen arose, and came downstairs;

both complaining that they had been so often waked by the noises in the inn, that they had never once been

The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, and which, perhaps, the reader may have hitherto

concluded was her own, was, indeed, a returned coach belonging to Mr. King, of Bath, one of the worthiest

and honestest men that ever dealt in horseflesh, and whose coaches we heartily recommend to all our readers

who travel that road. By which means they may, perhaps, have the pleasure of riding in the very coach, and

The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr. Maclachlan was going to Bath, offered to carry

him thither at a very moderate price. He was induced to this by the report of the hostler, who said that the

horse which Mr. Maclachlan had hired from Worcester would be much more pleased with returning to his

friends there than to prosecute a long journey; for that the said horse was rather a twolegged than a

Mr. Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman, and, at the same time, persuaded his

friend Fitzpatrick to accept of the fourth place in the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his bones made

more agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured of meeting with his wife at Bath, he thought a

Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard that this lady came from Chester,

with the other circumstances which he learned from the hostler, than it came into his head that she might

possibly be his friend's wife; and presently acquainted him with this suspicion, which had never once

occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. To say the truth, he was one of those compositions which nature makes up in

Now it happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never hit off a fault themselves; but no sooner doth

a dog of sagacity open his mouth than they immediately do the same, and, without the guidance of any scent,

run directly forwards as fast as they are able. In the same manner, the very moment Mr. Maclachlan had

mentioned his apprehension, Mr. Fitzpatrick instantly concurred, and flew directly upstairs, to surprize his

wife, before he knew where she was; and unluckily (as Fortune loves to play tricks with those gentlemen who

put themselves entirely under her conduct) ran his head against several doors and posts to no purpose. Much

kinder was she to me, when she suggested that simile of the hounds, just before inserted; since the poor wife

may, on these occasions, be so justly compared to a hunted hare. Like that little wretched animal, she pricks

up her ears to listen after the voice of her pursuer; like her, flies away trembling when she hears it; and, like

This was not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless search, Mr. Fitzpatrick returned to the

kitchen, where, as if this had been a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when the hounds

are at a fault. He was just alighted from his horse, and had many attendants at his heels.

Here, reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some matters, which, if thou dost know already, thou

art wiser than I take thee to be. And this information thou shalt receive in the next chapter.

Chapter 7. In which are concluded the adventures that happened at the inn at Upton

In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other person than Squire Western himself, who was

come hither in pursuit of his daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours earlier, he had not only found

her, but his niece into the bargain; for such was the wife of Mr. Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five

Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with Sophia; for, having been waked by

the voice of her husband, she had sent up for the landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter, had

bribed the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her with horses for her escape. Such prevalence

had money in this family; and though the mistress would have turned away her maid for a corrupt hussy, if

she had known as much as the reader, yet she was no more proof against corruption herself than poor Susan

Mr. Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed would the former have taken any

notice of the latter if he had known him; for, this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one in

the opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her committing it, abandoned the poor young

creature, who was then no more than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her to be named in

The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western enquiring after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as

eagerly after his wife, when Jones entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia's muff in his hand.

As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by sportsmen when their game is in view.

He then immediately run up and laid hold of Jones, crying, "We have got the dog fox, I warrant the bitch is

not far off." The jargon which followed for some minutes, where many spoke different things at the same

time, as it would be very difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to read.

Jones having, at length, shaken Mr. Western off, and some of the company having interfered between them,

our heroe protested his innocence as to knowing anything of the lady; when Parson Supple stepped up, and

said, "It is folly to deny it; for why, the marks of guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by

an oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam Sophia; for I have frequently observed

her, of later days, to bear it about her." "My daughter's muff!" cries the squire in a rage. "Hath he got my

daughter's muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him. I'll have him before a justice of peace this

instant. Where is my daughter, villain?" "Sir," said Jones, "I beg you would be pacified. The muff, I

acknowledge, is the young lady's; but, upon my honour, I have never seen her." At these words Western lost

Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr. Western was. The good Irishman, therefore,

thinking he had now an opportunity to do an act of service to his uncle, and by that means might possibly

obtain his favour, stept up to Jones, and cried out, "Upon my conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying

your having seen the gentleman's daughter before my face, when you know I found you there upon the bed

together." Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct him immediately to the room where his daughter

was; which offer being accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others, ascended directly to Mrs.

Waters's chamber, which they entered with no less violence than Mr. Fitzpatrick had done before.

The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror, and beheld at her bedside a figure

which might very well be supposed to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the

looks of Mr. Western; who no sooner saw the lady than he started back, shewing sufficiently by his manner,

So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than their persons, that, though the latter seemed

now in more danger than before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not with such violence as

she had done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone than she abandoned all

thoughts of further repose; and, as she had sufficient reason tobe dissatisfied with her present lodging, she

Mr. Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs.

Waters. He then returned disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the custody of his servants.

This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it was yet scarcely daylight. Among these

was a grave gentleman, who had the honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county of

Worcester. Of which Mr. Western was no sooner informed than he offered to lay his complaint before him.

The justice declined executing his office, as he said he had no clerk present, nor no book about justice

business; and that he could not carry all the law in his head about stealing away daughters, and such sort of

Here Mr. Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing the company that he had been himself bred

to the law. (And indeed he had served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland, when,

chusing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his master, came over to England, and set up that business which

requires no apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had succeeded, as hath been already

Mr. Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the present case; that stealing a muff

was undoubtedly felony, and the goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the fact.

The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and upon the violent intercession of the

squire, was at length prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon viewing

the muff which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the parson's swearing it to be the property of Mr.

Western, he desired Mr. Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment, which he said he would sign.

Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty, granted him. He then produced the evidence

of Mr. Partridge, as to the finding it; but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia herself had

delivered the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where Mr. Jones had found it.

Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of Jones, had wrought on Susan to make

the discovery, I will not determine; but such were the effects of her evidence, that the magistrate, throwing

himself back in his chair, declared that the matter was now altogether as clear on the side of the prisoner as it

had before been against him. with which the parson concurred, saying, the Lord forbid he should be

instrumental in committing an innocent person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and

Mr. Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately ordering his horses, departed in

pursuit of his daughter, without taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any answer to

his claim of kindred, notwithstanding all the obligations he had just received from that gentleman. In the

violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his passion, he luckily forgot to demand the muff of Jones: I say

Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he had paid his reckoning, in quest of his

lovely Sophia, whom he now resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring himself even

to take leave of Mrs. Waters; of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she had been, though not designedly,

the occasion of his missing the happiest interview with Sophia. to whom he now vowed eternal constancy.

As for Mrs. Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was going to Bath; for which place she set

out in company with the two Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her cloaths; in return for which

she was contented only to receive about double their value, as a recompence for the loan. Upon the road she

was perfectly reconciled to Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow, and indeed did all she could to

Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr. Jones encountered at his inn at Upton, where they talk, to

this day, of the beauty and lovely behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire angel.

Before we proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to look a little back, in order to account for the

The reader may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter of the seventh book of our history, we left

Sophia, after a long debate between love and duty, deciding the cause, as it usually, I believe, happens, in

This debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which her father had just before made her, in

order to force her consent to a marriage with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully implied in her

acknowledgment "that she neither must nor could refuse any absolute command of his."

Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation, overjoyed at the success he had gained with his

daughter; and, as he was of a social disposition, and willing to have partakers in his happiness, the beer was

ordered to flow very liberally into the kitchen; so that before eleven in the evening there was not a single

person sober in the house except only Mrs. Western herself and the charming Sophia.

Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr. Blifil; for, though the squire imagined that

young gentleman had been much less acquainted than he really was with the former aversion of his daughter,

as he had not, however, yet received her consent, he longed impatiently to communicate it to him, not

doubting but that the intended bride herself would confirm it with her lips. As to the wedding, it had the

evening before been fixed, by the male parties, to be celebrated on the next morning save one.

Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr. Blifil attended, and where the squire and his sister

O, Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then would I draw the picture of the poor

servingman, who, with pale countenance, staring eyes, chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and trembling

And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd) entered the room, and declared That Madam Sophia

"Not to be found!" cries the squire, starting from his chair; "Zounds and dnation! Blood and fury! Where,

"La! brother," said Mrs. Western, with true political coldness, "you are always throwing yourself into such

violent passions for nothing. My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the garden. I protest you are grown

"Nay, nay," answered the squire, returning as suddenly to himself, as he had gone from himself; "if that be all

the matter, it signifies not much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me when the fellow said she was not

to be found." He then gave orders for the bell to be rung in the garden, and sat himself contentedly down.

No two things could be more the reverse of each other than were the brother and sister in most instances;

particularly in this, That as the brother never foresaw anything at a distance, but was most sagacious in

immediately seeing everything the moment it had happened; so the sister eternally foresaw at a distance, but

was not so quicksighted to objects before her eyes. Of both these the reader may have observed examples:

and, indeed, both their several talents were excessive; for, as the sister often foresaw what never came to

This was not however the case at present. The same report was brought from the garden as before had been

The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the name of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a

voice, as whilome did Hercules that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole shore echoed back the

name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the garden, and all the neighbouring fields resound nothing but

the name of Sophia, in the hoarse voices of the men, and in the shrill pipes of the women; while echo seemed

so pleased to repeat the beloved sound, that, if there is really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her

Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last the squire, having sufficiently spent his breath,

returned to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Western and Mr. Blifil, and threw himself, with the utmost

"Brother, I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece should have behaved herself in a manner so

unbecoming her family; but it is all your own doings, and you have nobody to thank but yourself. You know

she hath been educated always in a manner directly contrary to my advice, and now you see the consequence.

Have I not a thousand times argued with you about giving my niece own will? But you know I never could

prevail upon you; and when I had taken so much pains to eradicate her headstrong opinions, and to rectify

your errors in policy, you know she was taken out of my hands; so that I have nothing to answer for. Had I

been trusted entirely with the care of her education, no such accident as this had ever befallen you; so that

you must comfort yourself by thinking it was all your own doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected

"Zounds! sister," answered he, "you are enough to make one mad. Have I indulged her? Have I given her her

will? It was no longer ago than last night that I threatened, if she disobeyed me, to confine her to her

chamber upon bread and water as long as she lived.You would provoke the patience of job."

"Did ever mortal hear the like?" replied she. "Brother, if I had not the patience of fifty jobs, you would make

me forget all decency and decorum. Why would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not intreat you, to

leave the whole conduct to me? You have defeated all the operations of the campaign by one false step.

Would any man in his senses have provoked a daughter by such threats as these? How often have I told you

that English women are not to be treated like Ciracessian* slaves? We have the protection of the world; we

are to be won by gentle means only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and beat into compliance. I thank

Heaven no Salique law governs here. Brother, you have a roughness in your manner which no woman but

myself would bear. I do not wonder my niece was frightened and terrified into taking this measure; and, to

speak honestly, I think my niece will be justified to the world for what she hath done. I repeat it to you again,

brother, you must comfort yourself by rememb'ring that it is all your own fault. How often have I advised"

Here Western rose hastily from his chair, and venting two or three horrid imprecations, ran out of the room.

When he was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if possible) against him than she had done while

he was present; for the truth of which she appealed to Mr. Blifil, who, with great complacence, acquiesced

entirely in all she said; but excused all the faults of Mr. Western, "as they must be considered," he said, "to

have proceeded from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which must be allowed the name of an amiable

weakness." "So much the more inexcuseable," answered the lady; "for whom doth he ruin by his fondness but

Mrs. Western then began to express great confusion on the account of Mr. Blifil, and of the usage which he

had received from a family to which he intended so much honour. On this subject she treated the folly of her

niece with great severity; but concluded with throwing the whole on her brother, who, she said, was

inexcuseable to have proceeded so far without better assurances of his daughter's consent: "But he was (says

she) always of a violent, headstrong temper; and I can scarce forgive myself for all the advice I have thrown

After much of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not greatly entertain the reader, was it here

particularly related, Mr. Blifil took his leave and returned home, not highly pleased with his disappointment:

which, however, the philosophy which he had acquired from Square, and the religion infused into him by

Thwackum, together with somewhat else, taught him to bear rather better than more passionate lovers bear

It is now time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves her half so well as I do, will rejoice to find

escaped from the clutches of her passionate father, and from those of her dispassionate lover.

Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous bellmetal, summoning the ghosts to rise and

walk their nightly round. In plainer language, it was twelve o'clock, and all the family, as we have said, lay

buried in drink and sleep, except only Mrs. Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet,

and except our heroine, who now softly stole downstairs, and, having unbarred and unlocked one of the

Notwithstanding the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes practise, to display their fears on every little

occasion (almost as many as the other sex uses to conceal theirs), certainly there is a degree of courage which

not only becomes a woman, but is often necessary to enable her to discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea

of fierceness, and not of bravery, which destroys the female character; for who can read the story of the justly

celebrated Arria without conceiving as high an opinion of her gentleness and tenderness as of her fortitude?

At the same time, perhaps, many a woman who shrieks at a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of poisoning a

Sophia, with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all the spirit which she ought to have. When,

therefore, she came to the place of appointment, and, instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed, saw a man

ride directly up to her, she neither screamed out nor fainted away: not that her pulse then beat with its usual

regularity; for she was, at first, under some surprize and apprehension: but these were relieved almost as soon

as raised, when the man, pulling off his hat, asked her, in a very submissive manner, "If her ladyship did not

expect to meet another lady?" and then proceeded to inform her that he was sent to conduct her to that lady.

Sophia could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this account: she therefore mounted resolutely

behind the fellow, who conveyed her safe to a town about five miles distant, where she had the satisfaction of

finding the good Mrs. Honour: for, as the soul of the waitingwoman was wrapt up in those very habiliments

which used to enwrap her body, she could by no means bring herself to trust them out of her sight. Upon

these, therefore, she kept guard in person, while she detached the aforesaid fellow after her mistress, having

They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the pursuit of Mr. Western, who they knew would

send after them in a few hours. The London road had such charms for Honour, that she was desirous of going

on directly; alleging that, as Sophia could not be missed till eight or nine the next morning, her pursuers

would not be able to overtake her, even though they knew which way she had gone. But Sophia had too much

at stake to venture anything to chance; nor did she dare trust too much to her tender limbs, in a contest which

was to be decided only by swiftness. She resolved, therefore, to travel across the country, for at least twenty

or thirty miles, and then to take the direct road to London. So, having hired horses to go twenty miles one

way, when she intended to go twenty miles the other, she set forward with the same guide behind whom she

had ridden from her father's house; the guide having now taken up behind him, in the room of Sophia, a much

heavier, as well as much less lovely burden; being, indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with those

outside ornaments, by means of which the fair Honour hoped to gain many conquests, and, finally, to make

When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the London road, Sophia rode up to the guide,

and, with a voice much fuller of honey than was ever that of Plato, though his mouth is supposed to have

Reader, I am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern miracles. I do not, therefore, deliver the

following as a certain truth; for, indeed, I can scarce credit it myself: but the fidelity of an historian obliges

me to relate what hath been confidently asserted. The horse, then, on which the guide rode, is reported to

have been so charmed by Sophia's voice, that he made a full stop, and expressed an unwillingness to proceed

Perhaps, however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than it hath been represented; since the natural

cause seems adequate to the effect: for, as the guide at that moment desisted from a constant application of

his armed right heel (for, like Hudibras, he wore but one spur), it is more than possible that this omission

alone might occasion the beast to stop, especially as this was very frequent with him at other times.

But if the voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had very little on the rider. He answered

somewhat surlily, "That measter had ordered him to go a different way, and that he should lose his place if he

Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to add irresistible charms to her voice; charms

which, according to the proverb, makes the old mare trot, instead of standing still; charms to which modern

ages have attributed all that irresistible force which the antients imputed to perfect oratory. In a word, she

The lad was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked their being indefinite; for, though perhaps he

had never heard that word, yet that, in fact, was his objection. He said, "Gentlevolks did not consider the case

of poor volks; that he had like to have been turned away the other day, for riding about the country with a

gentleman from Squire Allworthy's, who did not reward him as he should have done."

"With whom?" says Sophia eagerly. "With a gentleman from Squire Allworthy's," repeated the lad; "the

squire's son, I think they call 'un." "Whither? which way did he go?" says Sophia. "Why, a little o' one side

o' Bristol, about twenty miles off," answered the lad. "Guide me," says Sophia, "to the same place, and I'll

give thee a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient." "To be certain," said the boy, "it is honestly worth two,

when your ladyship considers what a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two

guineas, I'll e'en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride about my measter's horses; but one comfort

The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of

Jones, highly contrary to the remonstrances of Mrs. Honour, who had much more desire to see London than

to see Mr. Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with her mistress, as he had been guilty of some neglect in

certain pecuniary civilities, which are by custom due to the waitinggentlewoman in all love affairs, and

more especially in those of a clandestine kind. This we impute rather to the carelessness of his temper than to

any want of generosity; but perhaps she derived it from the latter motive. Certain it is that she hated him very

bitterly on that account, and resolved to take every opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was

therefore highly unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same town and inn whence Jones had started,

and still more unlucky was she in having stumbled on the same guide, and on this accidental discovery which

Our travellers arrived at Hambrook* at the break of day, where Honour was against her will charged to

enquire the route which Mr. Jones had taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have informed them;

When Mrs. Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with much difficulty, procured some

indifferent horses, which brought her to the inn where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of

Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no sooner applied herself to the

landlady, and had described the person of Mr. Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase,

to smell a rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room, instead of answering the maid, the landlady,

addressing herself to the mistress, began the following speech: "Good lackaday! why there now, who

would have thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld. Ifackins, madam, it is no wonder

the squire run on so about your ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the world, and to be

sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it

his dear Madam Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I told him there were men

enow that were good for nothing else but to be killed, that had not the love of such fine ladies." "Sure," says

Sophia, "the good woman is distracted." "No, no," cries the landlady, "I am not distracted. What, doth your

ladyship think I don't know then? I assure you he told me all." "What saucy fellow," cries Honour, "told you

anything of my lady?" "No saucy fellow," answered the landlady, "but the young gentleman you enquired

after, and a very pretty young gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the bottom of his

soul." "He love my lady! I'd have you to know, woman, she is meat for his master." "Nay, Honour," said

Sophia, interrupting her, "don't be angry with the good woman; she intends no harm." "No, marry, don't I,"

answered the landlady, emboldened by the soft accents of Sophia; and then launched into a long narrative too

tedious to be here set down, in which some passages dropt that gave a little offence to Sophia, and much

more to her waitingwoman, who hence took occasion to abuse poor Jones to her mistress the moment they

were alone together, saying, "that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could have no love for a lady, whose

Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light, and was perhaps more pleased with the

violent raptures of his love (which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other

circumstance) than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she imputed the whole to the extravagance, or

This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and placed in the most odious colours by

Honour, served to heighten and give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the

waitingwoman in her endeavours to make her mistress depart from that inn without seeing Jones.

The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her horses were ready, and that without either

eating or drinking, soon withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed she used great

freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she reminded her of her intention to go to London, and gave

frequent hints of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded with this serious

exhortation: "For heaven's sake, madam, consider what you are about, and whither you are going."

This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no very agreeable season, may seem

foolish enough. It may be supposed she had well considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs. Honour, by

the hints she threw out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the opinion of many readers, who have, I

make no doubt, been long since well convinced of the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily condemned

But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so distracted between hope and fear, her duty and

love to her father, her hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the truth?) her love

for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of her aunt, of every one else, and more particularly of Jones

himself, had blown into a flame, that her mind was in that confused state which may be truly said to make us

ignorant of what we do, or whither we go, or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of either.

The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool reflection; and she at length

But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met the hackattorney, who, as is before

mentioned, had dined there with Mr. Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs. Honour, stopt and spoke

to her; of which Sophia at that time took little notice, more than to enquire who he was.

But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of

the great expedition he usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed) he was

particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had overheard Mrs. Honour inform him that they were

going to Gloucester, she began to fear lest her father might, by this fellow's means, be able to trace her to that

city; wherefore, if she should there strike into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be able

to overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and, having hired horses to go a week's journey a way

which she did not intend to travel, she again set forward after a light refreshment, contrary to the desire and

earnest entreaties of her maid, and to the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs. Whitefield, who, from good

breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady appeared much fatigued), pressed her very

Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two hours the bed, while her horses were

getting ready, she resolutely left Mrs. Whitefield's about eleven at night, and, striking directly into the

Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that very inn where we last saw her.

Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in

a very few words bring her father to the same place; who, having received the first scent from the postboy,

who conducted his daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; whence he

pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr. Jones had taken that route (for Partridge, to use the squire's

expression, left everywhere a strong scent behind him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia travelled,

or, as he phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a very coarse expression, which need not be here

inserted; as foxhunters, who alone will understand it, will easily suggest it to themselves.

In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that formidable set of men who are called

critics with more freedom than becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great

condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the reasons of our conduct to this august body;

and here we shall, perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen.

This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I presume some persons who have not

understood the original, and have seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant

judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to condemnation.

I am rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of critics hath of late years been found

amongst the lawyers. Many of these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in

Westminsterhall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse, where they have exerted their

The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave them thus compared to one of the

most important and honourable offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we

would do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them, we must remind them of

another officer of justice of much lower rank; to whom as they not only pronounce, but execute, their own

But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may, with great justice and propriety, be

seen; and this is that of a common slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others, with no other

design but to discover their faults, and to publish them to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the

reputations of men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as properly stiled

Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more odious vermin; nor can the devil

receive a guest more worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am

afraid, regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I am more afraid to assign

the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the

comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt: for slander is a more

cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable. One method, indeed,

there is of killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here

disclaimed against, and that is poison: a means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that is was once

wisely distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar severity of the punishment.

Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the means by which they are effected,

there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no

provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black infernal mind may propose a reward

With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will probably seem too severe, when applied

to the slanderer of books. But let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition of

mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be

very slight, when we consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child of his brain.

The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin state can have but a very inadequate

idea of this kind of paternal fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff, "Alas!

Thou hast written no book." But the author whose muse hath brought forth will feel the pathetic strain,

perhaps will accompany me with tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while I mention the

uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful labour with which she produces it,

and lastly, the care, the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought to

Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute instinct, and which may so well be

reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of their father; and

many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the

interest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book to

Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author: for, as no one can call another bastard,

without calling the mother a whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense, to a

book, without calling the author a blockhead; which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to

Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not, will feel and acknowledge the truth

of it; nay, may, perhaps, think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may

speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at

least a very illnatured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.

I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to explain the marks of this character, and to

show what criticism I here intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very persons here

meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the

commonwealth of literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so greatly

indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus, among the antients, Dacier and Bossu among the

French, and some perhaps among us; who have certainly been duly authorized to execute at least a judicial

But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I

may very boldly object to the censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself read. Such

censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of

others, may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn.

Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without assigning any particular faults,

condemn the whole in general defamatory terms; such as vile, dull, dd stuff, and particularly by the use of

the monosyllable low; a word which becomes the mouth of no critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.

Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet, if those are not in the most essential

parts, or if they are compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer than of

the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the whole, merely on account of some vicious

For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character,

as well as of countenance, and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel indeed would

it be if such a work as this history, which hath employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should

be liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be obnoxious to very

just and sensible objections. And yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books

supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not always), do by no

means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with

the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one scene

which should be disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To write within such severe rules as these is as

impossible as to live up to some splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the sentiments of some

critics, and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no man in the next.

Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel backwards, had mentioned the departure of

Sophia and her maid from the inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature, and leave

her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his illluck, or rather his illconduct.

Sophia having directed her guide to travel through byeroads, across the country, they now passed the

Severn, and had scarce got a mile from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several horses

coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and she called to the guide to put on as fast as

He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the faster they went, the faster were they

followed; and as the horses behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at length

overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears, joined to her fatigue, had almost

overpowered her spirits; but she was now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the softest

manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as soon as she could recover her breath, with like

The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror, consisted, like her own company, of

two females and a guide. The two parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered again to

open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat

surprized that the other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and had already passed

through several turnings), accosted the strange lady in a most obliging tone, and said, "She was very happy to

find they were both travelling the same way." The other, who, like a ghost, only wanted to be spoke to,

readily answered, "That the happiness was entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and

was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had perhaps been guilty of an

impertinence, which required great apology, in keeping pace with her." More civilities passed between these

two ladies; for Mrs. Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear.

But, though Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on through the same

byeroads with herself, nay, though this gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other

The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost below the dignity of history to

mention. Her bonnet had been blown from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could

she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was informed of this, she

immediately supplied her with a handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her pocket,

she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false

Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received not the least damage: and the same

circumstances which had perhaps contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane

which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with trees, so that the moon could here

afford very little light, and was moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was almost perfectly dark.

By these means the young lady's modesty, which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her

limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm than a little fright by

Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two ladies, who were riding over a common side by

side, looking stedfastly at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both their horses

stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of

This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I believe it will the sagacious reader, who

must have imagined that the strange lady could be no other than Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western,

So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at this meeting (for they had formerly

been most intimate acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western), that it is

impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed between them, before either asked a very natural

This at last, however, came first from Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but, easy and natural as the question may seem,

Sophia found it difficult to give it a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to

suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, "which I suppose," says she, "can hardly be far distant; and,

believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty

The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I apprehend, little worth relating; and

less certainly was that between the two waitingwomen; for they likewise began to pay their compliments to

each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the

In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and wellbeaten road, which, as they

turned to the right, soon brought them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so fatigued

was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now

incapable of dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had hold of her horse,

presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of

his service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that day, and the second

malicious attempt succeeded better than the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in

his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but,

at the same time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his charming burden,

so that he alone received any bruise from the fall; for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent

shock given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from the ground, she observed in the

countenances of most of the byestanders. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what we

shall not here relate, for the indulgence of those readers who are capable of laughing at the offence given to a

young lady's delicacy. Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor will we scruple

to say, that he must have a very inadequate idea of the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish

This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her mind and body had undergone, almost

overcame the excellent constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to totter into the inn,

leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs. Honour that Sophia had not been in bed during the two last nights, and

observing her to look very pale and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some

sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have

given the same advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long journey through byeroads so

entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she was herself perfectly easy on that account.

Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend, which was heartily seconded by her maid.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much complacence,

The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her example. She began to make many

apologies to her sister Abigail for leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt her

short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid

agreed to give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after many courtsies and

compliments, to bed together went the waitingwomen, as their mistresses had done before them.

It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole fraternity) to enquire particularly of all

coachmen, footmen, postboys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their estate was, and where

it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the many particular circumstances which attended our

travellers, and especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual an hour as ten in the

morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon, therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to

examine who the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they faithfully related all they

knew, gave him very little satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished

This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought

to see farther and deeper into things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his

look had contributed not a little to procure him this reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully

wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth; which, indeed, he seldom was without. His

behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he was

solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a slow voice;

and, though sentences were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay ays, and other

expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or

nodding the head, or pointing with his forefinger, he generally left his hearers to understand more than he

expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose.

This last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his character of wisdom; since men are

strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on

This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her "what she thought of the ladies lately arrived?"

"Think of them?" said the wife, why, what should I think of them?" "I know," answered he, "what I think.

The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and

neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever travel across the

country from Upton hither, especially to London? And one of the maidservants, before she alighted from her

horse, asked if this was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances together, and whom do

you think I have found them out to be?" "Nay," answered she, "you know I never pretend to guess at your

discoveries." "It is a good girl," replied he, chucking her under the chin; "I must own you have always

submitted to my knowledge of these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say depend upon it,

they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel with the young Chevalier; and have taken a

"Husband," quoth the wife," you have certainly hit it; for one of them is dressed as fine as any princess; and,

to be sure, she looks for all the world like one. But yet, when I consider one thing" "When you

consider," cries the landlord contemptuously "Come, pray let's hear what you consider." "Why, it is,"

answered the wife, "that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our Betty was warming the

bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her

shoes and stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her the trouble."

"Pugh!" answered the husband, "that is nothing. Dost think, because you have seen some great ladies rude

and uncivil to persons below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come

before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see them I think I do. Did not she call for a

glass of water when she came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know they

would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will

have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon some such

extraordinary occasion?" "Nay, to be sure, husband," cries she, "you know these matters better than I, or most

folk." "I think I do know something," said he. "To be sure," answered the wife, "the poor little heart looked so

piteous, when she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as

much as if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you

intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she's a sweettempered, goodhumoured lady, be she what she

will, and I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded." "Pooh!" answered the

husband. "But, as to what's to be done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes

away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should get the better, she may gain us interest at

court, and make our fortunes without betraying her." "Why, that's true," replied the wife; "and I heartily hope

she will have it in her power. Certainly she's a sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her

come to any harm." "Pooh!" cries the landlord, "women are always so tenderhearted. Why, you would not

harbour rebels, would you?" "No, certainly," answered the wife; "and as for betraying her, come what will

While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the reputation of great wisdom among his

neighbours, was engaged in debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the opinion of his

wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke the slip, and had got a day's march towards London;

and soon after arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his countenance, shook the landlord by

the hand, saying, "All's our own, boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for

This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to make his court to the young lady when

she arose; for he had now (he said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.

Chapter 3. A very short chapter, in which however is a Sun, a Moon, a Star, and an Angel

The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had been some time retired to rest, when

Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue could

have occasioned; for, though she had told her maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was perfectly easy when

she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was a little affected with that malady which is attended with all the

restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very distemper which physicians mean (if they mean

Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having summoned her maid, immediately dressed

herself. She was really a very pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that Sophia, might

have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs. Honour of her own accord attended (for her mistress would not

suffer her to be waked), and had equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had performed

the office of the morningstar, and had preceded greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally

Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this instant. We ought not, therefore, to condemn

the maid of the inn for her hyperbole, who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire, declared, and

ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, she was now abovestairs.

Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and Mrs. Fitzpatrick had agreed to

accompany her; for the arrival of her husband at Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to

her aunt Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea, than Sophia proposed to set out, the moon

then shining extremely bright, and as for the frost she defied it; nor had she any of those apprehensions which

many young ladies would have felt at travelling by night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little

degree of natural courage; and this, her present sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair, greatly

encreased. Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by the light of the moon, she was the better

The disposition of Mrs. Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the greater terrors had conquered the less,

and the presence of her husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton, yet, being now

arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I know not what

operated so strongly, that she earnestly entreated her cousin to stay till the next morning, and not expose

Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh nor reason her cousin out of these

apprehensions, at last gave way to them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father's arrival at Upton, it

might have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great horror at

the thoughts of being overtaken by him; nay, to confess the truth, I believe wished than feared it; though I

might honestly enough have concealed this wish from the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous

When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in their inn, they were attended by the

landlady, who desired to know what their ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the

voice, in the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the landlady to the highest

degree; and that good woman, concluding that she had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a

stanch Jacobite, and wished heartily well to the young Pretender's cause, from the great sweetness and

The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal curiosity; to know what extraordinary

accidents on both sides occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs. Fitzpatrick, having

obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating likewise in her turn, began to relate what the reader, if he is

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep sigh, thus began:

"It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting those periods of their lives which have

been most delightful to them. The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of tender grief, like

what we suffer for departed friends; and the ideas of both may be said to haunt our imaginations.

"For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the happiest far of my life) which we spent

together, when both were under the care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss Giddy

no more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter

appellation with too much cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved it. You, my Sophia, was

always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope you will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the

wise and matronly advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball, though you could

not be then fourteen years old.O my Sophy, how blest must have been my situation, when I could think such

a disappointment a misfortune; and when indeed it was the greatest I had ever known!"

"And yet, my dear Harriet," answered Sophia, "it was then a serious matter with you. Comfort yourself

therefore with thinking, that whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and contemptible as a

"Alas, my Sophia," replied the other lady, "you yourself will think otherwise of my present situation; for

greatly must that tender heart be altered, if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a tear, from

you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from relating what I am convinced will so much affect

you." Here Mrs. Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she thus proceeded:

"Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may probably have been misrepresented,

I will set out from the very commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband; which

"Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr. Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome,

degage, extremely gallant, and in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was unluckily to

see him now, I could describe him no better than by telling you he was the very reverse of everything which

he is: for he hath rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild Irishman. But to proceed in

my story: the qualifications which he then possessed so well recommended him, that, though the people of

quality at that time lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded them from all their parties, Mr.

Fitzpatrick found means to gain admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he required very

little or no invitation; and as, being handsome and genteel, he found it no very difficult matter to ingratiate

himself with the ladies, so, he having frequently drawn his sword, the men did not care publickly to affront

him. Had it not been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own sex; for

surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English gentry; nor did they seem inclined to show him any

extraordinary favour. They all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed from envy; for the

"My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived about the court, was enrolled in that

party; for, by whatever means you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is sufficient merit for

you that you are there. This observation, young as you was, you could scarce avoid making from my aunt,

who was free, or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or less of this merit.

"And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr. Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he

so well succeeded, that he was always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning such

distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his behaviour to her, that the scandal club first began to

take notice of it, and the betterdisposed persons made a match between them. For my own part, I confess, I

made no doubt that his designs were strictly honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune

by way of marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor handsome enough to attract much

"I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary respect which he showed to myself from the

first moment of our acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible, that disinclination

which my interest might be supposed to give me towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it

had that effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all people the least a slave to

interested views, so I could not be violently the enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was greatly

pleased; and the more so, as I was the only object of such respect; for he behaved at the same time to many

"Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of behaviour, which was perhaps more so.

He now put on much softness and tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times, indeed,

whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was

always in general company, and with other women; for even in a country dance, when he was not my partner,

he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all

things so very particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have discovered it. And, and, and"

"And you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet," cries Sophia; "you need not be ashamed," she, sighing;

"for sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness, which too many men are able to affect." "True,"

answered her cousin; "men, who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels in the art of

loving. I wish I did not know an instance. Well, scandal now began to be as busy with me as it had before

been with my aunt; and some good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr. Fitzpatrick had an intrigue with

"But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least seemed to suspect, that which was

visible enough, I believe, from both our behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the eyes

of an old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses which are made to them, that, like an

outrageous glutton, they are not at leisure to observe what passes amongst others at the same table. This I

have observed in more cases than my own; and this was so strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she

often found us together at her return from the pump, the least chanting word of his, pretending impatience at

her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One artifice succeeded with her to admiration. This was his

treating me like a little child, and never calling me by any other name in her presence but that of pretty miss.

This indeed did him some disservice with your humble servant; but I soon saw through it, especially as in her

absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a different manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a

conduct of which I had discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it; for my aunt really conceived me

to be what her lover (as she thought him) called me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say

"At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn manner, to disclose a secret which I had

known long before. He now placed all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account. He

lamented, in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given him, and made a high merit of the tedious

hours in which he had undergone her conversation. What shall I tell you, my dear Sophia? Then I will

confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I was pleased with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted

me; to rival so many other women charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave as I should do, even

upon the very first declaration I wish I did not almost give him positive encouragement before we parted.

"The Bath now talked loudly I might almost say, roared against me. Several young women affected to shun

my acquaintance, not so much, perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me from a

company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man. And here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude

to the kindness intended me by Mr. Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I had

followed, I had been a happy woman. 'Child,' says he, 'I am sorry to see the familiarity which subsists

between you and a fellow who is altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As for

your old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my pretty Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his

words), I should be heartily glad that the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to her. I never advise old

women: for, if they take it into their head to go to the devil, it is no more possible than worth while to keep

them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy a better fate, and I would save them from his

clutches. Let me advise you therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with you again.'

Many more things he said to me, which I have now forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at that

time; for inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I could not be persuaded that women of quality

"But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many minute circumstances. To be concise,

therefore, imagine me married; imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine the

maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination will suggest to you no more than what really

"The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr. Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much

perhaps to avoid seeing any one else; for, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly, I believe

she was then a little confounded at her disappointment. Since that time, I have written to her many letters, but

never could obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the heavier, as she herself was, though

undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings: for, had it not been under the colour of paying his addresses

to her, Mr. Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have engaged my heart, which, in

other circumstances, I still flatter myself would not have been an easy conquest to such a person. Indeed, I

believe I should not have erred so grossly in my choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I trusted

totally to the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of a man for granted, whom I saw so

universally well received by the women. What is the reason, My dear, that we, who have understandings

equal to the wisest and greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest fellows for companions

and favourites? It raises my indignation to the highest pitch, to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who

have been undone by fools." Here she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no answer, she proceeded as in

"We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding; for as to any reconciliation with my aunt,

there were no hopes; and of my fortune, not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which I now

wanted more than two years. My husband, therefore, was resolved to set out for Ireland; against which I

remonstrated very earnestly, and insisted on a promise which he had made me before our marriage, that I

should never take this journey against my consent; and indeed I never intended to consent to it; nor will

anybody, I believe, blame me for that resolution; but this, however, I never mentioned to my husband, and

petitioned only for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the day, and to that day he obstinately adhered.

"The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point with great eagerness on both sides, he

started suddenly from his chair, and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was hardly out of

the house, when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which, I suppose, he had carelessly pulled from his pocket,

together with his handkerchief. This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a letter, I made no scruple to open

and read it; and indeed I read it so often, that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then was the

SIR, Yours received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner, as have never seen any of your

cash, unless for one linseywoolsey coat, and your bill now is upwards of L150. Consider, sir, how often you

have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this lady and t' other lady; but I can neither live

on hopes or promises, nor will my woollendraper take any such in payment. You tell me you are secure of

having either the aunt or the niece, and that you might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you

say is immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for

once, and marry the first you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I sincerely wish

you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen

"This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl guess how this letter affected me. You prefer the

niece on account of her ready money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with pleasure

have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount my frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty

well spent my tears before his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in my swollen eyes. He

threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he

said, 'I hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; for the coach will be ready by six in the

morning.' My patience was totally subdued by this provocation, and I answered, 'No, sir, there is a letter still

remains unpacked;' and then throwing it on the table, I fell to upbraiding him with the most bitter language I

"Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him, I cannot say; but, though he is the most passionate of

men, he exerted no rage on this occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the most gentle

means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I principally objected was not his, nor had he ever written

any such. He owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage, and that preference which he had given to

myself, but denied with many oaths the having assigned any such reason. And he excused the having

mentioned any such matter at all, on account of the straits he was in for money, arising, he said, from his

having too long neglected his estate in Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to discover to me,

was the only reason of his having so strenuously insisted on our journey. He then used several very endearing

expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many violent protestations of love.

"There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had much weight with me in his favour,

and that was the word jointure in the taylor's letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this Mr.

Fitzpatrick well knew. As I imagined, therefore, that the fellow must have inserted this of his own head, or

from hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on that odius line on no better authority.

What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not an advocate rather than a judge? But why do I mention such a

circumstance as this, or appeal to it for the justification of my forgiveness? In short, had he been guilty of

twenty times as much, half the tenderness and fondness which he used would have prevailed on me to have

forgiven him. I now made no farther objections to our setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a

"Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which past during our journey; for it would

indeed be highly disagreeable to travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.

"This seat, then, is an ancient mansionhouse: if I was in one of those merry humours in which you have so

often seen me, I could describe it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been formerly inhabited by

a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the less room on account of the furniture; for indeed there was

very little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and greatly resembled her whom

Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us at the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me

unintelligible, welcomed her master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and melancholy, that it

threw my spirits into the lowest dejection; which my husband discerning, instead of relieving, encreased by

two or three malicious observations. 'There are good houses, madam,' says he, 'as you find, in other places

"Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a cheerful goodnatured companion to support

and comfort her! But why do I reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my companion,

far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced me that I must have been wretched with him in

any place, and in any condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you have never seen;

for, indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but in a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though you have

a father, he is not of that character. This surly fellow had formerly appeared to me the very reverse, and so he

did still to every other person. Good heaven! how is it possible for a man to maintain a constant lie in his

appearance abroad and in company, and to content himself with shewing disagreeable truth only at home?

Here, my dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which they put on their tempers in the

world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay and goodhumoured my husband hath at any time been

in company, the more sullen and morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I

describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible. My little comical ways, which you, my

Sophy, and which others, have called so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he

sung and whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable, he was angry, and abused me; for,

though he was never pleased with my goodhumour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in him, yet my low

spirits always offended him, and those he imputed to my repentance of having (as he said) married an

"You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I really forgot myself), that, when a woman

makes an imprudent match in the sense of the world, that is, when she not an arrant prostitute to pecuniary

interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and affection for her man. You will as easily believe that

this affection may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly eradicate it. This

contempt I now began to entertain for my husband, whom I now discovered to be I must use the

expression an arrant blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long before; but

women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for the folly of those they like: besides, give me leave

to tell you, it requires a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the disguises of gaiety and good

"It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as I confess to you I soon did, I must

consequently dislike his company; and indeed I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it; for our

house was now most elegantly furnished, our cellars well stocked, and dogs and horses provided in great

abundance. As my gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with great hospitality, so his neighbours

resorted to him with great alacrity; and sports and drinking consumed so much of his time, that a small part of

"Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided all other disagreeable company; but, alas!

I was confined to some which constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being relieved

from them. These companions were my own racking thoughts, which plagued and in a manner haunted me

night and day. In this situation I past through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be painted nor

imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you can, to yourself, what I must have undergone. I became a mother by

the man I scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a lyingin (ten times

more painful in such a circumstance than the worst labour can be when one endures it for a man one loves) in

a desert, or rather, indeed, a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without any of

those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps sometimes more than compensate, the

Chapter 6. In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful consternation

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative, when she was interrupted by the entrance of dinner, greatly

to the concern of Sophia; for the misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety, and left her no appetite but

The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the same respect in his countenance and

The married lady seemed less affected with own misfortunes than was her cousin; for the former eat very

heartily, whereas the latter could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more concern and sorrow

in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having observed these symptoms in her friend,

begged her to be comforted, saying, "Perhaps all may yet end better than either you or I expect."

Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and was resolved not to omit it. "I am

sorry, madam," cries he, "that your ladyship can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after so long fasting.

I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything, for, as madam there says, all may end better than anybody

expects. A gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps some folks who have

given other folks the slip may get to London before they are overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but

All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see and hear into the objects of that

apprehension. Sophia therefore immediately concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was known, and

pursued by her father. She was now struck with the utmost consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of

the power of speech; which she no sooner recovered, than she desired the landlord to send his servants out of

the room, and then, addressing herself to him, said, "I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech

younay, I am convinced, if you have any compassion or goodness, you will not betray us."

"I betray your ladyship!" quoth the landlord; "no (and then he swore several very hearty oaths); I would

sooner be cut into ten thousand pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my life yet, and I

am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I

should, since it will be in your ladyship's power so shortly to reward me. My wife can witness for me, I knew

your ladyship the moment you came into the house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your

horse, and I shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship's service to the grave; but what signified that, as

long as I saved your ladyship? To be sure some people this morning would have thought of getting a reward;

but no such thought ever entered into my head. I would sooner starve than take any reward for betraying your

"I promise you, sir," says Sophia, "if it be ever in my power to reward you, you shall not lose by your

"Alackaday, madam!" answered the landlord; "in your ladyship's power! Heaven put it as much into your

will! I am only afraid your honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your ladyship should

not, I hope you will remember what reward I refused refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it

may be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure you might have been in some

houses;but, for my part, I would not, methinks, for the world have your ladyship wrong me so much as to

"Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?" cries the landlord; "nay, like enough, for I heard it only a few

minutes ago; and if I had never heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would have betrayed

your honour! no, if I would, may I" Here he subjoined several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last

interrupted, and begged to know what he meant by the news. He was going to answer, when Mrs. Honour

came running into the room, all pale and breathless, and cried out, "Madam, we are all undone, all ruined,

they are come, they are come!" These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked

Honour who were come? "Who?" answered she, "why, the French; several hundred thousands of them are

As a miser, who hath, in some wellbuilt city, a cottage, value twenty shillings, when at a distance he is

alarmed with the news of a fire, turns pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful palaces

only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes instantly to himself, and smiles at his good

fortunes: or as (for we dislike something in the former simile) the tender mother, when terrified with the

apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but

when she is told that little master is safe, and the Victory only, with twelve hundred brave men, gone to the

bottom, life and sense again return, maternal fondness enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the

general benevolence which at another time would have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in

her mind; so Sophia, than whom none was more capable of tenderly feeling the general calamity of her

country, found such immediate satisfaction from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken by her

father, that the arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently chid her maid for the

fright into which she had thrown her, and said "she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared

"Ay, ay," quoth the landlord, smiling, "her ladyship knows better things; she knows the French are our very

best friends, and come over hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make Old England

flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was coming; and that was enough to put her into a

fright. I was going to tell your ladyship the news. His honour's majesty, Heaven bless him, hath given the

duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on

Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman who related it; but, as she still

imagined he knew her (for she could not possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show

any dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the cloth from the table, withdrew; but at his departure

The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being known at this house; for she still

applied to herself many things which the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore ordered her

maid to pump out of him by what means he had become acquainted with her person, and who had offered

him the reward for betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in readiness by four in the morning, at

which hour Mrs. Fitzpatrick promised to bear her company; and then, composing herself as well as she could,

While Mrs. Honour, in pursuance of commands of her mistress, ordered a bowl of punch, and invited my

landlord and landlady to partake of it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.

"Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our neighbourhood were of my husband's acquaintance.

Among these there was a lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a woman, so

agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our first knowing each other, which was soon after

my lyingin, we were almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to make myself equally

"The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was frequently of our parties; indeed he was very

little with my husband, and no more than good breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost constantly

at our house. My husband often expressed much dissatisfaction at the lieutenant's preferring my company to

his; he was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a hearty curse for drawing away his

companions; saying, 'I ought to be dn'd for having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by

"You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger of my husband arose from my

depriving him of a companion; for the lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be

pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little right had my husband to place the loss of his

companion to me, that I am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to come to the

house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most rancorous kind of envy, the envy of superiority of

understanding. The wretch could not bear to see my conversation preferred to his, by a man of whom he

could not entertain the least jealousy. O my dear Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a man, as is

most probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make frequent trials of his temper before marriage, and

see whether he can bear to submit to such a superiority. Promise me, Sophy, you will take this advice; for

you will hereafter find its importance." "It is very likely I shall never marry at all," answered Sophia; "I think,

at least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see any defects before marriage; and I promise

you I would rather give up my own than see any such afterwards." "Give up your understanding!" replied

Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "oh, fie, child! I will not believe so meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be

brought to give up; but never this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the wife in so many

instances, if she had intended we should all of us have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of

sense never expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned was one notable example; for though

he had a very good understanding, he always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better.

"Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an ugly b (for, indeed, she was not a

regular beauty, but very agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon earth at the

devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said, he wondered what I could see in her to be so

charmed with her company: since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your beloved

reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could not afford time to return the visits of the ladies

in this country; and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way; for the ladies there are at

least no better than the mere country ladies here; and I think I need make no other excuse to you for declining

"This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the while the lieutenant was quartered in

that town; for which I was contented to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner above

mentioned by my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he was frequently absent a month at a time at

Dublin, and once made a journey of two months to London: in all which journeys I thought it a very singular

happiness that he never once desired my company; nay, by his frequent censures on men who could not

travel, as he phrased it, without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that, had I been never so

desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have been in vain; but, Heaven knows, such wishes were

"At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my solitude, to the tormenting

conversation with my own reflections, and to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day

long. How many books you think I read in three months?" "I can't guess, indeed, cousin," answered Sophia.

"Perhaps half a score." "Half a score! half a thousand, child!" answered the other. "I read a good deal in

Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's

"During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I thought, moving letters to my aunt; but, as I

received no answer to any of them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application." Here she

stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia, said, "Methinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which

reproaches me of a neglect in another place, where I should have met with a kinder return." "Indeed, dear

Harriet," answered Sophia, "your story is an apology for any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been

guilty of a remissness, without so good an excuse.Yet pray proceed; for I long, though I tremble, to hear the

Thus, then, Mrs. Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative: "My husband now took a second journey to England,

where he continued upwards of three months; during the greater part of this time I led a life which nothing

but having led a worse could make me think tolerable; for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social

mind, like mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate. What added to my

wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not that I pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness

of which I believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I resolved, in every instance, to

discharge the duty of the tenderest mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the weight of that

"I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen nobody all that time, except my servants

and a very few visitors, when a young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of Ireland to

visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and then I gave her a pressing invitation to return; for

she was a very agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts by a proper education. indeed, she

"A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits, without enquiring the cause, which, indeed,

she very well knew, the young lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, 'Though politeness had

prevented me from complaining to my husband's relations of his behaviour, yet they all were very sensible of

it, and felt great concern upon that account; but none more than herself.' And after some more general

discourse on this head, which I own I could not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution

and enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound secret that my husband kept a mistress.

"You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost insensibility Upon my word, if you do, your

imagination will mislead you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that hatred rose

again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this? Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be

concerned at others having possession even of what we despise? or are we not rather abominably vain, and is

"I don't know, indeed," answered Sophia; "I have never troubled myself with any of these deep

contemplations; but I think the lady did very ill in communicating to you such a secret."

"And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "and, when you have seen and read as

"I am sorry to hear it is natural," returned Sophia; "for I want neither reading nor experience to convince me

that it is very dishonourable and very illnatured: nay, it is surely as illbred to tell a husband or wife of the

"Well," continued Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "my husband at last returned; and, if I am thoroughly acquainted with my

own thoughts, I hated him now more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly nothing so much

"He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had lately worn, and so nearly resembling

his behaviour the first week of our marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he might,

possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps

get the better of it, love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too restless to remain contented,

without the gratification which it receives from its object; and one can no more be inclined to love without

loving, than we can have eyes without seeing. When a husband, therefore, ceases to be the object of this

passion, it is most probable some other man I say, my dear, if your husband grows indifferent to you if you

once come to despise him I say that is if you have the passion of love in you Lud! I have bewildered

myself so but one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose the concatenation of ideas, as Mr. Locke

says: in short, the truth is in short, I scarce know what it is; but, as I was saying, my husband returned, and

his behaviour, at first, greatly surprized me; but he soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me to

account for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money of my fortune; and, as he could

mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was now desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by

selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do without my assistance; and to obtain this favour, was the

"With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told him truly, that, had I been possessed of the

Indies at our first marriage, he might have commanded it all; for it had been a constant maxim with me, that

where a woman disposes of her heart, she should always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind, long

ago, to restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to retain what little remained of the

"I will not describe to you the passion into which these words, and the resolute air in which they were spoken,

threw him: nor will I trouble you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came, you may be

well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it did come, with all the embellishments which anger and

"Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more confused than I had seen him, though his

ideas are always confused enough, heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate himself; but

took a method which almost equally confounded me. What was this but recrimination? He affected to be

jealous: he may, for aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper: nay, he must have

had it from nature, or the devil must have put it into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion

on my character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure my reputation. My fame, I thank

heaven, hath been always as spotless as my life; and let falsehood itself accuse that, if it dare. No, my dear

Graveairs, however provoked, however illtreated, however injured in my love, I have firmly resolved never

to give the least room for censure on this account. And yet, my dear, there are some people so malicious,

some tongues so venomous, that no innocence can escape them. The most undesigned word, the most

accidental look, the least familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and magnified into I

know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice,

I assure you, ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all that. But where was I?

O let me see, I told you my husband was jealous And of whom, I pray? Why, of whom but the lieutenant I

mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a year and more back, to find any object for this

unaccountable passion, if, indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit, in order to abuse

"But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now bring my story to a very speedy

conclusion. In short, then, after many scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so

heartily on my side, that Mr. Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of doors; when he found I was neither to be

soothed nor bullied into compliance, he took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will conclude he beat

me; but this, though he hath approached very near to it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room,

without suffering me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a servant every day made my bed, and

"When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a visit, and, with the voice of a

schoolmaster, or, what is often much the same, of a tyrant, asked me, 'If I would yet comply?' I answered,

very stoutly, 'That I would die first.' 'Then so you shall, and be dn'd!' cries he; 'for you shall never go alive

"Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my constancy was almost subdued, and I began to

think of submission; when, one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for some short

time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an accident happened. I at a time when I began to give way

to the utmost despair everything would be excusable at such a time at that very time I received But it

would take up an hour to tell you all particulars. In one word, then (for I will not tire you with

circumstances), gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door, and set me at liberty.

"I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procurred a passage to England; and was proceeding to

Bath, in order to throw myself into the protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would

afford it me. My husband overtook me last night at the inn where I lay, and which you left a few minutes

"And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it is to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to

Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, "Indeed, Harriet, I pity you from my soul! But what could you

"Upon my word," replied her cousin, "your censure is unjust. There are, among the Irish, men of as much

worth and honour as any among the English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather more

common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good husbands; and I believe these are not

very plenty in England. Ask me, rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you a

solemn truth; I did not know him to be so." "Can no man," said Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, "do

you think, make a bad husband, who is not a fool?" "That," answered the other, "is too general a negative; but

none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the worst

husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of sense rarely behaves very ill to a wife who

Chapter 8. A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an unexpected friend of Mrs. Fitzpatrick

Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related not what follows, but what hath gone before in this history:

for which reason the reader will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.

One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative, namely, that she made no more mention of

Jones, from the beginning to the end, than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither

endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called a kind of dishonesty, it seems the more

inexcusable, from the apparent openness and explicit sincerity of the other lady. But so it was.

Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived in the room where the two ladies were

sitting a noise, not unlike, in loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel; nor, in

shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to screech owls; or, indeed, more like (for what animal can resemble

a human voice?) to those sounds which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems to derive its name

from a duplicity of tongues, issue from the mouths, and sometimes from the nostrils, of those fair river

nymphs, ycleped of old the Naiades; in the vulgar tongue translated oysterwenches; for when, instead of the

antient libations of milk and honey and oil, the rich distillation from the juniperberry, or, perhaps, from

malt, hath, by the early devotion of their votaries, been poured forth in great abundance, should any daring

tongue with unhallowed license prophane, i.e., depreciate, the delicate fat Milton oyster, the plaice sound and

firm, the flounder as much alive as when in the water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine cod alive but a

few hours ago, or any other of the various treasures which those waterdeities who fish the sea and rivers

have committed to the care of the nymphs, the angry Naiades lift up their immortal voices, and the prophane

Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below; and soon the thunder, which long had

rattled at a distance, began to approach nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs, it at last

entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to drop all metaphor and figure, Mrs. Honour, having

scolded violently belowstairs, and continued the same all the way up, came in to her mistress in a most

outrageous passion, crying out, "What doth your ladyship think? Would you imagine that this impudent

villain, the master of this house, hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand it out to my face, that your

ladyship is that nasty, stinking whre (Jenny Cameron they call her), that runs about the country with the

Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy villain had the assurance to tell me, that your ladyship had owned yourself to

be so; but I have clawed the rascal; I have left the marks of my nails in his impudent face. My lady! says I,

you saucy scoundrel; my lady is meat for no pretenders. She is a young lady of as good fashion, and family,

and fortune, as any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great Squire Western, sirrah? She is his only

daughter; she is, and heiress to all his great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch whre by such a

The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this occasion, Honour had herself caused, by

having in her passion discovered who she was. However, as this mistake of the landlord sufficiently

accounted for those passages which Sophia had before mistaken, she acquired some ease on that account; nor

could she, upon the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour, and she cries, "Indeed, madam, I did not

think your ladyship would have made a laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an impudent low

rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know, for taking your part, since proffered service,

they say, stinks; but to be sure I could never bear to hear a lady mine called whore. Nor will I bear it. I am

sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain's eyes

out who dares for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the contrary. Nobody ever could say the

Hinc illae, lachrymae: in plain truth, Honour had as much love for her mistress as most servants have, that is

to say But besides this, her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited on; for she

thought her own was in a very close manner connected with it. In proportion as the character of her mistress

was raised, hers likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it; and, on the contrary, she thought the one could

On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story. "The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one

day, from a house where she had made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her

footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his mistress the reason of his being in that condition,

answered, 'I have been fighting, madam, with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a whre.' 'You

blockhead,' replied Mrs. Gwynn, 'at this rate you must fight every day of your life; why, you fool, all the

world knows it.' 'Do they?' cries the fellow, in a muttering voice, after he had shut the coachdoor, 'they shan't

Thus the passion of Mrs. Honour appears natural enough, even if it were to be no otherwise accounted for;

but, in reality, there was another cause of her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind our reader of a

circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed certain liquors, which, being applied to our

passions, or to fire, produce effects the very reverse of those produced by water, as they serve to kindle and

inflame, rather than to extinguish. Among these, the generous liquor called punch is one. It was not,

therefore, without reason, that the learned Dr. Cheney used to call drinking punch pouring liquid fire down

Now, Mrs. Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down her throat, that the smoke of it

began to ascend into her pericranium, and blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed to keep her

residence, while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the heart, and there inflamed the noble passion

of pride. So that, upon the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the violent rage of the waitingwoman; though

Sophia, and her cousin both, did all in their power to extinguish these flames, which had roared so loudly all

over the house. They at length prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the fire, having consumed

all the fuel which the language affords, to wit, every reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.

But, though tranquillity was restored abovestairs, it was not so below; where my landlady, highly resenting

the injury done to the beauty of her husband by the fleshspades of Mrs. Honour, called aloud for revenge

and justice. As to the poor man, who had principally suffered in the engagement, he was perfectly quiet.

Perhaps the blood which he lost might have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not only applied her nails to

his cheeks, but likewise her fist to his nostrils, which lamented the blow with tears of blood in great

abundance. To this we may add reflections on his mistake; but indeed nothing so effectually silenced his

resentment as the manner in which he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour of Mrs. Honour, it

had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was now assured by a person of great figure, and who was

attended by a great equipage, that one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate acquaintance.

By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and acquainted our fair travellers that a great

gentleman below desired to do them the honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled at this

message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil, notwithstanding the landlord's blunder, to have

come from her father; but fear hath the common fault of a justice of peace, and is apt to conclude hastily from

To ease the reader's curiosity, therefore, rather than his apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish

peer had arrived very late that evening at the inn, in his way to London. This nobleman, having sallied from

his supper at the hurricane before commemorated, had seen the attendant of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and upon a

short enquiry, was informed that her lady, with whom he was very particularly acquainted, was above. This

information he had no sooner received, than he addressed himself to the landlord, pacified him, and sent him

It may perhaps be wondered at, that the waitingwoman herself was not the messenger employed on this

occasion; but we are sorry to say she was not at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office. The

rum (for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt) had basely taken the advantage of the fatigue

which the poor woman had undergone, and had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties, at a time

We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we thought ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity

which we profess, shortly to hint a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to have spared. Many

historians, indeed, for want of this integrity, or of diligence, to say no worse, often leave the reader to find out

these little circumstances in the dark, and sometimes to his great confusion and perplexity.

Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the noble peer, who was not only an

intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To say truth, it

was by his assistance that she had been enabled to escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same

gallant disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many an

imprisoned nymph from durance. He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often

exercised by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex, as ever knighterrant was to the

barbarous power of enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with

which romance everywhere abounds, were in reality no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony

itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.

This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and had been for sometime acquainted with

the lady. No sooner, therefore, did he hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to procure

her liberty; which he presently effected, not by storming the castle, according to the example of antient

heroes, but by corrupting the governor, in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft is held to be

preferable to valour, and gold is found to be more irresistible than either lead or steel.

This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material enough to relate to her friend, we would not

at that time impart it to the reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition that she had

found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps supernatural means, had possessed herself of the

money with which she had bribed her keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a hint of what seemed

The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing some surprize at meeting the lady in that

place; nor could he refrain from telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs. Fitzpatrick very

freely answered, "That she had been prevented in her purpose by the arrival of a person she need not mention.

In short," says she, "I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not affect to conceal what the world knows

too well already). I had the good fortune to escape in a most surprizing manner, and am now going to London

with this young lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped from as great a tyrant as my own."

His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made a speech full of compliments to both

the ladies, and as full of invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique glances at the

matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust powers given by it to man over the more sensible and more

meritorious part of the species. He ended his oration with an offer of his protection, and of his coach and six,

which was instantly accepted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her persuasions, by Sophia.

Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the ladies retired to rest, where Mrs. Fitzpatrick

entertained her cousin with many high encomiums on the character of the noble peer, and enlarged very

particularly on his great fondness for his wife; saying, she believed he was almost the only person of high

rank who was entirely constant to the marriage bed. "Indeed," added she, "my dear Sophy, that is a very rare

virtue amongst men of condition. Never expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will

A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps contributed to form a dream of no very

pleasant kind; but, as she never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to see it related

Chapter 9. The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stagecoach. The civility of chambermaids.

The heroic temper of Sophia. Her generosity. The return to it. The departure of the company, and their

Those members of society, who are born to furnish the blessings of life, now began to light their candles, in

order to pursue their daily labours, for the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings. The sturdy hind

now attends the levee of his fellowlabourer the ox; the cunning artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from

their hard mattress; and now the bonny housemaid begins to repair the disordered drumroom, while the

riotous authors of that disorder, in broken interrupted slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the hardness of down

In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven, than the ladies were ready for their journey; and, at

And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his lordship himself should be conveyed; for

though in stagecoaches, where passengers are properly considered as so much luggage, the ingenious

coachman stows half a dozen with perfect ease into the place of four; for well he contrives that the fat

hostess, or wellfed alderman, may take up no more room than the slim miss, or taper master; it being the

nature of guts, when well squeezed, to give way, and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in these vehicles, which

are called, for distinction's sake, gentlemen's coaches, though they are often larger than the others, this

His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but

Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails should, by

turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship's horses, which was presently equipped with a sidesaddle for

Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their former guides, and Sophia made a present to

the landlord, partly to repair the bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on account of what he

had suffered under the hands of her enraged waitingwoman. And now Sophia first discovered a loss which

gave her some uneasiness; and this was of the hundredpound bankbill which her father had given her at

their last meeting; and which, within a very inconsiderable trifle, was all the treasure she was at present

worth. She searched everywhere, and shook and tumbled all her things to no purpose, the bill was not to be

found: and she was at last fully persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when she had the misfortune of

tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as before recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she

now recollected some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time, and the great difficulty

with which she had drawn forth her handkerchief the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the

Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be attended with, are incapable of subduing a

mind in which there is any strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though nothing

could be worse timed than this accident at such a season, immediately got the better of her concern, and, with

her wonted serenity and cheerfulness of countenance, returned to her company. His lordship conducted the

ladies into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs. Honour, who, after many civilities, and more dear madams, at

last yielded to the wellbred importunities of her sister Abigail, and submitted to be complimented with the

first ride in the coach; in which indeed she would afterwards have been contented to have pursued her whole

journey, had not her mistress, after several fruitless intimations, at length forced her to take her turn on

The coach, now having received its company, began to move forwards, attended by many servants, and led

by two captains, who had before rode with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the vehicle

upon a much less worthy occasion than was this of accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only as

gentlemen; but they were ready at any time to have performed the office of a footman, or indeed would have

condescended lower, for the honour of his lordship's company, and for the convenience of his table.

My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from Sophia, that he rather rejoiced in than

regretted his bruise or his scratches. The reader will perhaps be curious to know the quantum of this present;

but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it satisfied the landlord for his bodily hurt; but he

lamented he had not known before how little the lady valued her money; "For to be sure," says he, "one might

have charged every article double, and she would have made no cavil at the reckoning."

His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she really felt any injury done to her

husband more than he did himself, I will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the generosity

of Sophia. "Indeed," cries she, "my dear, the lady knows better how to dispose of her money than you

imagine. She might very well think we should not put up such a business without some satisfaction, and the

law would have cost her an infinite deal more than this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take."

"You are always so bloodily wise," quoth the husband: "it would have cost her more, would it? dost fancy I

don't know that as well as thee? but would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets? Indeed,

if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad to have put such a pretty business into his

hands. He would have got a good picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer, and why

should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?" "Nay, to be sure," answered she, "you must know best." "I

believe do," replied he. "I fancy, when money is to be got, I can smell it out as well as another. Everybody,

let me tell you, would not have talked people out of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not have cajoled

this out of her, mind that." The wife then joined in the applause of her husband's sagacity; and thus ended the

We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his lordship and his fair companions, who

made such good expedition that they performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the second

evening arrived in London, without having encountered any one adventure on the road worthy the dignity of

this history to relate. Our pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes, and our history shall

keep pace with the travellers who are its subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious

traveller in this instance, who always proportions his stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and

curiosities which it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, and at Prior's Park, days are too short

for the ravished imagination; while we admire the wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of

these, art chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art contend for our applause; but, in the last,

the former seems to triumph. Here Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the modestest

simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she

hath lavished on this world; and here human nature presents you with an object which can be exceeded only

The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these elegant scenes, can be amused with

objects of far inferior note. The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye of the

ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he afterwards compensates by swiftly scouring over the

gloomy heath of Bagshot, or that pleasant plain which extends itself westward from Stockbridge, where no

other object than one single tree only in sixteen miles presents itself to the view, unless the clouds, in

compassion to our tired spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions to our prospect.

Not so travels the moneymeditating tradesman, the sagacious justice, the dignified doctor, the warmclad

grazier, with all the numerous offspring of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through the

verdant meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a half per hour with the

utmost exactness; the eyes of the beast and of his master being alike directed forwards, and employed in

contemplating the same objects in the same manner. With equal rapture the good rider surveys the proudest

boasts of the architect, and those fair buildings with which some unknown name hath adorned the rich

cloathing town; where heaps of bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have

And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the

Boeotian writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly able to perform

without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this occasion; for, though we will always lend thee proper

assistance in difficult places, as we do not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination to

discover our meaning, yet we shall not indulge thy laziness where nothing but thy own attention is required;

for thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when we began this great work, to leave

thy sagacity nothing to do; or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou wilt be able to travel

Chapter 10. Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few more concerning suspicion

Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship's house, where, while they refreshed

themselves after the fatigue of their journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the two ladies;

for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would by no means consent to accept a bed in the

Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I may call it, of virtue, as too nice and

scrupulous; but we must make allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very ticklish;

and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we must allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an

excess on the right side, and which every woman who is in the selfsame situation will do well to imitate.

The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only an appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted

considerations, seem to be rather less commendable than virtue itself without this formality; but it will,

however, be always more commended; and this, I believe, will be granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in

some very particular cases, for every woman to support either the one or the other.

A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that evening; but resolved early in the morning

to enquire after the lady into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had determined to throw

herself when she quitted her father's house. And this she was the more eager in doing, from some

Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on Sophia, we are almost afraid to open

to our reader the conceits which filled her mind concerning Mrs. Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly

entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to enter into the bosoms of the worst of

people, we think proper not to mention more plainly, till we have first suggested a word or two to our reader

Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first of these I chuse to derive from the

heart, as the extreme velocity of its discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the

rather as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees what is not, and always more than really

exists. This is that quicksighted penetration whose hawk's eyes no symptom of evil can escape; which

observes not only upon the actions, but upon the words and looks, of men; and, as it proceeds from the heart

of the observer, so it dives into the heart of the observed, and there espies evil, as it were, in the first embryo;

nay, sometimes before it can be said to be conceived. An admirable faculty, if it were infallible; but, as this

degree of perfection is not even claimed by more than one mortal being; so from the fallibility of such acute

discernment have arisen many sad mischiefs and most grievous heartaches to innocence and virtue. I cannot

help, therefore, regarding this vast quicksightedness into evil as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious

evil in itself. And I am the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid it always proceeds from a bad heart,

for the reasons I have above mentioned, and for one more, namely, because I never knew it the property of a

good one. Now, from this degree of suspicion I entirely and absolutely acquit Sophia.

A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is, indeed, no other than the faculty of

seeing what is before your eyes, and of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is

unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no less certain and necessary a

consequence of our having any brains. This is altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to

innocence: nor can I see it in an unamiable light, even though, through human fallibility, it should be

sometimes mistaken. For instance, if a husband should accidentally surprize his wife in the lap or in the

embraces of some of those pretty young gentlemen who profess the art of cuckoldmaking, I should not

highly, I think, blame him for concluding something more than what he saw, from the familiarities which he

really had seen, and which we are at least favourable enough to, when we call them innocent freedoms. The

reader will easily suggest great plenty of instances to himself; I shall add but one more, which, however

unchristian it may be thought by some, I cannot help esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a

suspicion that a man is capable of doing what he hath done already, and that it is possible for one who hath

been a villain once to act the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of this degree of suspicion I believe

Sophia was guilty. From this degree of suspicion she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was

The case, it seems, was this: Mrs. Fitzpatrick 'wisely considered that the virtue of a young lady is, in the

world, in the same situation with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to meet its

enemies; for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner therefore was she determined to take the first

opportunity of quitting the protection of her husband, than she resolved to cast herself under the protection of

some other man; and whom could she so properly chuse to be her guardian as a person of quality, of fortune,

of honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which inclines men to knighterrantry, that is, to be the

champions of ladies in distress, had often declared a violent attachment to herself, and had already given her

But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vicehusband, or guardian to an eloped lady, and as

malice is apt to denominate him by a more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship should

perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and without publickly assuming the character of her

protector. Nay, to prevent any other person from seeing him in this light, it was agreed that the lady should

proceed directly to Bath, and that his lordship should first go to London, and thence should go down to that

Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or behaviour of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but from the

peer, who was infinitely less expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps the exact

secrecy which Mrs. Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in her narrative, served not a little to heighten those

Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was not a chairman in town to whom her

house was not perfectly well known; and, as she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing

invitation, she immediately accepted it. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, indeed, did not desire her cousin to stay with her

with more earnestness than civility required. Whether she had discerned and resented the suspicion

abovementioned, or from what other motive it arose, I cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous

The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not avoid giving her a short hint of advice.

She begged her, for heaven's sake, to care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a situation she stood;

adding, she hoped some method would be found of reconciling her to her husband. "You must remember, my

dear," says she, "the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us both; that whenever the

matrimonial alliance is broke, and war declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a

disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my aunt's very words, and she hath had a

great deal of experience in the world." Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, "Never fear

me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than I. I will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear

Sophy, let me give you one piece of advice; leave the character of Graveairs in the country, for, believe me, it

Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady Bellaston, where she found a most hearty,

as well as a most polite, welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her formerly

with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see her, and was no sooner acquainted with the

reasons which induced her to leave the squire and to fly to London, than she highly applauded her sense and

resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in the opinion which Sophia had declared she

entertained of her ladyship, by chusing her house for an asylum, she promised her all the protection which it

As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I apprehend, be contented to deposit her

there a while, and to look a little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we have left long

enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment

Chapter 1. Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what is to be considered as

The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this mighty work, I have often translated

passages out of the best antient authors, without quoting the original, or without taking the least notice of the

This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the ingenious Abbe Bannier, in his preface to his

Mythology, a work great erudition and of equal judgment. "It will be easy," says he, "for the reader to

observe that I have frequently had greater regard to him than to my own reputation: for an author certainly

pays him a considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned quotations that come in his

To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a downright cheat on the learned world,

who are by such means imposed upon to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what they have

already in gross, if not in their memories, upon their shelves; and it is still more cruel upon the illiterate, who

are drawn in to pay for what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who intermixes great quantity of Greek

and Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which they

are treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to confound and mix up their lots, that, in order to

purchase the commodity you want, you are obliged at the same time to purchase that which will do you no

And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested, but that it may be misunderstood by ignorance, and

misrepresented by malice, I have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the expense of

my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use

either of the thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that I have often suffered by the

contrary method; and that, by suppressing the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of

plagiarism than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly celebrated Frenchman.

Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and justify the fact. The antients may be

considered as a rich common, where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a free

right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clear light, we moderns are to the antients what the poor are to the

rich. By the poor here I mean that large and venerable body which, in English, we call the mob. Now,

whoever hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree of intimacy with this mob, must well know that it

is one of their established maxims to plunder and pillage their rich neighbours without any reluctance; and

that this is held to be neither sin nor shame among them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this

maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom, there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on against a

certain person of opulence called the squire, whose property is considered as free booty by all his poor

neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a

point of honour and moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from punishment on all such

In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us

writers, as so many wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an immemorial custom of

taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor

neighbours in their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to maintain the same strict honesty

among ourselves which the mob show to one another. To steal from one another, is indeed highly criminal

and indecent; for this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor (sometimes perhaps those who are poorer

than ourselves), or, to set it under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spittal.

Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my

charge, I am contented to plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to take to myself any

passage which I shall find in an antient author to my purpose, without setting down the name of the author

from whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments the moment they are

transcribed into my writings, and I expect all readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my

own. This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on condition that I preserve strict honesty towards

my poor brethren, from whom, if ever I borrow any of that little of which they are possessed, I shall never fail

to put their mark upon it, that it may be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner.

The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr. Moore, who, having formerly borrowed some lines of

Pope and company, took the liberty to transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr. Pope,

however, very luckily found them in the said play, and, laying violent hands on his own property, transferred

it back again into his own works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome

dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper

Chapter 2. In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is found which puts an end

The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for,

as he will soon arrive at an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our heroe.

The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed from the inn in great fury, and in that

fury he pursued his daughter. The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise

past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he

He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a short council of war, in which, after

hearing different opinions, he at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck directly into the

In this road he proceeded about two miles, when be began to bemoan himself most bitterly, frequently crying

out, "What a pity is it! Sure never was so unlucky a dog as myself!" And then burst forth a volley of oaths

The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion. "Sorrow not, sir," says he, "like those

without hope. How be it we have not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account it some good

fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with her

journey, and will tarry in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that case, in all moral

"Pogh! dn the slut!" answered the squire, "I am lamenting the loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is

confounded hard to lose one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this season, and

Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her wantonest tricks, might not take pity of

the squire; and, as she had determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to make him

amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly uttered the words just before commemorated, and

two or three oaths at their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their melodious throats at a small

distance from them, which the squire's horse and his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their

cars, and the squire, crying, "She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not gone!" instantly clapped spurs to

the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now the whole

company, crossing into a cornfield, rode directly towards the hounds, with much hallowing and whooping,

Thus fable reports, that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire of a passionate lover, converted from a

cat into a fine woman, no sooner perceived a mouse, than, mindful of her former sport, and still retaining her

pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband to pursue the little animal.

What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased with the embraces of her amorous

bridegroom; for, though some have remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too will

be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his

deep reflections, that, "if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the window; and that puss,

though a madam, will be a mouser still." In the same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any want of

love for his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal; we are only to consider that he was a squire and a

sportsman, and then we may apply the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.

The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over hedge and ditch, with all his usual

vociferation and alacrity, and with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude

themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw,

and which he swore was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his daughter, the servants,

we may easily believe, forgot their mistress; and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in

Latin, to himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the young lady, and, jogging on at a

distance behind, began to meditate a portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.

The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of his brother squire and sportsman:

for all men approve merit in their own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr. Western, nor

did any other better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the hunt with his holla.

Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to any manner of ceremony, nay, even

to the offices of humanity: for, if any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a river,

the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires,

though often close to each other, interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt, however, often saw

and approved the great judgment of the stranger in drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence

conceived a very high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attendants inspired no small

reverence to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the sport was ended by the death of the little animal which had

occasioned it, the two squires met, and in all squirelike greeting saluted each other.

The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps relate in an appendix, or on some other

occasion; but as it nowise concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a place here. It

concluded with a second chace, and that with an invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a

hearty bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire Western.

Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson Supple, at his cups that evening; for

which the violent fatigue of mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well account, without the

least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he

had swallowed the third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered, that though he was not carried off to bed

till long after, the parson considered him as absent, and having acquainted the other squire with all relating to

Sophia, he obtained his promise of seconding those arguments which he intended to urge the next morning

No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and began to call for his morning draught,

and to summon his horses in order to renew his pursuit, than Mr. Supple began his dissuasives, which the

host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed, and Mr. Western agreed to return home; being

principally moved by one argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might probably be riding

farther from his daughter instead of towards her. He then took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing

great joy that the frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his hastening home), set

forwards, or rather backwards, for Somersetshire; but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue in

quest of his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of the most bitter execrations which he could

Chapter 3. The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him and Partridge on the road

At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we have been obliged to part with him so

long, that, considering the condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have concluded

we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in that situation in which prudent people usually

desist from enquiring any farther after their friends, lest they should be shocked by hearing such friends had

But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say, neither have we all the vices of a prudent

character; and though it is not easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable than those of poor Jones

at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him with the same diligence as if he was wantoning in the

Mr. Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few minutes after the departure of Squire

Western, and pursued the same road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses were by any means to be

at that time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from

very different reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly, Partridge grunted

When they came to the crossroads where the squire had stopt to take counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and

turning to Partridge, asked his opinion which track they should pursue. "Ah, sir," answered Partridge, "I wish

your honour would follow my advice." "Why should I not?" replied Jones; "for it is now indifferent to me

whither I go, or what becomes of me." "My advice, then," said Partridge, "is that you immediately face about

and return home; for who that hath such a home to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the

"Alas!" cries Jones, "I have no home to return to; but if my friend, my father, would receive me, could I

bear the country from which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself! No; let me

blame thee. Dnation seize thee fool blockhead! thou hast undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy

body." At which words he laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and shook him more heartily

Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he had meant no harm when Jones,

after staring wildly on him for a moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself, that, had it fallen

on the other, would certainly have put an end to his being, which indeed the very apprehension of it had

We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks which Jones played on this

occasion, could we be well assured that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we are

apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in painting this scene, the said reader would

be very apt to skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth, we have, from this

reason alone, often done great violence to the luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent

descriptions out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this suspicion, to be honest, arises,

as is generally the case, from our own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most horridly

Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the part of a madman for many minutes, came,

by degrees, to himself; which no sooner happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his

pardon for the attack he had made on him in the violence of his passion; but concluded, by desiring him never

to mention his return again; for he resolved never to see that country any more.

Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones

very briskly cried out, "Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the steps of my angel I

will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave lad, now for the army: it is a glorious cause, and I would

willingly sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my preserving." And so saying, he immediately

struck into the different road from that which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very

Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to each other, though Jones, indeed,

muttered many things to himself. As to Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps, perfectly

recovered from his former fright; besides, he had apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit of

wrath, especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not, perhaps, create any great wonder in

the reader. In short, he began now to suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.

At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his companion, and blamed him for his

taciturnity; for which the poor man very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now this

fear being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises of indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle

from his tongue; which, perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt, when the bridle is

As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first suggested itself, he fell upon that which

was next uppermost in his mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. "Certainly, sir," says he, "that could never be a

man, who dresses himself and lives after such a strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet,

as the old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a horse than a Christian: nay,

landlord at Upton says that the neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs strangely

in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps, might be sent to forewarn us: and who knows

but all that matter which he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner, and of the great

danger he was in of being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us, considering what we are going

about? besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and methought the blood ran out of my nose,

"Thy story, Partridge," answered Jones, "is almost as ill applied as thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to

happen than death to men who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in itand what then?" "What then?"

replied Partridge; "why then there is an end of us, is there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What

matters the cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy any advantage from it.

What are all the ringing of bells, and bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end of

poor Partridge." "And an end of poor Partridge," cries Jones, "there must be, one time or other. If you love

Latin, I will repeat you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into a coward.

"I wish you would construe them," cries Partridge; "for Horace is a hard author, and I cannot understand as

"I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own," said Jones; "for I am but an indifferent

"That's very certain," cries Partridge. "Ay, sure, Mors omnibus communis: but there is a great difference

between dying in one's bed a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends crying about

us, and being shot today or tomorrow, like a mad dog; or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword,

and that too before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us! to be sure the soldiers are a

wicked kind of people. I never loved to have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to

look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and swearing among them. I wish your honour

would repent: I heartily wish you would repent before it is too late; and not think of going among them. Evil

communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal reason. For as for that matter, I am no more

afraid than another man, not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh must die; but yet a man may live

many years, for all that. Why, I am a middleaged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I

have read of several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not that I

hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such age as that, neither. But if it be only to eighty or

ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than

another man; but, surely, to attempt death before a man's time is come seems to me downright wickedness

and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but, let the cause be what it will, what mighty

matter of good can two people do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun above

ten minutes in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to fence,

and know nothing of the matter. And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the

highest presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a madman I ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no

"Be under no apprehension, Partridge," cries Jones; "I am now so well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou

couldst not provoke me on any account." "Your honour," answered he, "may call me coward, or anything else

you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus.* I

never read in my grammar that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta

patrum, qui leges juraque servat.*(2) Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it,

that a man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds Christian blood."

*(2) Who is the good man? He who obeys the decrees of the conscript fathers and the laws.

Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which the last chapter concluded, they arrived

at another crossway, when a lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him a

severe rebuke, saying, "Every parish ought to keep their own poor." Jones then fell alaughing, and asked

Partridge, "if he was not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his heart. Your

religion," says he, "serves you only for an excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any

man who is really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such a miserable condition?" And

at the same time, putting his hand in his pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.

"Master," cries the fellow, after thanking him, "I have a curious thing here in my pocket, which I found about

two miles off, if your worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to every one; but, as you

are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he is

poor." He then pulled out a little gilt pocketbook, and delivered it into the hands of Jones.

Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in the first page the words Sophia Western,

written by her own fair hand. He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips; nor could he avoid

falling into some very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made

While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth,

or as if he had really been a bookworm, or an author who had nothing to cat but his own works, a piece of

paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently

perceived it to be a bankbill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western had given his daughter the night

before her departure; and a Jew would have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than L100.

The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with

somewhat a different aspect) those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from a

principle of honesty) had never opened it: but we should not deal honestly by the reader if we omitted to

inform him of a circumstance which may be here a little material, viz., that the fellow could not read.

Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the finding the book, was affected with a mixture

of concern at this new discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him, that the owner of the bill

might possibly want it, before he should be able to convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder, that he

knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon as possible, and

The pocketbook was a late present from Mrs. Western to her niece; it had cost fiveandtwenty shillings,

having been bought of a celebrated toyman; but the real value of the silver which it contained in its clasp, was

about eighteenpence; and that price the said toyman, as it was altogether as good as when it first issued from

his shop, would now have given for it. A prudent person would, however, have taken proper advantage of the

ignorance of this fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling, or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay,

some perhaps would have given nothing, and left the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned

serjeants may doubt whether he could, under these circumstances, have maintained.

Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly

have been suspected of extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the book. The

poor man, who had not for a long time before been possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr. Jones a thousand

thanks, and discovered little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had before shown, when he had first

The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place where he had found the pocketbook.

Together, therefore, they proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr. Jones desired; for his guide

unfortunately happened to be lame, and could not possibly travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place,

therefore, was at above three miles' distance, though the fellow had said otherwise, the reader need not be

Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as often, talked much to himself, and very

little to his companions. At all which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge; who more

than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.*

At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt the pocketbook, and where the fellow

had as happily found it. Here Jones offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but the fellow,

in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now

considerably abated, and who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a discontented look,

and, scratching his head, said, "He hoped his worship would give him something more. Your worship," said

he, "will, I hope, take it into your consideration that if I had not been honest I might have kept the whole."

And, indeed, this the reader must confess to have been true. "If the paper there," said he, "be worth L100, I

am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides, suppose your worship should never see the lady,

nor give it her and, though your worship looks and talks very much like a gentleman, yet I have only your

worship's bare word; and, certainly, if the right owner ben't to be found, it all belongs to the first finder. I

hope your worship will consider of all these matters: I am but a poor man, and therefore don't desire to have

all; but it is but reasonable I should have my share. Your worship looks like a good man, and, I hope, will

consider my honesty; for I might have kept every farthing, and nobody ever the wiser." "I promise thee, upon

my honour," cries Jones, "that I know the right owner, and will restore it her." "Nay, your worship," answered

the fellow, "may do as you please as to that; if you will but give me my share, that is, onehalf of the money,

your honour may keep the rest yourself if you please;" and concluded with swearing, by a very vehement

"Lookee, friend," cries Jones, "the right owner shall certainly have again all that she lost; and as for any

farther gratuity, I really cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where you live, and it

is more than possible you may hereafter have further reason to rejoice at this morning's adventure."

"I don't know what you mean by venture," cries the fellow; "it seems I must venture whether you will return

the lady her money or no; but I hope your worship will consider" "Come, come," said Partridge, "tell his

honour your name, and where you may be found; I warrant you will never repent having the money into his

hands." The fellow, seeing no hopes of recovering the possession of the pocketbook, at last complied in

giving in his name and place of abode, which Jones writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and

then, placing the paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he cries out, "There, friend, you are the

happiest man alive; I have joined your name to that of an angel." "I don't know anything about angels,"

answered the fellow, "but I wish you would give me a little more money, or else return me the pocketbook."

Partridge now waxed wroth: he called the poor cripple by several vile and opprobrious names, and was

absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would not suffer any such thing: and now, telling the fellow he

would certainly find some opportunity of serving him, Mr. Jones departed as fast as his heels would carry

him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hundred pound had infused new spirits, followed his

leader; while the man, who was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his parents; "for

had they," says he, "sent me to charityschool to learn to write and read and cast accounts, I should have

Chapter 5. Containing more adventures which Mr. Jones and his companion met on the road

Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or breath for conversation; Jones meditating

all the way on Sophia, and Partridge on the bankbill, which, though it gave him some pleasure, caused him

at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his walks, had never given him such an opportunity of

showing his honesty. They had proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any longer to keep

up with Jones, called to him, and hima him a little to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to

comply, as he had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had enabled him to trace for

He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should pursue; when on a sudden they heard the

noise of a drum, that seemed at no great distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of Partridge, and he

cried out, "Lord have mercy upon us all; they are certainly a coming!" "Who is coming?" cries Jones; for fear

had long since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure with the lame man, he had

been totally intent on pursuing Sophia, without entertaining one thought of an enemy. "Who?" cries

Partridge, "why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be very honest gentlemen, for

anything I know to the contrary. The devil take him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have nothing

to say to me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a civil way. For Heaven's sake, sir, don't affront them

if they should come, and perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the wiser way to creep into

some of yonder bushes, till they are gone by? What can two unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand?

Certainly nobody but a madman; I hope your honour is not offended; but certainly no man who hath mens

sana in corpore sano" Here Jones interrupted this torrent of eloquence, fear had inspired, saying, "That by

the drum he perceived they were near some town." He then made directly towards the place whence the noise

proceeded, bidding Partridge "take courage, for that he would lead him into no danger; and adding, "it was

Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though he would more gladly have gone the

contrary way, he followed his leader, his heart beating time, but not after the manner of heroes, to the music

of the drum, which ceased not till they had traversed the common, and were come into a narrow lane.

And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something painted flying in the air, a very

few yards before him, which fancying to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, "O Lord, sir, here

they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw anything so terrible; and we are within gunshot

Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which Partridge had thus mistaken.

"Partridge," says he, "I fancy you will be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess

what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats up for recruits to a puppetshow."

"A puppetshow!" answered Partridge, with most eager transport. "And is it really no more than that? I love a

puppetshow of all the pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I am quite famished

to death; for it is now almost dark, and I have not eat a morsel since three o'clock in the morning."

They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an alehouse, where Jones was prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he

had no longer any assurance of being in the road he desired. They walked both directly into the kitchen,

where Jones began to inquire if no ladies had passed that way in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly

examined into the state of their provisions; and indeed his inquiry met with the better success; for Jones could

not hear news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great satisfaction found good reason to expect very shortly the

In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect from what it causes in the puny part of the

species. In the latter it generally destroys all that appetite which tends towards the conservation of the

individual; but in the former, though it often induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well as of

everything else; yet place a good piece of wellpowdered buttock before a hungry lover, and he seldom fails

very handsomely to play his part. Thus it happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps wanted a

prompter, and might have travelled much farther, had he been alone, with an empty stomach; yet no sooner

did he sit down to the bacon and eggs, than he fell to as heartily and voraciously as Partridge himself.

Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as the moon was now past the full, it was

extremely dark. Partridge therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see the puppetshow, which was just going

to begin, and to which they were very eagerly invited by the master of the said show, who declared that his

figures were the finest which the world had ever produced, and that they had given great satisfaction to all the

The puppetshow was performed with great regularity and decency. It was called the fine and serious part of

the Provoked Husband; and it was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low wit, or

humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without anything which could provoke a laugh. The

audience were all highly pleased. A grave matron told the master she would bring her two daughters the next

night, as he did not show any stuff; and an attorney's clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the

characters of Lord and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature. Partridge likewise concurred

The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could not refrain from adding some more of

his own. He said, "The present age was not improved in anything so much as in their puppetshows; which,

by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such idle trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational

entertainment. I remember," said he, "when I first took to the business, there was a great deal of low stuff that

did very well to make folks laugh; but was never calculated to improve the morals of young people, which

certainly ought to be principally aimed at in every puppetshow: for why may not good and instructive

lessons be conveyed this way, as well as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and they represent the

life in every particular; and I question not but people rise from my little drama as much improved as they do

from the great." "I would by no means degrade the ingenuity of your profession," answered Jones, "but I

should have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance, master Punch, for all that; and so far from

improving, I think, by leaving out him and his merry wife Joan, you have spoiled your puppetshow."

The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for Jones, from these words. And with much

disdain in his countenance, he replied, "Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I have the

satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and it is impossible to please every taste. I confess,

indeed, some of the quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring Punch again upon the

stage. I believe I lost some money for not agreeing to it; but let others do as they will; a little matter shall

never bribe me to degrade my own profession, nor will I ever willingly consent to the spoiling the decency

"Right, friend," cries the clerk, "you are very right. Always avoid what is low. There are several of my

acquaintance in London, who are resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage." "Nothing can be

more proper," cries the exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth. "I remember," added he, "(for I then

lived with my lord) I was in the footman's gallery, the night when this play of the Provoked Husband was

acted first. There was a great deal of low stuff in it about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for

parliamentman; and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the stage, his coachman I remember

particularly; but the gentlemen in our gallery could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe,

"Nay, gentlemen," cries Jones, "I can never maintain my opinion against so many; indeed, if the generality of

his audience dislike him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done very right in

The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of the great force of example, and how

much the inferior part of mankind would be deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in their

superiors; when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident, which, though perhaps we might have omitted it

Chapter 6. From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to be misunderstood and

A violent uproar now arise in the entry, where my landlady was well cuffing her maid both with her fist and

tongue. She had indeed missed the wench from her employment, and, after a little search, had found her on

the puppetshow stage in company with the Merry Andrew, and in a situation not very proper to be

Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to modesty; yet had she not impudence enough to

deny a fact in which she was actually surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and attempted to mitigate

the offence. "Why do you beat me in this manner, mistress?" cries the wench. "If you don't like my doings,

you may turn me away. If I am a we" (for the other had liberally bestowed that appellation on her), "my

betters are so as well as I. What was the fine lady in the puppet show just now? I suppose she did not lie all

The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her husband and the poor puppetmover.

"Here, husband," says she, "you see the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one doth

draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made amends for the litter they make; and then to have

one's house made a bawdyhouse of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be gone tomorrow

morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is only the way to teach our servants idleness and

nonsense; for to be sure nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I remember when

puppetshows were made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah's Rash Vow, and such good things, and when

wicked people were carried away by the devil. There was some sense in those matters; but as the parson told

us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil nowadays; and here you bring about a parcel of puppets drest

up like lords and ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches; and when their heads are once turned

Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a riotous and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of

missile weapons fly about, if a man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the tumult is presently

appeased, and the mob, which when collected into one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their long

On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are disputing; when wisdom herself may in a

manner be considered as present, and administering arguments to the disputants; should a tumult arise among

the mob, or should one scold, who is herself equal in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said

philosophers; their disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her ministerial office, and the

Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced the master of the puppetshow, and put a

speedy and final end to that grave and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a sufficient taste

already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very inopportune as this accident; the most wanton malice

of fortune could not have contrived such another stratagem to confound the poor fellow, while he was so

triumphantly descanting on the good morals inculcated by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually

stopt, as that of quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the great virtues of his pills and powders,

the corpse of one of his martyrs should be brought forth, and deposited before the stage, as a testimony of his

Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppetshow man ran out to punish his Merry Andrew; and

now the moon beginning to put forth her silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at that time more

like a piece of copper), Jones called for his reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had just

awaked from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having lately carried two points, as my

reader hath seen before, was emboldened to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take up a

lodging that evening in the house where he then was. He introduced this with an affected surprize at the

intention which Mr. Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many excellent arguments against it, he at

last insisted strongly that it could be to no manner of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which

way the lady was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the farther from her; "for you find,

sir," said he, "by all the people in the house, that she is not gone this way. How much better, therefore, would

it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to meet with somebody to inquire of?"

This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was weighing it, the landlord threw all the

rhetoric of which he was master into the same scale. "Sure, sir," said he, "your servant gives you most

excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this time of the year?" He then began in the usual stile to

trumpet forth the excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my landlady likewise opened on

the occasion But, not to detain the reader with what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to

tell him Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few hours' rest, which indeed he very

much wanted; for he had hardly shut his eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of the broken head

As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that night, he presently retired to rest, with his

two bedfellows, the pocketbook and the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had refreshed himself

with several naps, was more inclined to eating than to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.

And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my landlady being again reconciled to the

puppetman, who on his side forgave the indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion had cast

on his performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled

round the fire, the landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the puppetshow, the attorney's clerk, the

exciseman, and the ingenious Mr. Partridge; in which company past the agreeable conversation which will be

Chapter 7. Containing a remark or two of our own, and many more of the good company assembled in the

Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a servant, yet he condescended in most

particulars to imitate the manners of that rank. One instance of this was, his greatly magnifying the fortune of

his companion, as he called Jones: such is a general custom with all servants among strangers, as none of

them would willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the higher the situation of the master is, the

higher, consequently, is that of the man in his own opinion; the truth of which observation appears from the

But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them, and the footmen of men of quality and

of estate think themselves entitled to a part of that respect which is paid to the quality and estates of their

masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to virtue and understanding. These advantages are strictly

personal, and swallow themselves all the respect which is paid to them. To say the truth, this is so very little,

that they cannot well afford to let any others partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour on the

domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most deplorable want of both in his master. Indeed it is

otherwise in the want of what is called virtue in a mistress, the consequence of which we have before seen:

for in this dishonour there is a kind of contagion, which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all who

Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among the men only) should have no great

regard for the reputation of the wealth of their masters, and little or none at all for their character in other

points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend upon

a rogue or a blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the fame of the iniquities and follies

of their said masters as far as possible, and this often with great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman

is often a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman whose livery he wears.

After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune to which Mr. Jones was heir, he very

freely communicated an apprehension, which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for which, as we

hinted at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short, he

was now pretty well confirmed in an opinion, that his master was out of his wits, with which opinion he very

With this sentiment the puppetshow man immediately coincided. "I own," said he, "the gentleman surprized

me very much, when he talked so absurdly about puppetshows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived that any

man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say now accounts very well for all his monstrous

notions. Poor gentleman! I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange wildness about his eyes

The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the sagacity of having observed it. "And

certainly," added he, "it must be so; for no one but a madman would have thought of leaving so good a house

The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, "He thought the gentleman looked and talked a little

wildly"; and then turning to Partridge, "if he be a madman," says he, "he should not be suffered to travel thus

about the country; for possibly he may do some mischief. It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his

Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded

that Jones had run away from Mr. Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he could by any

means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose fierceness and strength he had seen, and indeed felt,

some instances, had however represented any such scheme as impossible to be executed, and had discouraged

him from applying himself to form any regular plan for the purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments

of the exciseman, than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed a hearty wish that

"Ah! sir," answered Partridge, "you don't know what a devil of a fellow he is. He can take me up with one

"Pogh!" says the exciseman, "I believe I am as good a man as he. Besides, here are five of us."

"I don't know what five," cries the landlady, my husband shall have nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent

hands be laid upon anybody in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young gentleman as ever I saw

in my life, and I believe he is no more mad than any of us. What do you tell of his having a wild look with his

eyes? they are the prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the prettiest look with them; and a very modest civil

young man he is. I am sure I have bepitied him heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he

was crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially such a sweet young gentleman as he

is, to look a little otherwise than he did before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better than

such a handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of your quality folks, one of your Townly

ladies that we saw last night in the puppetshow, who don't know what they would be at."

The attorney's clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the business without the advice of

counsel. "Suppose," says he, "an action of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what defence

could we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of madness to a jury? But I only speak upon

my own account; for it don't look well for a lawyer to be concerned in these matters, unless it be as a lawyer.

Juries are always less favourable to us than to other people. I don't therefore dissuade you, Mr. Thomson (to

The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppetshow man said, "Madness was sometimes a

difficult matter for a jury to decide: for I remember," says he, "I was once present at a tryal of madness,

where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as a March hare; and twenty others, that he was as

much in his senses as any man in England. And indeed it was the opinion of most people, that it was only a

"Very likely!" cries the landlady. "I myself knew a poor gentleman who was kept in a madhouse all his life

by his family, and they enjoyed his estate, but it them no good; for though the law gave it them, it was the

"Pogh!" cries the clerk, with great contempt, "who hath any right but what the law gives them? If the law

gave me the best estate in the country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right."

My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at the gate, now returned into the kitchen,

and with an affrighted countenance cried out, "What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have given the

duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is certainly true, for a man on horseback just now told me so."

"I am glad of it with all my heart," cries Partridge; "then there will be no fighting in these parts."

"I am glad," cries the clerk, "for a better reason; for I would always have right take place."

"Ay, but," answered the landlord, "I have heard some people say this man no right."

"I will prove the contrary in a moment," cries the clerk: "if my father dies seized of a right; do you mind me,

seized of a right, I say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one right descend as well as

"Never fear that," cries Partridge. "As to the matter of right, the gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the

sun; and as to the matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists themselves don't expect any such

thing. A popish priest, whom I know very well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and

"And another priest, of my acquaintance," said the landlady, "hath told me the same thing; but my husband is

always so afraid of papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of people, and spend

their money very freely; and it is always a maxim with me, that one man's money is as good as another's."

"Very true, mistress," said the puppetshow man, "I don't care what religion comes; provided the

"And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest," cries the exciseman; "and are desirous to see

"Not I, truly," answered the other; "I hate popery as much any man; but yet it is a comfort to one, that one

should be able to live under it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure, every man values his

livelihood first; that must be granted; and I warrant, if you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of

losing your place than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be an excise under another government

"Why, certainly," replied the exciseman, "I should be a very ill man if I did not honour the king, whose bread

I eat. That is no more than natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that there would be an excise

office under another government, since my friends would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow

them? No, no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes only of keeping my place under

another government; for I should certainly be no better, and very probably might be worse."

"Why, that is what I say," cries the landlord, "whenever folks say who knows what may happen! Odsooks!

should not I be a blockhead to lend my money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it again? I

The attorney's clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of Partridge. Whether this proceeded from the

great discernment which the former had into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the sympathy

between their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in principle; they now shook hands heartily, and

drank bumpers of strong beer to healths which we think proper to bury in oblivion.

These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my landlord himself, though reluctantly;

but he could not withstand the menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his house

again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this occasion soon put an end to the

Chapter 8. In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones than we have hitherto seen

As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping potions than fatigue. Of this Jones

might be said to have taken a very large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already slept

nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been awakened by a most violent noise at his

chamberdoor, where the sound of many heavy blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder.

Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the puppetshow belabouring the back and

Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall:

for the puppetshow man was no more able to contend with Jones, than the poor partycoloured jester had

But though the MerryAndrew was a little fellow, and not very strong, he had nevertheless some choler

about him. He therefore no sooner found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him with

the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first discharged a volley of general abusive words,

and thence proceeded to some particular accusations "Dn your bld, you rascal," says he, "I have not

only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did

you not want to rob the lady of her fine ridinghabit, no longer ago than yesterday, in the backlane here?

Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in a wood to strip her to strip one of the prettiest ladies that

ever was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have almost murdered me, for doing no

harm to a girl as willing as myself, only because she likes me better than you."

Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him at the same time the most violent

injunctions of forbearance from any further insult on the MerryAndrew; and then taking the poor wretch

with into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his

master with his drum the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to show him the exact

place, and then having summoned Partridge, he departed with the utmost expedition.

It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready for his departure: for Partridge was not

in any haste, nor could the reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and over, Jones

would not quit the place before he had perfectly reconciled all differences between the master and the man.

When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the trusty MerryAndrew conducted to the

spot by which Sophia had past; and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on

with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the extraordinary manner in which he received his

intelligence. Of this Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness, began to prophesy,

and assured Jones that he would certainly have good success in the end: for, he said, "two such accidents

could never have happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not designed to bring them

together at last." And this was the first time that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of his

They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain overtook them; and, as they happened to be

at the same time in sight of an alehouse, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with Jones to

enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed it may be called one) which partakes more of the

English than of the French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it will always rally again

in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the

same questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this was an excellent cold chine

being produced upon the table, upon which not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty

breakfast, though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the house could give him no fresh

Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally, notwithstanding the violence of the storm still

continued; but Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting his eyes on a lad at the fire, who

had entered into the kitchen, and who at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to

Jones, and cried, "Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan't serve the turn this bout. Why, here's more

news of Madam Sophia come to town. The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that rode before her.

I can swear to my own plaister on his face." "Heavens bless you, sir," cries the boy, "it is your own plaister

sure enough; I shall have always reason to remember your goodness; for it hath almost cured me."

At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy follow him immediately, departed from the

kitchen into a private apartment; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he never willingly

mentioned her name in the presence of many people; and, though he had, as it were, from the overflowings of

his heart, given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was impossible she should be

known; yet, even there, the reader may remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her

Hard, therefore, was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious readers, very absurd and monstrous,

that he should principally owe his present misfortune to the supposed want of that delicacy with which he so

abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much more offended at the freedoms which she thought (and not

without good reason) he had taken with her name and character, than at any freedoms, in which, under his

present circumstances, he had indulged himself with the person of another woman; and to say truth, I believe

Honour could never have prevailed on her to leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not been for those

two strong instances of a levity in his behaviour, so void of respect, and indeed so highly inconsistent with

But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader is shocked at their appearing unnatural, I

cannot help it. I must remind such persons that I am not writing a system, but a history, and I am not obliged

to reconcile every matter to the received notions concerning truth and nature. But if this was never so easy to

do, perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For instance, as the fact at present before us now

stands, without any comment of mine upon it, though it may at first sight offend some readers, yet, upon

more mature consideration, it must please all; for wise and good men may consider what happened to Jones at

Upton as a just punishment for his wickedness with regard to women, of which it was indeed the immediate

consequence; and silly and bad persons may comfort themselves in their vices, by flattering their own hearts

that the characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue. Now, perhaps, the reflections which we

should be here inclined to draw, would alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these

incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon doctrine, which it is the purpose of this

whole work to inculcate, and which we must not fill up our pages by frequently repeating, as an ordinary

We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had erred in her opinion of Jones, she had

sufficient reason for her opinion; since, I believe, every other young lady would, in her situation, have erred

in the same manner. Nay, had she followed her lover at this very time, and had entered this very alehouse the

moment he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well acquainted with her name and

person as the wench at Upton had appeared to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an

inner room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in the kitchen very openly catechising

the other guide who had attended Mrs. Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose ears were open on all

such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted with the tumble of Sophia from her horse, with the mistake

concerning Jenny Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in short, with almost everything

which had happened at the inn, whence we dispatched our ladies in a coachandsix when we last took our

Jones had been absent a full halfhour, when he returned into the kitchen in a hurry, desiring the landlord to

let him know that instant what was to pay. And now the concern which Partridge felt at being obliged to quit

the warm chimneycorner, and a cup of excellent liquor, was somewhat compensated by hearing that he was

to proceed no farther on foot, for Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed with the boy to attend him back

to the inn whither he had before conducted Sophia; but to this however the lad consented, upon condition that

the other guide would wait for him at the alehouse; because, as the landlord at Upton was an intimate

acquaintance of the landlord at Gloucester, it might some time or other come to the ears of the latter, that his

horses had been let to more than one person; and so the boy might be brought to account for money which he

We were obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may seem, since it retarded Mr. Jones a

considerable time in his setting out; for the honesty of this latter boy was somewhat high that is, somewhat

highpriced, and would indeed have cost Jones very dear, had not Partridge, who, as we have said, was a

very cunning fellow, artfully thrown in halfacrown to be spent at that very alehouse, while the boy was

waiting for his companion. This halfcrown the landlord no sooner got scent of, than he opened after it with

such vehement and persuasive outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and consented to take halfacrown

more for his stay. Here we cannot help observing, that as there is so much of policy in the lowest life, great

men often overvalue themselves on these refinements in imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by

The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the sidesaddle, on which his dear Sophia had rid.

The lad, indeed, very civilly offered him the use of his: but he chose the sidesaddle, probably because it was

softer. Partridge, however, though full as effeminate as Jones, could not bear the thoughts of degrading his

manhood; he therefore accepted the boy's offer: and now, Jones being mounted on the sidesaddle of his

Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs. Honour, and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on their

journey, and within four hours arrived at the inn where the reader hath already spent so much time. Partridge

was in very high spirits during the whole way, and often mentioned to Jones the many good omens of his

future success, which had lately befriended him; and which the reader, without being the least superstitious,

must allow to have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better pleased with the present pursuit

of his companion, than he had been with his pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured the

pedagogue of success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of the amour between Jones and Sophia; to

which he had before given very little attention, as he had originally taken a wrong scent concerning the

reasons of Jones's departure; and as to what happened at Upton, he was too much frightened just before and

after his leaving that place, to draw any other conclusions from thence, than that poor Jones was a downright

madman: a conceit which was not at all disagreeable to the opinion he before had of his extraordinary

wildness, of which, he thought, his behaviour on their quitting Gloucester so well justified all the accounts he

had formerly received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with his present expedition, and

henceforth began to conceive much worthier sentiments of his friend's understanding.

The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones immediately bespoke posthorses; but unluckily

there was not a horse to be procured in the whole place; which the reader will not wonder at, when he

considers the hurry in which the whole nation, and especially this part of it, was at this time engaged, when

Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to escorte him to Coventry; but he was

inexorable. While he was arguing with the boy in the innyard, a person came up to him, and saluting him by

his name, inquired how all the good family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes upon this

person, presently discovered him to be Mr. Dowling, the lawyer, with whom he had dined at Gloucester, and

Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr. Jones to go no further that night; and backed his solicitations with many

unanswerable arguments, such as, that it was almost dark, that the roads were very dirty, and that he would be

able to travel much better by daylight, with many others equally good, some of which Jones had probably

suggested to himself before; but as they were then ineffectual, so they were still: and he continued resolute in

When the good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to stay, he as strenuously applied himself to

persuade the guide to accompany him. He urged many motives to induce him to undertake this short journey,

and at last concluded with saying, "Do you think the gentleman won't very well reward you for your trouble?"

Two to one are odds at every other thing, as well as at footfall. But the advantage which this united force hath

in persuasion or entreaty, must have been visible to a curious observer; for he must have often seen, that

when a father, a master, a wife, or any other person in authority, have stoutly adhered to a denial against all

the reasons which a single man could produce, they have afterwards yielded to the repetition of the same

sentiments by a second or third person, who hath undertaken the cause, without attempting to advance

anything new in its behalf. And hence, perhaps, proceeds the phrase of seconding an argument or a motion,

and the great consequence this is of in all assemblies of public debate. Hence, likewise, probably it is, that in

our courts of law we often hear a learned gentleman (generally a serjeant) repeating for an hour together what

Instead of accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner to exemplify it in the conduct of the lad

above mentioned, who submitted to the persuasions of Mr. Dowling, and promised once more to admit Jones

into his sidesaddle; but insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had travelled a

great way, and been rid very hard. Indeed this caution of the boy was needless; for Jones, notwithstanding his

hurry and impatience, would have ordered this of himself; for he by no means agreed with the opinion of

those who consider animals as mere machines, and when they bury their spurs in the belly of their horse,

While the beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed to eat it (for, as the boy was taking care of

himself in the kitchen, the ostler took great care that his corn should not be consumed in the stable), Mr.

Jones, at the earnest desire of Mr. Dowling, accompanied that gentleman into his room, where they sat down

Mr. Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the good Squire Allworthy; adding, "If you

please, sir, we will likewise remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here's Mr. Blifil to

you, a very pretty young gentleman; and who, I dare swear, will hereafter make a very considerable figure in

"Sir," answered Jones, "I am convinced you don't intend to affront me, so I shall not resent it; but I promise

you, you have joined two persons very improperly together; for one is the glory of the human species, and the

Dowling stared at this. He said, "He thought both the gentlemen had a very unexceptionable character. As for

Squire Allworthy himself," says he, "I never had the happiness to see him; but all the world talks of his

goodness. And, indeed, as to the young gentleman, I never saw him but once, when I carried to him the news

of the loss of his mother; and then I was so hurried, and drove, and tore with the multiplicity of business, that

I had hardly time to converse with him; but he looked so like a very honest gentleman, and behaved himself

so prettily, that I protest I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I was born."

"I don't wonder," answered Jones, "that he should impose upon you in so short an acquaintance; for he hath

the cunning of the devil himself, and you may live with him many years, without discovering him. I was bred

up with him from my infancy, and we were hardly ever asunder; but it is very lately only that I have

discovered half the villany which is in him. I own I never greatly liked him. I thought he wanted that

generosity of spirit, which is the sure foundation of all that is great and noble in human nature. I saw a

selfishness in him long ago which I despised; but it is lately, very lately, that I have found him capable of the

basest and blackest designs; for, indeed, I have at last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of the

openness of my own temper, and hath concerted the deepest project, by a long train of wicked artifice, to

"Ay! ay!" cries Dowling; "I protest, then, it is a pity such a person should inherit the great estate of your

"Alas, sir," cries Jones, "you do me an honour to which I have no title. It is true, indeed, his goodness once

allowed me the liberty of calling him by a much nearer name; but as this was only a voluntary act of

goodness, I can complain of no injustice when he thinks proper to deprive me of this honour; since the loss

cannot be more unmerited than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir, I am no relation of Mr. Allworthy;

and if the world, who are incapable of setting a true value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me,

he hath dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of men: for I but I ask your pardon, I shall

trouble you with no particulars relating to myself; only as you seemed to think me a relation of Mr.

Allworthy, I thought proper to set you right in a matter that might draw some censures upon him, which I

"I protest, sir," cried Dowling, "you talk very much like a man of honour; but instead of giving me any

trouble, I protest it would give me great pleasure to know how you came to be thought a relation of Mr.

Allworthy's, if you are not. Your horses won't be ready this halfhour, and as you have sufficient opportunity,

I wish you would tell me how all that happened; for I protest it seems very surprizing that you should pass for

Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his prudence) a little resembled his lovely

Sophia, was easily prevailed on to satisfy Mr. Dowling's curiosity, by relating the history of his birth and

To th' very moment he was bad to tell: the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;

Mr. Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for he had not divested himself of humanity

by being an attorney. Indeed, nothing is more unjust than to carry our prejudices against a profession into

private life, and to borrow our idea of a man from our opinion of his calling. Habit, it is true, lessens the

horror of those actions which the profession makes necessary, and consequently habitual; but in all other

instances, Nature works in men of all professions alike; nay, perhaps, even more strongly with those who

give her, as it were, a holiday, when they are following their ordinary business. A butcher, I make no doubt,

would feel compunction at the slaughter of a fine horse; and though a surgeon can feel no pain in cutting off a

limb, I have known him compassionate a man in a fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath stretched

the necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first operation on a head: and the very professors of

human blood shedding, who, in their trade of war, butcher thousands, not only of their fellowprofessors, but

often of women and children, without remorse; even these, I say, in times of peace, when drums and trumpets

are laid aside, often lay aside all their ferocity, and become very gentle members of civil society. In the same

manner an attorney may feel all the miseries and distresses of his fellowcreatures, provided he happens not

Jones, as the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black colours in which he had been

represented to Mr. Allworthy; and as to other matters, he did not shew them in the most disadvantageous

light; for though he was unwilling to cast any blame on his former friend and patron; yet he was not very

desirous of heaping too much upon himself. Dowling therefore observed, and not without reason, that very ill

offices must have been done him by somebody: "For certainly," cries he, "the squire would never have

disinherited you only for a few faults, which any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I cannot

properly say disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot claim as heir. That's certain; that nobody need go

to counsel for. Yet when a gentleman had in a manner adopted you thus as his own son, you might reasonably

have expected some very considerable part, if not the whole; nay, if you had expected the whole, I should not

have blamed you: for certainly all men are for getting as much as they can, and they are not to be blamed on

"Indeed you wrong me," said Jones; "I should have been contented with very little: I never had any view

upon Mr. Allworthy's fortune; nay, I believe I may truly say, I never once considered what he could or might

give me. This I solemnly declare, if he had done a prejudice to his nephew in my favour, I would have

undone it again. I had rather enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another man. What is the poor pride

arising from a magnificent house, a numerous equipage, a splendid table, and from all the other advantages or

appearances of fortune, compared to the warm, solid content, the swelling satisfaction, the thrilling transports,

and the exulting triumphs, which a good mind enjoys, in the contemplation of a generous, virtuous, noble,

benevolent action? I envy not Blifil in the prospect of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the possession of it.

I would not think myself a rascal half an hour, to exchange situations. I believe, indeed, Mr. Blifil suspected

me of the views you mention; and I suppose these suspicions, as they arose from the baseness of his own

heart, so they occasioned his baseness to me. But, I thank Heaven, I know, I feel I feel my innocence, my

friend; and I would not part with that feeling for the world. For as long as I know I have never done, nor even

He then filled a bumper of wine, and drunk off to the health of his dear Lalage; and, filling Dowling's glass

likewise up to the brim, insisted on his pledging him. "Why, then, here's Miss Lalage's health with all my

heart," cries Dowling. "I have heard her toasted often, I protest, though I never saw her; but they say she's

Though the Latin was not the only part of this speech which Dowling did not perfectly understand; yet there

was somewhat in it that made a very strong impression upon him. And though he endeavoured by winking,

nodding, sneering, and grinning, to hide the impression from Jones (for we are as often ashamed of thinking

right as of thinking wrong), it is certain he secretly approved as much of his sentiments as he understood, and

really felt a very strong impulse of compassion for him. But we may possibly take some other opportunity of

commenting upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr. Dowling any more in the course of our

history. At present we are obliged to take our leave of that gentleman a little abruptly, in imitation of Mr.

Jones; who was no sooner informed, by Partridge, that his horses were ready, than he deposited his

reckoning, wished his companion a good night, mounted, and set forward towards Coventry, though the night

Chapter 11. The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for Coventry; with the sage remarks of

No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to Coventry; and though neither Jones,

nor Partridge, nor the guide, had ever travelled it before, it would have been almost impossible to have

missed their way, had it not been for the two reasons mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter.

These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to intervene, our travellers deviated into a

much less frequented track; and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately spires of Coventry,

they found themselves still in a very dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a

Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but this the guide insisted upon was

impossible; a word which, in common conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but often

what is really very likely, and, sometimes, what hath certainly happened; and hyperbolical violence like that

which is so frequently offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former of which it is usual to express a

distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the

impossibility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, the case at present; for, notwithstanding

all the confident assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no more in the right road to

Coventry, than the fraudulent, griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.

It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in those circumstances, to imagine the horror with

which darkness, rain, and wind, fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and who, consequently,

have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry cloaths, and other refreshments, to support their minds in

struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve

sufficiently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall presently

Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their road; and the boy himself at last acknowledged

he believed they were not in the right road to Coventry; though he affirmed, at the same time, it was

impossible they should have mist the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. He said, "When they first

set out he imagined some mischief or other would happen. Did you not observe, sir," said he to Jones, "that

old woman who stood at the door just as you was taking horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with

all my heart; for she said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath

continued rising ever since. Whatever some people may think, I am very certain it is in the power of witches

to raise the wind whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my time: and if ever I saw a witch

in all my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thought so to myself at that very time; and if I had had any

halfpence in my pocket, I would have given her some; for to be sure it is always good to be charitable to

those sort of people, for fear what may happen; and many a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny."

Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake was likely to occasion in his journey,

could not help smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in his

opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by which, however, he received no other injury than what the dirt

Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to his fall, as conclusive evidence of all he had

asserted; but Jones finding he was unhurt, answered with a smile: "This witch of yours, Partridge, is a most

ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find, distinguish her friends from others in her resentment. If the old lady had

been angry with me for neglecting her, I don't see why she should tumble you from your horse, after all the

"It is ill jesting," cries Partridge, "with people who have power to do these things; for they are often very

malicious. I remember a farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her when the time she had bargained

with the devil for would be out; and within three months from that very day one of his best cows was

drowned. Nor was she satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of bestdrink: for the old

witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it, to make

merry with some of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him afterwards; for she worried the

poor man so, that he took to drinking; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and his family are

The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this discourse, that, either through want of

Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the same cause. He told Mr. Jones, "It would

certainly be his turn next! and earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old woman, and pacify

her. We shall very soon," added he, "reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very

certain we are in the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we

Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was entirely attentive to what had happened to the

boy, who received no other than what had before befallen Partridge, and which his cloaths very easily bore,

as they had been for many years inured to the like. He soon regained his sidesaddle, and by the hearty curses

and blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr. Jones that no harm was done.

Chapter 12. Relates that Mr. Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice of Partridge, with what

They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of Jones, and to the no small terror of

Partridge, who firmly believed himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a Jackwithalantern, or

But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to this light (or lights as they now

appeared), they heard a confused sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together with a

strange noise that seemed to proceed from some instruments; but could hardly be allowed the name of musci!

indeed, to favour a little the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called music bewitched.

It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what now seized on Partridge; the contagion

of which had reached the postboy, who had been very attentive to many things that the other had uttered. He

now, therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return; saying he firmly believed what Partridge had just before

said, that though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a step forwards during at least the last

Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the fears of these poor fellows. "Either we

advance," says he, "towards the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now at a very little

distance from them; but how can either of you be afraid of a set of people who appear only to be

"Merrymaking, sir!" cries Partridge; "who could be merrymaking at this time of night, and in such a place,

and such weather? They can be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other, that's certain."

"Let them be what they will," cries Jones, "I am resolved to go up to them, and enquire the way to Coventry.

All witches, Partridge, are not such illnatured hags as that we had the misfortune to meet with last."

"O Lord, sir," cries Partridge, "there is no knowing what humour they will be in; to be sure it is always best to

be civil to them; but what if we should meet with something worse than witches, with evil spirits

themselves? Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir, do. If you had read so many terrible accounts as I have of these

matters, you would not be so foolhardy. The Lord knows whither we have got already, or whither we are

going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other

Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was

obliged to follow; for though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay behind by himself.

At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and different noises had issued. This Jones perceived to

be no other than a barn, where a great number of men and women were assembled, and diverting themselves

Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which were open, than a masculine and very

rough voice from within demanded, who was there? To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and

"If you are a friend," cries another of the men in the barn, "you had better alight till the storm is over" (for

indeed it was now more violent than ever); "you are very welcome to put up your horse; for there is sufficient

"You are very obliging," returned Jones; and I will accept your offer for a few minutes, whilst the rain

continues; and here are two more who will be glad of the same favour." This was accorded with more

goodwill than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have submitted to the utmost inclemency of the

weather, than have trusted to the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor postboy was

now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the

one because he durst not leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing so much as being left by

Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have had too much compassion for the reader

to have left him so long in suspense, whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in person, with

all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at present very unfortunate, and have but few, if any

believers, I have not been much aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the whole furniture of the

infernal regions hath long been appropriated by the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid

them by as rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which few of our readers ever sit.

However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this occasion, we have reason to fear some

other apprehensions may here arise in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I mean that

we are going to take a voyage into fairyland, and introduce a set of beings into our history, which scarce any

one was ever childish enough to believe, though many have been foolish enough to spend their time in

To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the credit of an historian, who professes to draw

his materials from nature only, we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these people were, whose

sudden appearance had struck such terrors into Partridge, had more than half frightened the postboy, and had

The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly

called, gypsies, and they were now celebrating the wedding of one of their society.

It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared here to be met together. The utmost mirth,

indeed, shewed itself in ever countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and decorum. Perhaps it

had more than a country assembly is sometimes conducted with: for these people are subject to a formal

government and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great magistrate, whom they call their king.

Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen, than what flourished in this barn. Here was indeed no

nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store of bacon, fowls,

and mutton, to which every one present provided better sauce himself than the best and dearest French cook

Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno,* than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was

looking everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person approached him with many friendly

salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be called courtly. This was no other than the king of the gypsies

himself. He was very little distinguished in dress from his subjects, nor had he any regalia of majesty to

support his dignity; and yet there seemed (as Mr. Jones said) to be somewhat in his air which denoted

authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary

in Jones; and the truth may be, that such ideas are incident to power, and almost inseparable from it.

There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of Jones which, being accompanied

with much comeliness of person, greatly recommended him at first to every beholder. These were, perhaps, a

little heightened to the present instance, by that profound respect which he paid to the king of the gypsies, the

moment he was acquainted with his dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian majesty, as he was

The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their provisions for his accommodation; and,

having placed himself at his right hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the following

"Me doubt not, sir, but you have of seen some of my people, who are what you call de parties detache: for

dey go about everywhere; but me fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may be you

will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly and well govern people as any upon face of de

"Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do boast of more dutiful subject, ne no

more affectionate. How far me deserve deir goodwill, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never design

anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat neider: for what can me do oderwise dan consider of

de good of dose poor people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey get. Dey love and

honour me darefore, because me do love and take care of dem; dat is all, me know no oder reason.

"About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year or two, as can neider write nor read, dere

was a great what you call a volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and dese lord

did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king of de gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his

subject equal vid each oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no tink of being king, and

may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to

do justice; me have often wish to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to punish my dear friend and

relation; for dough we never put to death, our punishments be ver severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of

demselves and dat be ver terrible punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy so punish do harm any

The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such punishment as shame in other

governments. Upon which Jones assured him to the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which

shame was inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one consequence of all punishment. "Dat be

ver strange," said the king; "for me know and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live among dem;

and me have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause too of many of your rewards. Are your

While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar arose in the barn, and as it seems upon

this occasion: the courtesy of these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of Partridge, and

he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by

degress entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead introduced much more agreeable

A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had decoyed the honest fellow aside,

pretending to tell his fortune. Now, when they were alone together in a remote part of the barn, whether it

proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt to inflame inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue;

or whether the fair gypsy herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex, and tempted the youth

Partridge with express solicitations; but they were discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of

the gypsy, who, from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had dogged her to the

To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the king; who heard the accusation, and

likewise the culprit's defence, which was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by the

plain evidence which appeared against him, and had very little to say for himself. His majesty, then turning

towards Jones, said, "Sir, you have hear what dey say: what punishment do you tink your man deserve?"

Jones answered, "He was sorry for what had happened, and that Partridge should make the husband all the

amends in his power: he said, he had very little money about him at that time;" and, putting his hand into his

pocket, offered the fellow a guinea. To which he immediately answered. "He hoped his honour would not

This sum, after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones, having stipulated for the full forgiveness of

both Partridge and the wife, was going to pay the money; when his majesty, restraining his hand, turned to

the witness and asked him, "At what time he had discovered the criminals?" To which he answered, "That he

had been desired by the husband to watch the motions of his wife from her first speaking to the stranger, and

that he had never lost sight of her afterwards till the crime had been committed." The king then asked, "if the

husband was with him all that time in his lurkingplace?" To which he answered in the affirmative. His

Egyptian majesty then addressed himself to the husband as follows: "Me be sorry to see any gypsy dat have

no more honour dan to sell de honour of his wife for money. If you had de love for your wife, you would

have prevented dis matter, and not endeavour to make her de whore dat you might discover her. Me do order

dat you have no money given you, for you deserve punishment, not reward; me do order derefore, dat you be

de infamous gypsy, and do wear pair of horms upon your forehead for one month, and dat your wife be called

de whore, and pointed at all dat time; for you be de infamous gypsy, but she be no less de infamous whore."

The gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and left Jones and Partridge alone with his

Jones greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which the king, turning to him, said, "Me believe

you be surprize: for me suppose you have ver bad opinion of my people: me suppose you tink us all de

"I must confess, sir," said Jones, "I have not heard so favourable an account of them as they seem to deserve."

"Me vil tell you," said the king, "how the difference is between you and us. My people rob your people, and

Jones afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the happiness of those subjects who live under such a

Indeed their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are aware lest some advocate for arbitrary

power should hereafter quote the case of those people, as an instance of the great advantages which attend

And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have been expected from us, that no limited

form of government is capable of rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the same benefits to

society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as when the greatest part of the then known world was

under the dominion of a single master; and this state of their felicity continued during the reigns of five

successive princes.* This was the true aera of the golden age, and the only golden age which ever had any

existence, unless in the warm imaginations of the poets, from the expulsion from Eden down to this day.

In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute monarchy. The only defect in which excellent

constitution seems to be, the difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an absolute monarch: for

this indispensably require three qualities very difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely

natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince, to be contented with all the power which is

possible for him to have. 2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly, Goodness

sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not only compatible with, but instrumental to his own.

Now if an absolute monarch with all these great and rare qualifications, should be allowed capable of

conferring the greatest good on society; it must be surely granted, on the contrary, that absolute power, vested

in the hands of one who is deficient in them all, is likely to be attended with no less a degree of evil.

In short, our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the blessing, as well as curse, which may attend

absolute power. The pictures of heaven and of hell will place a very lively image of both before our eyes; for

though the prince of the latter can have no power, but what he originally derives from the omnipotent

Sovereign in the former, yet it plainly appears from Scripture, that absolute power in his infernal dominions

is granted to their diabolical ruler. This is indeed the only absolute power which can by Scripture be derived

from heaven. If, therefore, the several tyrannies upon earth can prove any title to a Divine authority, it must

be derived from this original grant to the prince of darkness; and these subordinate deputations must

To conclude, as the examples of all ages show us that mankind in general desire power only to do harm, and,

when they obtain it, use it for no other purpose; it is not consonant with even the least degree of prudence to

hazard an alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept in countenance by only two or three exceptions out of a

thousand instances to alarm our fears. In this case it will be much wiser to submit to a few inconveniences

arising from the dispassionate deafness of laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate open ears

Nor can the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have long been happy under this form of

government, be here urged; since we must remember the very material respect in which they differ from all

other people, and to which perhaps this their happiness is entirely owing, namely, that they have no false

honours among them, and that they look on shame as the most grievous punishment in the world.

The honest lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long digression into which we were led at the

close of the last chapter, to prevent our history from being applied to the use of the most pernicious doctrine

We will now proceed with Mr. Jones, who, when the storm was over, took leave of his Egyptian majesty,

after many thanks for his courteous behaviour and kind entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which

Jones having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles instead of six, and most of those through very

execrable roads, where no expedition could have been made in quest of a midwife, did not arrive at Coventry

till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get again into the saddle till past two; for posthorses were now not

easy to get; nor were the hostler or postboy in half so great a hurry as himself, but chose rather to imitate the

tranquil disposition of Partridge; who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, took all opportunities to supply

its place with every other kind of nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he arrived at an inn,

Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according to our custom, and to the rules of

Longinus, in the same manner. From Coventry he arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from

Stratford at Dunstable, whither he came the next day a little after noon, and within a few hours after Sophia

had left it; and though he was obliged to stay here longer than he wished, while a smith, with great

deliberation, shoed the posthorse he was to ride, he doubted not but to overtake his Sophia before she should

set out from St. Albans; at which place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his lordship would stop and

And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably would have overtaken his angel at the aforesaid

place; but unluckily my lord had appointed a dinner to be prepared for him at his own house in London, and,

in order to enable him to reach that place in proper time, he had ordered a relay of horses to meet him at St.

Albans. When Jones therefore arrived there, he was informed that the coachandsix had set out two hours

If fresh posthorses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed so apparently impossible to overtake the

coach before it reached London, that Partridge thought he had now a proper opportunity to remind his friend

of a matter which he seemed entirely to have forgotten; what this was the reader will guess, when we inform

him that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached egg since he had left the alehouse where he had first

met the guide returning from Sophia; for with the gypsies he had feasted only his understanding.

The landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr. Partridge, that he no sooner heard the latter desire his

friend to stay and dine, than he very readily put in his word, and retracting his promise before given of

furnishing the horses immediately, he assured Mr. Jones he would lose no time in bespeaking a dinner,

which, he said, could be got ready sooner than it was possible to get the horses up from grass, and to prepare

Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument of the landlord; and now a joint of mutton

was put down to the fire. While this was preparing, Partridge, being admitted into the same apartment with

"Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve young Madam Western; for what a vast

quantity of love must a man have, to be able to live upon it without any other food, as you do? I am positive I

have eat thirty times as much within these last twentyfour hours as your honour, and yet I am almost

famished; for nothing makes a man so hungry as travelling, especially in this cold raw weather. And yet I

can't tell how it is, but your honour is seemingly in perfect good health, and you never looked better nor

"And a very rich diet too, Partridge," answered Jones. "But did not fortune send me an excellent dainty

yesterday? Dost thou imagine I cannot live more than twentyfour hours on this dear pocketbook?"

"Undoubtedly," cries Partridge, "there is enough in that pocketbook to purchase many a good meal. Fortune

sent it to your honour very opportunely for present use, as your honour's money must be almost out by this

"What do you mean?" answered Jones; "I hope you don't imagine that I should be dishonest enough, even if it

"Dishonest!" replied Partridge, "heaven forbid I should wrong your honour so much! but where's the

dishonesty in borrowing a little for present spending, since you will be so well able to pay the lady hereafter?

No, indeed, I would have your honour pay it again, as soon as it is convenient, by all means; but where can be

the harm in making use of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a poor body, it would be another

thing; but so great a lady, to be sure, can never want it, especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it

can't be doubted, will let her have whatever she hath need of. Besides, if she should want a little, she can't

want the whole, therefore I would give her a little; but I would be hanged before I mentioned the having

found it at first, and before I got some money of my own; for London, I have heard, is the very worst of

places to be in without money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom it belonged, I might have thought it was

the devil's money, and have been afraid to use it; but as you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it

would be an affront to fortune to part with it all again, at the very time when you want it most; you can hardly

expect she should ever do you such another good turn; for fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona.* You will do

as you please, notwithstanding all I say; but for my part, I would be hanged before I mentioned a word of the

"By what I can see, Partridge," cries Jones, "hanging is a matter non longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis."

"You should say alienus," says Partridge. "I remember the passage; it is an example under communis,

alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt." "It you do remember it," cries Jones, "I find you don't understand

it; but I tell thee, friend, in plain English, that he who finds another's property, and wilfully detains it from the

known owner, deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be hanged no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very

identical bill, which is the property of my angel, and was once in her dear possession, I will not deliver it into

any hands but her own, upon any consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry as thou art, and had no

other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I hope to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise,

I charge thee, if thou would'st not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare

"I should not have mentioned it now," cries Partridge, "if it had appeared so to me; for I'm sure I scorn any

wickedness as much as another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined that I should not

have lived so many years, and have taught school so long, without being able to distinguish between fas et

nefas: but it seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster, who was a prodigious great

scholar, used often to say, Polly matete cry town is my daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That

a child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have lived to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be

taught my grammar at this time of day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if you live

to my years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a stripling of one or two and twenty as I am

There were not many instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor were there many in which

Partridge himself could have been hurried out of his respect. Unluckily, however, they had both hit on one of

these. We have already seen Partridge could not bear to have his learning attacked, nor could Jones bear some

passage or other in the foregoing speech. And now, looking upon his companion with a contemptuous and

disdainful air (a thing not usual with him), he cried, "Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish

thou are not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced of the latter as I am of the former, thou

The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had already given to his indignation; and, as the

vulgar phrase is, immediately drew in his horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered anything which might

As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free from those of a cold one; and if his friends

must have confest his temper to have been a little too easily ruffled, his enemies must at the same time have

confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at all resemble the sea, whose swelling is more violent and

dangerous after a storm is over, than while the storm itself subsists. He instantly accepted the submission of

Partridge, shook him by the hand, and, with the most benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind things, and

at the same time very severely condemned himself, though not half so severely as he will most probably be

Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having offended were at once abolished, and his pride

completely satisfied by Jones having owned himself in the wrong, which submission he instantly applied to

what had principally nettled him, and repeated in a muttering voice, "To be sure, sir, your knowledge may be

superior to mine in some things; but as to the grammar, I think I may challenge any man living. I think, at

If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now enjoyed, he received this addition by the

arrival of an excellent shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table. On which, having

both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their horses, and set forward for London.

They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk of the evening, when a

genteellooking man, but upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going

to London; to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, "I should be obliged to you,

sir, if you will accept of my company; for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones readily

complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding that sort of discourse which is usual on

Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject the stranger expressed great

apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge

could not forbear putting in his word. "Your honour," said he, "may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a

hundredpound banknote in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it; but, for my part, I

never was less afraid in my life; for we are four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in

England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a man can die but once.

Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath raised a certain nation among the

moderns to a high pitch of glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge now

discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.

Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the stranger turned short upon Jones, and

pulling out a pistol, demanded that little banknote which Partridge had mentioned.

Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand; however, he presently recollected himself,

and told the highwayman, all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so saying, he

pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other answered with an oath, That

would not do. Jones answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into his pocket.

The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the banknote that moment, he must shoot him;

holding his pistol at the same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow's hand,

which trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then

ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their

horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him.

The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to say the truth, he was in strength by no

means a match for Jones. "Indeed, sir," says he, "I could have had no intention to shoot you; for you will find

the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to

At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay another person on the ground, roaring for

mercy in a much louder voice than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who,

endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat on his

In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned than for his horses, having secured the

stumbling beast, came up to him, and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.

Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones stood with his sword drawn in his hand

to guard the poor fellow; which Partridge no sooner saw, than he cried out, "Kill the villain, sir, run him

Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more merciful hands; for Jones having examined the

pistol, and found it to be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before Partridge came

up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned,

the greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife lying in of the sixth, in the utmost

want and misery. The truth of all which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince

Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house, which was not above two miles off; saying,

Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word and go with him, declaring that his fate

should depend entirely on the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so much

alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain sentiments of

compassion for him. He returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of

relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the immediate support of his wife and his family;

adding, "he wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been mentioned was not his

Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this action; some may applaud it perhaps as

an act of extraordinary humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a want of regard

to that justice which every man owes his country. Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much

dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he should not wonder if the rogue attacked

The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude. He actually dropt tears, or pretended

so to do. He vowed he would immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit such a

Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without encountering any new mishap. On the

road much pleasant discourse passed between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their last adventure: in

which Jones exprest a great compassion for those highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven, as it

were, to such illegal courses as generally bring them to a shameful death: "I mean," said he, "those only

whose highest guilt extends no farther than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any

person, which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our country, distinguishes the robbers of

England from those of all other nations; for murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to

"No doubt," answered Partridge, "it is better to take away one's money than one's life; and yet it is very hard

upon honest men, that they can't travel about their business without being in danger of these villains. And to

be sure it would be better that all rogues were hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer.

For my own part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of them on my hands; but it is very

proper for the law to hang them all. What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it him?

"No, surely," cries Jones, "no more than there is in him who takes the horses out of another man's stable, or

who applies to his own use the money which he finds, when he knows the right owner."

These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again till Jones, having thrown some sarcastical

jokes on his cowardice, he offered to excuse himself on the inequality of firearms, saying, "A thousand naked

men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell

Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I call, who, over swelling tides of blood and

tears, dost bear the heroe on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but thee, fair, gentle

maid, whom Mnesis, happy nympth, first on the banks of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia

educated, whom Mantua charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud metropolis of Britain,

sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages

yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the

fictitious name of Sophia, she reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from her

sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even

to feed on future praise. Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in which I sit at this

instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box, I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor

And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of imagination cloathe; whom the

wellseasoned beef, and pudding richly stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte, in

some Dutch canal, the fat Jufvrouw Gelt, impregnated by a jolly merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in

Grubstreet school didst thou suck in the clements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer age, taught

poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air;

while tragedy storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its thunders. To soothe thy wearied limbs in

slumber, Alderman History tells his tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs his

surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy wellfed bookseller obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy,

unread, folio lump, which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into numbers, runs nimbly through

the nation. Instructed by thee, some books, like quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while

others turn beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou jolly substance, with thy shining

face, keep back thy inspiration, but hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy quickly

convertible bankbill, big with unseen riches; thy oftenvarying stock; the warm, the comfortable house;

and, lastly, a fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield redundant sustenance for all

her numerous offspring, did not some too greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat. Come

thou, and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm my heart with the transporting thought of

conveying them to others. Tell me, that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent play hath

And now this illyoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance, have prompted me to write, whose

First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we struggle against the stream of nature. Thou

who dost sow the generous seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly take me by the

hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries

which profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no difficult task, to know mankind better than

they know themselves. Remove that mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them to adore men

for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in deceiving others, when they are, in reality, the objects only

of ridicule, for deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of wisdom from selfconceit, of plenty from

avarice, and of glory from ambition. Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy

Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Moliere, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy Marivaux, fill my pages with humour;

till mankind learn the goodnature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility to grieve at their

And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity, bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast

already disposed of them all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while from their bosoms.

Not without these the tender scene is painted. From these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship,

the melting love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft compassion, the candid opinion; and

all those strong energies of a good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing cheeks with

And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure, nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou

guide my pen. Thee in thy favourite fields, where the limpid, gentlyrolling Thames washes thy Etonian

banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have

sacrificed my blood. Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity piled up, pour forth the

rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy

poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the

ponderous chests: give me a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton thou hast entrusted.

Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the learned, and the polite. Nor with them

only, but with every kind of character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his spunginghouse;

from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be

known; to which the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning may be, hath ever been

Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have undertaken; and, without all your

assistance, will, I find, be too heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours, I hope still to bring

The learned Dr. Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him was To Dr. Misaubin, in the World;

intimating that there were few people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps, upon a

very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this circumstance bears no inconsiderable part

The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of which we so delighted ourselves in the

preceding chapter, is the portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our names, as

Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift beyond the power of title and wealth; and is

scarce to be purchased, unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous imputation, while we

yet live, of being one whom nobody knows (a scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer*), will always

be the envied portion of those, who have a legal title either to honour or estate.

From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia to town, hath already made in this

history, the reader will conclude, doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his house in

London without knowing the particular street or square which he inhabited, since he must have been one

whom everybody knows. To say the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are

accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the great are generally no less easy to find than

it is difficult to get entrance into them. But Jones, as well at Partridge, was an entire stranger in London; and

as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of the town, the inhabitants of which have very little intercourse

with the householders of Hanover or Grosvenorsquare (for he entered through Gray'sinnlane), so he

rambled about some time, before he could even find his way to those happy mansions where fortune

segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous heroes, the descendants of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes,

whose ancestors, being born in better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have entailed riches and honour on their

Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields, would now soon have discovered his

lordship's mansion; but the peer unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he was

just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so

that, after a successless inquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the advice of

Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn, that being the inn where he had first alighted, and

where he retired to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his circumstances.

Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many a weary step he took to no better

purpose than before. At last, whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in her power to

disappoint him, he came into the very street which was honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being

The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high idea of the person approaching,

conceived but little better from the appearance of Mr. Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by his

side the weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which, though the blade might be composed of

welltempered steel, the handle was composed only of brass, and that none of the brightest. When Jones,

therefore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town with his lordship, this fellow answered

surlily, "That there were no ladies there." Jones then desired to see the master of the house; but was informed

that his lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon growing more pressing the porter said, "he had

positive orders to let no person in; but if you think proper," said he, "to leave your name, I will acquaint his

Jones now declared, "that he had very particular business with the young lady, and could not depart without

seeing her." Upon which the porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, "that there was no

young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;" adding, "sure you are the strangest man I ever

I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus, the porter of hell, in the 6th AEneid,

Virgil might possibly intend to satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at least, resembles

those who have the honour to attend at the doors of our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to

Cerberus in his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be gained to his master.

Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light, and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to

procure an entrance for Eneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with such a sop. Jones, in like

manner, now began to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus, which a footman overhearing, instantly advanced,

and declared, "if Mr. Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would conduct him to the lady." Jones

instantly agreed, and was forthwith conducted to the lodging of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, by the very fellow who had

Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good. The gamester, who loses his party at

piquet by a single point, laments his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect of

the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to that which wins the great prize, are apt to

account themselves much more unfortunate than their fellowsuffers. In short, these kind of hairbreadth

missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune, who may be considered as thus playing tricks with us,

Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome disposition of the heathen goddess, was

now again doomed to be tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs. Fitzpatrick about ten

minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now addressed himself to the waitingwoman belonging to Mrs.

Fitzpatrick, who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was gone, but could not tell him whither; and

the same answer he afterwards received from Mrs. Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but that

Mr. Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, in pursuit of his daughter, so she was too generous

Though Jones had never seen Mrs. Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a cousin of Sophia was married to a

gentleman of that name. This, however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his memory;

but when the footman, who had conducted him from his lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy

between the ladies, and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the story of the marriage

which he had formerly heard; and as he was presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became

more surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly desired leave to wait on the lady

Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than most who frequent it, was incapable of

any rude or abrupt behaviour to a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he retired for

the present, saying to the waitingwoman, "That if this was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would

return in the afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her." The civility with which he

uttered this, added to the great comeliness of his person, made an impression on the waitingwoman, and she

could not help answering; "Perhaps, sir, you may;" and, indeed, she afterwards said everything to her

mistress, which she thought most likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young

Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her cousin, and was denied to him; which he

imputed to her resentment of what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to procure

him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the door where he thought his angel lay concealed;

but no person did he see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he returned to pay his

There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr.

Jones, as hath been before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met, therefore, with a

reception from the lady, somewhat different from what his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid

The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the particulars of this conversation, which ended

very little to the satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs. Fitzpatrick soon discovered the lover (as all

women have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous friend

of the lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected this was the very Mr. Blifil, from whom Sophia

had flown; and all the answers which she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr. Allworthy's family,

confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any knowledge concerning the place whither

Sophia was gone; nor could Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next evening.

When Jones was departed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion concerning Mr. Blifil to her maid;

who answered, "Sure, madam, he is too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run away

from. I had rather fancy it is Mr. Jones." "Mr. Jones!" said the lady, "what Jones?" For Sophia had not given

the least hint of any such person in all their conversation; but Mrs. Honour had been much more

communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the whole history of Jones, which this now again

Mrs. Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she immediately agreed with the opinion of her

maid; and, what is very unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had overlooked in

the slighted squire. "Betty," says she, "you are certainly in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don't

wonder that my cousin's maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I am sorry now I did not

inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if he be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should

ever see him any more; for what but her ruin can happen from marrying a rake and a beggar against her

father's consent? I protest, if he be such a man as the wench described him to you, it is but an office of charity

to keep her from him; and I am sure it would be unpardonable in me to do otherwise, who have tasted so

Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no other than his lordship; and as nothing

passed at this visit either new or extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall here put an end

When Mrs. Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely taken up by her cousin Sophia and Mr.

Jones. She was, indeed, a little offended with the former, for the disingenuity which she now discovered. In

which meditation she had not long exercised her imagination, before the following conceit suggested itself;

that could she possibly become the means of preserving Sophia from this man, and of restoring her to her

father, she should, in all human probability, by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself both her

As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success seemed so reasonable, that nothing

remained but to consider of proper methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case with

Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty had reported from Mrs. Honour, that Sophia

had a violent inclination to Jones, she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an endeavour of the

same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly to entreat a moth not to fly into a candle.

If the reader will please to remember, that the acquaintance which Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was

contracted at the house of Mrs. Western, and must have grown at the very time when Mrs. Fitzpatrick lived

with this latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted with her

After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the morning to that lady, and endeavour to

see her, unknown to Sophia, and to acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least doubt, but

that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic love, and indiscreet marriages, in her conversation,

would very readily concur in her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend her utmost assistance to

This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning before the sun, she huddled on her cloaths,

and at a very unfashionable, unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to whom she got access,

without the least knowledge or suspicion of Sophia, who, though not asleep, lay at that time awake in her

Mrs. Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early abrupt visit, at an hour when, she said, "she should not

have thought of disturbing her ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence." She then opened the

whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did not forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the

Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, "Then you have seen this terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine

a figure as he is represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with him. The wench, I

believe, is in love with him by reputation." Here the reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs.

Etoff, who had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received compleat information

concerning the said Mr. Jones, and had faithfully conveyed the same to her lady last night (or rather that

morning) while she was undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in her office above the space of

The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the narratives of Mrs. Etoff at those seasons,

gave an extraordinary attention to her account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a very handsome

fellow, and Mrs. Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to the beauty of his person to her report, that Lady

The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who spoke as

much in favour of the person of Jones as she had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character, and

When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely, "Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great

consequence. Nothing can certainly be more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be very glad to

have my share in the preservation of a young lady of so much merit, and for whom I have so much esteem."

"Doth not your ladyship think," says Mrs. Fitzpatrick eagerly, "that it would be the best way to write

The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered "Why, no, madam, I think not. Di Western hath

described her brother to me to be such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power who

hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to his own wife, for he is one of those wretches

who think they have a right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the cause of my sex to

rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under their power. The business, dear cousin, will be only to

keep Miss Western from seeing this young fellow, till the good company which she will have an opportunity

"If he should find out her, madam," answered the other, "your ladyship may be assured he will leave nothing

"But, madam," replied the lady, "it is impossible he should come here though indeed it is possible he may

get some intelligence where she is, and then may lurk about the house I wish therefore I knew his person. Is

there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of him? for, otherwise, you know, cousin, she may

Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered, "That he had threatened her with another visit that afternoon, and that, if her

ladyship pleased to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail of seeing him between

six and seven: and if he came earlier she would, by some means or other, detain him till her ladyship's

arrival." Lady Bellaston replied, "She would come the moment she could get from dinner, which she

supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that it was absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his

person. Upon my word, madam," says she, "it was very good to take this care of Miss Western; but common

humanity, as well as regard to our family, requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match indeed."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the compliment which Lady Bellaston had bestowed on

her cousin, and, after some little immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she could into her

Mr. Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole day, which, though one of the shortest,

appeared to him to be one of the longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck five, he

returned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full hour earlier than the decent time of visiting, received

Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon which Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, "Then, sir, you

know we are related: and, as we are, you will permit me the right of inquiring into the particulars of your

business with my cousin." Here Jones hesitated a good while, and at last answered, "He had a considerable

sum of money of hers in his hands, which he desired to deliver to her." He then produced the pocketbook,

and acquainted Mrs. Fitzpatrick with the contents, and with the method in which they came into his hands.

He had scarce finished his story, when a most violent noise shook the whole house. To attempt to describe

this noise to those who have heard it would be in vain; and to aim at giving any idea of it to those who have

Sic geminant Corybantes aera. The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.

In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones was a little surprized at the sound, having

never heard it before; but Mrs. Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were coming, she could

not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to stay till they were gone, she intimated she had something

The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop sideways before her; entered Lady

Bellaston, who having first made a very low courtesy to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr. Jones, was

We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country ladies of our acquaintance, who think it

The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer lately mentioned, caused a fresh

These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is) extremely brilliant. However, as nothing

past in it which can be thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself, I shall omit the

relation; the rather, as I have known some very fine polite conversation grow extremely dull, when

transcribed into books, or repeated on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a dainty, of which those who are

excluded from polite assemblies must be contented to remain as ignorant as they must of the several dainties

of French cookery, which are served only at the tables of the great. To say the truth, as neither of these are

Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an actor in it; for though, in the short interval

before the peer's arrival, Lady Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs. Fitzpatrick, had addressed some of their

discourse to him; yet no sooner was the noble lord entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of the two

ladies to himself; and as he took no more notice of Jones than if no such person had been present, unless by

The company had now staid so long, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick plainly perceived they all designed to stay out each

other. She therefore resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she thought the least

ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of a cessation of chat, she addressed herself gravely to

him, and said, "Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an answer tonight as to that business; but if you

Jones had natural, but not artificial goodbreeding. Instead, therefore, of communicating the secret of his

lodgings to a servant, he acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and soon after very ceremoniously

He was no sooner gone, than the great personages, who had taken no notice of him present, began to take

much notice of him in his absence; but if the reader hath already excused us from relating the more brilliant

part of this conversation, he will surely be ready to excuse the repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse;

though, perhaps, it may be material to our history to mention an observation of Lady Bellaston, who took her

leave in a few minutes after him, and then said to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, at her departure, "I am satisfied on the

Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take leave of the present company, which was

now reduced to two persons; between whom, as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our reader,

we shall not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from matters which must seem of more consequence to all

Chapter 5. An adventure which happened to Mr. Jones at his lodgings, with some account of a young

gentleman who lodged there, and of the mistress of the house, and her two daughters

The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's door, where he was answered

that the lady was not at home; an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked backwards and

forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had gone out, he must have seen her. This answer,

however, he was obliged to receive, and not only now, but to five several visits which he made her that day.

To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason or other, perhaps from a regard for the

lady's honour, insisted that she should not see Mr. Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any more; and the

lady had complied in making that promise to which we now see her so strictly adhere.

But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the young gentleman than her ladyship, and

may even have some concern, should it be apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from Sophia, he

took up his residence either at an inn, or in the street; we shall now give an account of his lodging, which was

Mr. Jones, then, had often heard Mr. Allworthy mention the gentlewoman at whose house he used to lodge

when he was in town. This person, who, as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bondstreet, was the widow of a

clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in possession of two daughters, and of a compleat set of

Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at

Hither Jones had dispatched Partridge, and in this house he was provided with a room for himself in the

The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen, who, in the last age, were called men of wit

and pleasure about town, and properly enough; for as men are usually denominated from their business or

profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the only business or profession of those gentlemen to whom

fortune had made all useful occupations unnecessary. Playhouses, coffeehouses, and taverns were the

scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were the entertainment of their looser hours, and love was the

business of their more serious moments. Wine and the muses conspired to kindle the brightest flames in their

breasts; nor did they only admire, but some were able to celebrate the beauty they admired, and all to judge of

Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure; but I question whether the same

appellation may, with the same propriety, be given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have the

same ambition to be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they have nothing to do with. To give them their

due, they soar a step higher than their predecessors, and may be called men of wisdom and vertu (take heed

you do not read virtue). Thus at an age when the gentlemen above mentioned employ their time in toasting

the charms of a woman, or in making sonnets in her praise; in giving their opinion of a play at the theatre, or

of a poem at Will's or Button's; these gentlemen are considering the methods to bribe a corporation, or

meditating speeches for the House of Commons, or rather for the magazines. But the science of gaming is

that which above all others employs their thoughts. These are the studies of their graver hours, while for their

amusements they have the vast circle of connoisseurship, painting, music, statuary, and natural philosophy, or

rather unnatural, which deals in the wonderful, and knows nothing of Nature, except her monsters and

When Jones had spent the whole day in vain inquiries after Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate

to his apartment. Here, while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar belowstairs; and

soon after a female voice begged him for heaven's sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never

backward on any occasion to help the distressed, immediately ran downstairs; when stepping into the

diningroom, whence all the noise issued, he beheld the young gentleman of wisdom and vertu just before

mentioned, pinned close to the wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by, wringing her hands,

and crying out, "He will be murdered! he will be murdered!" and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some

danger of being choaked, when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued him, just as he was breathing

Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little gentleman, who had more spirit than

strength, he had made it a kind of scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have contented

himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such respect: he no sooner therefore found

himself a little roughly handled by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the guts

which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphitheatre have such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey

The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he meditated a most grateful return; and now ensued a

combat between Jones and the footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more able to

And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of affairs. The former victor lay

breathless on the ground, and the vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr. Jones for

his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of the young woman present, who was

The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones, and, with a sagacious look, cried "O

dn me, I'll have nothing more to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm dnably mistaken."

And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such was the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was,

perhaps, a match for one of the firstrate boxers, and could, with great ease, have beaten all the muffled*

*Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper to explain it by an advertisement which was

N.B. Mr. Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an academy at his house in the Haymarket,

for the instruction of those who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the whole theory

and practice of that truly British art, with all the various stops, blows, crossbuttocks, incident to combatants,

will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and distinction may not be deterred from

entering into A course of those lectures, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and regard to the

delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil, for which reason muffles are provided, that will

effectually secure them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody noses.

The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip, to which the latter very readily

agreed, on condition of receiving his wages. This condition was presently complied with, and the fellow was

And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very strenuously insisted that his deliverer

should take part of a bottle of wine with him; to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented, though more

out of complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of his mind fitted him very little for conversation at

this time. Miss Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma and sister being both

When the bottle and glasses were on the table, the gentleman began to relate the occasion of the preceding

"I hope, sir," said he to Jones, "you will not from this accident conclude, that I make a custom of striking my

servants, for I assure you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance, and I have passed

by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath

happened this evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come home several hours

before my usual time, when I found four gentlemen of the cloth at whist by my fire; and my Hoyle, sir my

best Hoyle, which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a quantity of porter spilt on one of the most

material leaves of the whole book. This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the rest of the

honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle rebuke, who, instead of expressing any

concern, made me a pert answer, 'That servants must have their diversions as well as other people; that he

was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but that several of his acquaintance had bought

the same for a shilling, and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.' I now gave him a severer

reprimand than before, when the rascal had the insolence to In short, he imputed my early coming home

to In short, he cast a reflection He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner in such a manner

Jones answered, "That he believed no person living would blame him; for my part," said he, "I confess I

Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and daughter, at their return from the

play. And now they all spent a very chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and even

he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. indeed, half his natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the

sweetness of his temper, was sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding the

heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the present occasion, that, at their breaking up,

the young gentleman earnestly desired his further acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well pleased with him; and

the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the other, next morning to breakfast.

Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a very little creature, she was extremely

pretty, and the widow had all the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the most

innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most chearful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor

wished any ill, and had constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest of all desires in

this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her

power was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She had been a most affectionate

wife, and was a most fond and tender mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great characters

to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever be heard of again, the reader may hence conclude,

that this excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our history.

Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself, whose wine he had been drinking. He

thought he discerned in him much good sense, though a little too much tainted with townfoppery; but what

recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity, which occasionally

dropt from him; and particularly many expressions of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On

which subject the young gentleman delivered himself in a language which might have very well become an

Arcadian shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the lips of a modern

fine gentleman; but he was only one by imitation, and meant by nature for a much better character.

Chapter 6. What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with some hints concerning the government

Our company brought together in the morning the same good inclinations towards each other, with which

they had separated the evening before; but poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he had just received

information from Partridge, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick had left her lodging, and that he could not learn whither she

was gone. This news highly afflicted him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in defiance of all his

The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr. Nightingale again expressed many of those

warm, generous, and disinterested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men call romantic, but

which wise and sober women generally regard in a better light. Mrs. Miller (for so the mistress of the house

was called) greatly approved these sentiments; but when the young gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she

answered only, "That she believed the gentleman who had spoke the least was capable of feeling most."

This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should have been sorry had he passed it by

unregarded. He made her indeed a very polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint, that her own

silence subjected to a suspicion of the same kind: for indeed she had scarce opened her lips either now or the

"I am glad, Nanny," says Mrs. Miller, "the gentleman hath made the observation; I protest I am almost of his

opinion. What can be the matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become of all your

gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little pratler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week."

Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a maidservant, who brought a bundle in her hand,

which, she said, "was delivered by a porter for Mr. Jones." She added, "That the man immediately went

Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must be some mistake; but the maid

persisting that she was certain of the name, all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately

opened; which operation was at length performed by little Betsy, with the consent of Mr. Jones: and the

Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these things must have been delivered by mistake;

and Mrs. Miller herself expressed some doubt, and said, "She knew not what to think." But when Mr.

Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. "All I can conclude from it, sir," said he, "is,

that you are a very happy man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady whom you will

Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such flattering imagination; nor did Mrs. Miller

herself give much assent to what Mr. Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the domino, a

Mrs. Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr. Nightingale; nay, Jones himself was almost persuaded

to be of the same opinion. And as no other lady but Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he began

to flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her, and that he might possibly see his Sophia. These

hopes had surely very little foundation; but as the conduct of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in not seeing him according to

her promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had been very odd and unaccountable, he conceived some faint

hopes, that she (of whom he had formerly heard a very whimsical character) might possibly intend to do him

that service in a strange manner, which she declined doing by more ordinary methods. To say the truth, as

nothing certain could be concluded from so odd and uncommon an incident, he had the greater latitude to

draw what imaginary conclusions from it he pleased. As his temper therefore was naturally sanguine, he

indulged it on this occasion, and his imagination worked up a thousand conceits, to favour and support his

Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully repay them by wishing thee to be possessed of

this sanguine disposition of mind; since, after having read much and considered long on that subject of

happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I am almost inclined to fix it in the possession of this

temper; which puts us, in a manner, out of the reach of Fortune, and makes us happy without her assistance.

Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it gives are much more constant, as well as much keener, than those which

that blind lady bestows; nature having wisely contrived, that some satiety and languor should be annexed to

all our real enjoyments, lest we should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt from further pursuits. I make no

manner of doubt but that, in this light, we may see the imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the

archbishop in crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an opposition, more truly happy than those who are

Mr. Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that evening, Mr. Nightingale offered to conduct

him thither. The young gentleman, at the same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the

good woman would not accept them. She said, "she did not conceive the harm which some people imagined

in a masquerade; but that such extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of quality and fortune,

and not for young women who were to get their living, and could, at best, hope to be married to a good

tradesman." "A tradesman!" cries Nightingale, you shan't undervalue my Nancy. There is not a nobleman

upon earth above her merit." "O fie! Mr. Nightingale," answered Mrs. Miller, "you must not fill the girl's

head with such fancies: but if it was her good luck" (says the mother with a simper) "to find a gentleman of

your generous way of thinking, I hope she would make a better return to his generosity than to give her mind

up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young ladies bring great fortunes themselves, they have some

right to insist on spending what is their own; and on that account I have heard the gentlemen say, a man has

sometimes a better bargain with a poor wife, than with a rich one. But let my daughters marry whom they

will, I shall endeavour to make them blessings to their husbands: I beg, therefore, I may hear of no more

masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain, too good a girl to desire to go; for she must remember when you carried

her thither last year, it almost turned her head; and she did not return to herself, or to her needle, in a month

Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to argue some secret disapprobation of

these sentiments, she did not dare openly to oppose them. For as this good woman had all the tenderness, so

she had preserved all the authority of a parent; and as her indulgence to the desires of her children was

restrained only by her fears for their safety and future welfare, so she never suffered those commands which

proceeded from such fears to be either disobeyed or disputed. And this the young gentleman, who had lodged

two years in the house, knew so well, that he presently acquiesced in the refusal.

Mr. Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very desirous of his company that day to

dinner at the tavern, where he offered to introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged to be

To confess the truth, Mr. Jones was now in a situation, which sometimes happens to be the case of young

gentlemen of much better figure than himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a situation in

much greater credit among the antient philosophers, than among the modern wise men who live in

Lombardstreet, or those who frequent White's chocolatehouse. And, perhaps, the great honours which

those philosophers have ascribed to an empty pocket, may be one of the reasons of that high contempt in

Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably on virtue only, be, as the modern wise men

just abovementioned pretend to have discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I apprehend, that

position of some writers of romance, that a man can live altogether on love: for however delicious repasts this

may afford to some of our senses or appetites, it is most certain it can afford none to others. Those, therefore,

who have placed too great a confidence in such writers, have experienced their error when it was too late; and

have found that love was no more capable of allaying hunger, than a rose is capable of delighting the ear, or a

Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set before him, namely, the hopes of seeing

Sophia at the masquerade; on which, however illfounded his imagination might be, he had voluptuously

feasted during the whole day, the evening no sooner came, than Mr. Jones began to languish for some food of

a grosser kind. Partridge discovered this by intuition, and took the occasion to give some oblique hints

concerning the bankbill; and, when these were rejected with disdain, he collected courage enough once more

"Partridge," cries Jones, "you cannot see my fortune in a more desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin

heartily to repent that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to follow me. However, I

insist now on your returning home; and for the expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to

on my account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would take as your own. I am sorry I can

He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge, among whose vices illnature or hardness of

heart were not numbered, burst into tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his distress, he began

with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return home. "For heaven's sake, sir," says he, "do but consider;

what can your honour do? how is it possible you can live in this town without money? Do what you will,

sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved not to desert you. But pray, sir, consider do pray, sir, for your

own sake, take it into your consideration; and I'm sure," says he, "that your own good sense will bid you

"How often shall I tell thee," answered Jones, "that I have no home to return to? Had I any hopes that Mr.

Allworthy's doors would be open to receive me, I want no distress to urge me nay, there is no other cause

upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying to his presence; but, alas! that I am for ever

banished from. His last words were O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears his last words were, when he

gave me a sum of money what it was I know not, but considerable I'm sure it was his last words were 'I

am resolved from this day forward, on no account, to converse with you any more.'

Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment did that of Partridge; but he soon recovered

the use of speech, and after a short preface, in which he declared he had no inquisitiveness in his temper,

inquired what Jones meant by a considerable sum he knew not how much and what was become of the

In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which he was proceeding to comment, when he was

interrupted by a message from Mr. Nightingale, who desired his master's company in his apartment.

When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr. Nightingale had given orders for

chairs to be sent for, a circumstance of distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to many

of my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such readers will reflect a little on what they have

themselves felt from the want of a thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to execute a favourite

scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what Mr. Jones felt on this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he

applied to Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance, and was the last he intended that

poor fellow should advance in his service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer of this kind.

Whether it was that he desired to see the bankbill broke in upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to

Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great Arbiter Deliciarum, the great

highpriest of pleasure, presides; and, like other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended

Mr. Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon left him, and walked off with a female,

Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and these hopes gave him more spirits than

the lights, the music, and the company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen. He now

accosted every woman he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore any resemblance to his angel. To all of

whom he endeavoured to say something smart, in order to engage an answer, by which he might discover that

voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake. Some of these answered by a question, in a

squeaking voice, Do you know me? Much the greater number said, I don't know you, sir, and nothing more.

Some called him an impertinent fellow; some made him no answer at all; some said, Indeed I don't know

your voice, and I shall have nothing to say to you; and many gave him as kind answers as he could wish, but

Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came

up to him, and slapping him on the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear, "If you talk any

Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former companion, he applied to the domino,

begging and entreating her to show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.

The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment before she spoke; and then, instead of

answering him, sat down, and declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still persisted in his

entreaties: at last the lady coldly answered, "I imagined Mr. Jones had been a more discerning lover, than to

suffer any disguise to conceal his mistress from him." "Is she here, then, madam?" replied Jones, with some

vehemence. Upon which the lady cries "Hush, sir, you will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour,

Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the most earnest manner, to acquaint him

where he might find Sophia: and when he could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her gently for

having disappointed him the day before; and concluded, saying, "Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your

majesty very well, notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, it is a little

The mask answered, "Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I must still speak in the same voice,

lest I should be known by others. And do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard for my cousin,

than to assist in carrying on an affair between you two, which must end in her ruin, as well as your own?

Besides, I promise you, my cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own destruction, if you are so much

"Alas, madam!" said Jones, "you little know my heart, when you call me an enemy of Sophia."

"And yet to ruin any one," cries the other, "you will allow, is the act of an enemy; and when by the same act

you must knowingly and certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as well as guilt? Now, sir,

my cousin hath very little more than her father will please to give her; very little for one of her fashion you

Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, "That he would rather suffer the most violent of deaths than

sacrifice her interest to his desires." He said, "he knew how unworthy he was of her, every way, that he had

long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts, but that some strange accidents had made him desirous to

see her once more, when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No, madam," concluded he, "my

love is not of that base kind which seeks its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its object.

I would sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia, but Sophia herself."

Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of the virtue of the lady in the mask;

and though possibly she may hereafter appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her sex; yet, it is

certain, these generous sentiments made a strong impression upon her, and greatly added to the affection she

The lady now, after a silence of a few moments, said, "She did not see his pretensions to Sophia so much in

the light of presumption, as of imprudence. Young fellows," says she, can never have too aspiring thoughts. I

love ambition in a young man, and I would have you cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may

succeed with those who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced there are women but don't

you think me a strange creature, Mr. Jones, to be thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little

acquainted, and one with whose behaviour to me I have so little reason to be pleased?"

Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in anything he had said of her cousin. To

which the mask answered, "And are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a lady

more than by entertaining her with your passion for another woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no

better opinion of your gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the masquerade."

Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but gallantry to the ladies was among his

principles of honour; and he held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if it had been

a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made it necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he

made no doubt but she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the other.

He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when a mask, in the character of an old

woman, joined them. This mask was one of those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent illnature, by

telling people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the phrase is, to spoil as much sport as they are able. This

good lady, therefore, having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well knew, in close consultation

together in a corner of the room, concluded she could nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by interrupting

them. She attacked them, therefore, and soon drove them from their retirement; nor was she contented with

this, but pursued them to every place which they shifted to avoid her; till Mr. Nightingale, seeing the distress

of his friend, at last relieved him, and engaged the old woman in another pursuit.

While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid themselves of the teazer, he observed

his lady speak to several masks, with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced. He

could not help expressing his surprize at this; saying, "Sure, madam, you must have infinite discernment, to

know people in all disguises." To which the lady answered, "You cannot conceive anything more insipid and

childish than a masquerade to the people of fashion, who in general know one another as well here, as when

they meet in an assembly or a drawingroom; nor will any woman of condition converse with a person with

whom she is not acquainted. In short, the generality of persons whom you see here, may more properly be

said to kill time in this place than in any other; and generally retire from hence more tired than from the

longest sermon. To say the truth, I begin to be in that situation myself; and if I have any faculty at guessing,

you are not much better pleased. I protest it would be almost charity in me to go home for your sake." "I

know but one charity equal to it," cries Jones, "and that is to suffer me to wait on you home." "Sure,"

answered the lady, "you have a strange opinion of me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I would

let you into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you impute the friendship I have shown my cousin to some

other motive. Confess honestly; don't you consider this contrived interview as little better than a downright

assignation? Are you used, Mr. Jones, to make these sudden conquests?" "I am not used, madam," said Jones,

"to submit to such sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by surprize, the rest of my body hath a

right to follow; so you must pardon me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go." He accompanied these

words with some proper actions; upon which the lady, after a gentle rebuke, and saying their familiarity

would be observed, told him, "She was going to sup with an acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not

follow her; for if you should," said she, "I shall be thought an unaccountable creature, though my friend

indeed is not censorious: yet I hope you won't follow me; I protest I shall not know what to say if you do."

The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones, notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had

received, presumed to attend her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned before,

namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on

after the chair in which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen present, who wisely

take the best care they can to discountenance all walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry

who attend at the Operahouse were too busy to quit their stations, and as the lateness of the hour prevented

him from meeting many of their brethren in the street, he proceeded without molestation, in a dress, which, at

The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanoversquare, where the door being presently opened, she

Jones and his companion were now together in a very wellfurnished and wellwarmed room; when the

female, still speaking in her masquerade voice, said she was surprized at her friend, who must absolutely

have forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she suddenly exprest some

apprehension from Jones, and asked him what the world would think of their having been alone together in a

house at that time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important a question, Jones began to be very

importunate with the lady to unmask; and at length having prevailed, there appeared, not Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but

It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which consisted of very common and ordinary

occurrences, and which lasted from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention all of it that

is anywise material to this history. And this was a promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia,

and in a few days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he would then take his leave of her.

When this was thoroughly settled, and a second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they

Chapter 8. Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary to most of our readers

Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned Partridge to his presence; and delivering

him a banknote of fifty pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this with sparkling eyes,

though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour

of his master: to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in which his master had gone

out and returned, and his having been abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could

possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader,

unless he should suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly imagine any other.

To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr. Jones, and to do justice to the liberality of the lady, he had really

received this present from her, who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the age, such

as building hospitals, was not, however, entirely void of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I

think) that a young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no improper object of this virtue.

Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs. Miller. At the appointed hour,

therefore, the two young gentlemen, with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from three

till almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her

"I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if you knew the occasion I have been to

see a cousin of mine, about six miles off, who now lies in. It should be a warning to all persons (says she,

looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly. There is no happiness in this world without a

competency. O Nancy! how shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor cousin? she

hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to

her bed, and not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire: her second son, that sweet little fellow,

lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little Tommy!

I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more; for he is really very ill. The rest of the children

are in pretty good health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is but thirteen years old, Mr.

Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and,

what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I

saw her I saw the poor child, Mr. Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes." Here

Mrs. Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and there was not, I believe, a person present

who did not accompany her in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and proceeded thus: "In all this

distress the mother supports her spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon her,

and yet she endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this concern, on her husband's account. Her grief,

however, sometimes gets the better of all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this boy,

and a most sensible, sweettempered creature it is. I protest I was never more affected in my life, than when I

heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears,

beg her to be comforted. 'Indeed, mamma,' cried the child, 'I shan't die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take

Tommy away; let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve with you and my papa, than

go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't help it" (says she, wiping her eyes), "such sensibility and affection in a

child. And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two will, most probably, place him beyond

the reach of all human evils. The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his countenance is

the very picture of horror, and he looks like one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold

at my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his

child and his wife. He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed, to supply the

want of blankets. When he rose up at my entrance, I scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr. Jones, within

this fortnight, as you ever beheld; Mr. Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long

beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail

upon him to eat. He told me himself in a whisper he told me I can't repeat it he said he could not bear to

eat the bread his children wanted. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife has as

good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better. The

means of procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent by an angel from heaven. I know not what he

"This was a lovematch, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two beggars. I must, indeed,

say, I never saw a fonder Tom Jones couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each other?"

"Indeed, mamma," cries Nancy, "I have always looked on my cousin Anderson" (for that was her name) "as

one of the happiest of women." "I am sure," says Mrs. Miller, "the case at present is much otherwise; for any

one might have discerned that the tender consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most intolerable

part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife. Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their

own persons only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two years old, excepted,

feel in the same manner; for they are a most loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be

the happiest people in the world." "I never saw the least sign of misery at her house," replied Nancy; "I am

sure my heart bleeds for what you now tell me." "O child," answered the mother, "she hath always

endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this

absolute ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and

about a week ago, the very day before her lyingin, their goods were all carried away, and sold by an

execution. He sent a letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered. What must he

It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was ended he took Mrs. Miller apart with him

into another room, and, delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of L50, desired her to send as much of

it as she thought proper to these poor people. The look which Mrs. Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not

easy to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cryed out "Good heavens! is there such

a man in the world?" But recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there be another?"

"I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have common humanity; for to relieve such distress in our

fellowcreatures, can hardly be called more." Mrs. Miller then took ten guineas, which were the utmost he

could prevail with her to accept, and said, "She would find some means of conveying them early the next

morning;" adding, "that she had herself done some little matter for the poor people, and had not left them in

They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much concern at the dreadful situation of

these wretches, whom indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs. Miller's. He inveighed

against the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against the

brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate family. "Suppose, madam,"

said he, "you should recommend them to Mr. Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them

Mrs. Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered the generosity of Jones, turned

pale upon the occasion; though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without reason.

For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an example which he had any obligation to follow, and

there are thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did not in effect, for he

made no tender of anything; and therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his

I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity than at present to communicate my

observation, that the world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the very

reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts,

and, however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you acquire a great degree of merit in

so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded that beneficence is a positive duty, and

that whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful

largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and are in

To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only add, that the givers are generally of the

former sentiment, and the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.

Chapter 9. Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the preceding chapter

In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again ensued between them: but as it

consisted only of the same ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we

despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the

papists to their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from desiring to exhibit such

pictures to the public, that I would wish to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain

French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us here under the name of translations.

Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding, after repeated interviews with Lady

Bellaston, no likelihood of obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to treat even the

mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt

but that Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that some of her servants

should be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those

Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor master was at present reduced; for

besides the difficulties he met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having disobliged her,

and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which Sophia had taken against

him, and of her having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient reason to believe might

be true; he had still a difficulty to combat, which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however

kind her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be disinherited of all her father's estate,

the almost inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had no hopes of ever

Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose violent fondness we can no longer

conceal, had heaped upon him; so that by her means he was now become one of the bestdressed men about

town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we have before mentioned, but was actually

Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to their consciences to possess themselves

of the whole fortune of a woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the proprietor of

which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude

only; especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was the unhappy case of Jones; for

though the virtuous love he bore to Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had been

entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to have made any adequate return to the generous

passion of this lady, who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at least into the

autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still

to maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out of season by art, had none of that lively

blooming freshness with which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She had, besides, a

certain imperfection, which renders some flowers, though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be

placed in a wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable to the breath of love.

Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt his obligations full as strongly on the

other; nor did he less plainly discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the extreme

violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse,

he would have thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours were

conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay

the price. This therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself to her, from

that great principle of justice, by which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise

While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following note from the lady:

A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since our last meeting, which makes it improper I

should see you any more , if possible, contrive at the usual place. I will some other place by tomorrow. In

This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very great; but if it was, he was quickly

relieved; for in less than an hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which

I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no stranger to the tenderest of all passions,

you will not wonder at. I am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever may be the

consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad, but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to

If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them show you into the drawingroom.

To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle than he had been with the former, as he was

prevented by it from complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr. Nightingale, with whom he had now

contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his

company to a new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed to

damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a friend to one of Mr. Nightingale's

acquaintance. And this sort of fun, our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred to

Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we think proper to account for both the

preceding notes, as the reader may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady Bellaston, in

First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto met, and who had been for some years a

pensioner to that lady, was now become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her ladyship,

and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had positively declared that she would, on no account,

The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady, made her despair of possibly finding any other

convenience to meet Jones that evening; bit as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at the

disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came into her head to propose to Sophia to go

to the play, which was immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her companion. Mrs.

Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs. Etoff on the same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was

left free for the safe reception of Mr. Jones, with whom she promised herself two or three hours of

uninterrupted conversation, after her return from the place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a

pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she had engaged herself before she

was well apprized of the revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.

Mr. Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs. Miller rapped at his door; and, being

admitted, very earnestly desired his company belowstairs, to drink tea in the parlour.

Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to him, saying, "This, sir, is my cousin,

who hath been so greatly beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his sincerest thanks."

The man had scarce entered upon that speech, which Mrs. Miller had so kindly prefaced, when both Jones

and he, looking stedfastly at each other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the latter

began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, "It is so, I

"Bless me! what's the meaning of this?" cries Mrs. Miller; "you are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a

"Be not frighted, madam," cries Jones, "I have almost as much need of a dram as your cousin. We are equally

surprized at this unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs. Miller."

"Ay, an acquaintance," repeated Jones, "and an honoured acquaintance too. When I do not love and honour

the man who dares venture everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction, may I have

"Oh, you are an excellent young man," cries Mrs. Miller: "Yes, indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured

everything. If he had not had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him."

"Cousin," cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself, "this is the angel from heaven whom I

meant. This is he to whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to whose

generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the

worthiest, bravest, noblest, of all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of such a

"Mention nothing of obligations," cries Jones eagerly; "not a word, I insist upon it, not a word" (meaning, I

suppose, that he would not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). "If, by the trifle you have

received from me, I have preserved a whole family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap."

"Oh, sir!" cries the man, "I wish you could this instant see my house. If any person had ever a right to the

pleasure you mention, I am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with the distress

in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed, and chiefly by your goodness. My children have

now a bed to lie on and they have they have eternal blessings reward you for it! they have bread to

eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my

cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at my house. Indeed my wife must see

you, and thank you. My children too must express their gratitude. Indeed, sir, they are not without a sense

of their obligation; but what is my feeling, when I reflect to whom I owe that they are now capable of

expressing their gratitude. Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now been cold as ice

Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but indeed the overflowing of his own heart

would of itself have stopped his words. And now Mrs. Miller likewise began to pour forth thanksgivings, as

well in her own name, as in that of her cousin, and concluded with saying, "She doubted not but such

Jones answered, "He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your cousin's account, madam," said he, "hath

given me a sensation more pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at hearing

such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of having happily acted a part in this scene! If there

are men who cannot feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them, as they are incapable

of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure, than the

The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a hasty leave, but not before he had

heartily shaken his friend by the hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that he

would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own house. He then stept into his chair, and

proceeded to Lady Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured to this poor family;

nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror, on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them,

had he listened rather to the voice of strict justice, than to that of mercy, when he was attacked on the high

Mrs. Miller sung forth the praise of Jones during the whole evening, in which Mr. Anderson, while he stayed,

so passionately accompanied her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the circumstance of the

robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so

much the greater, as he knew Mrs. Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her principles. He was likewise

well apprized of the loquacity of this lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the better

both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which would have defamed his own character,

rather than omit any circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.

Mr. Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the lady; whose arrival was hindered,

not only by the distance of the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very vexatious to one

in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown into the drawingroom, where he had not been many

minutes before the door opened, and in came no other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the

end of the first act; for this, as we have already said, being a new play, at which two large parties met, the one

to damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement between the two parties, had so

terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman, who safely

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no

one in the room, came hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without once looking

towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless. In this glass it was,

after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said statue; when, instantly turning

about, she perceived the reality of the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved

herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my power. As their sensations, from their

mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I

should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel

After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said "I see, madam, you are surprized." "Surprized!"

answered she; "Oh heavens! Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you seem."

"Indeed," cries she, "my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very wretched

Jones, whom fortune, after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia,

did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit." "Pursuit of whom?" said

Sophia, a little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserve air. "Can you be so cruel to ask that question?"

cries Jones; "Need I say, of you?" "Of me! answered Sophia: "Hath Mr. Jones, then, any such important

business with me?" "To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem an important business" (giving her the

pocketbook), "I hope, madam, you will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took the

pocketbook, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her thus: "Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of

these precious moments which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of a much

superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon." "My pardon!" cries she; "Sure, sir, after what is

past, you cannot expect, after what I have heard." "I scarce know what I say," answered Jones. "By heavens!

I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia! henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as

I am. If any remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to that tender bosom,

think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your

Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and her heart was throbbing through

her stays. But at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce

lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied to

it thus: "O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened there, than I do

myself; but yet do me the justice to think, that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the

folly I was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost of

ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if

my heart had not been engaged, she, into company I accidently fell at that cursed place, was not an object of

serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never intend or desire to

see her again." Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more

coldness than she had yet assumed, "Why," said she, "Mr. Jones, do you take the trouble to make a defence

where you are not accused? If I thought it worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of an unpardonable

nature indeed." "What is it, for heaven's sake?" answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to hear of his

amour with Lady Bellaston. "Oh," said she, "how is it possible! can everything noble, and everything base, be

lodged together in the same bosom?" Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having been kept,

rose again in his mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. "Could I have expected," proceeded Sophia,

"such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in

public; in inns, among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours, that my unguarded heart may have too

lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my

Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but yet, not being guilty, he was much less

embarrassed how to defend himself, than if she had touched that tender string at which his conscience had

been alarmed. By some examination he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an

outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at the inns before landlords

and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very

great difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an offence so foreign to his character; but

she had a great deal to hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, which he more

than once swore he would do. This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with

each other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to give up all thoughts of

him; and she was in a temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were

aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To

which she replied, "That, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin with

him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune with another man." At the mention of the

word ruin, he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his breast with his

own, cried out, "Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest

Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my heart

as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a

distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever

reach and disturb your ears. And when I am dead" He would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears

which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed

them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance; but then recollecting

herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and, to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she

found she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to put to him before,

"How he came into that room?" He began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her

suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.

Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause

of a few moments, recollecting herself with admirable presence of mind, she said though with sufficient

indications of surprize both in voice and countenance "I thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?"

Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had discovered her, yet, as she had

not the least suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very

little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side

against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had

The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of rallying her spirits, and of considering in

what manner to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put

on an air of good humour, and said, "I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had

Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that poor young lady,

having her face overspread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, "I am sure, madam,

I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company" "I hope, at least," cries Lady Bellaston, "I

interrupt no business." "No, madam," answered Sophia, "our business was at an end. Your ladyship may be

pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my pocketbook, which this gentleman, having very

Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels,

playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is

first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the

behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he resolved as

entirely to affect the stranger on his part. He said, "Ever since he had the pocketbook in his possession, he

had used great diligence in inquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day could be

Sophia indeed mentioned the loss of her pocketbook to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or

other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one syllable of what Sophia

now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The

reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though she could not account for the

meeting. between these two lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.

With an affected smile, therefore, she said, "Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very good luck in

recovering your money. Not only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to

discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it advertised. It was great good

"Oh, madam," cries Jones, "it was enclosed in a pocketbook, in which the young lady's name was written."

"That was very fortunate indeed," cries the lady: "And it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at

Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived he had now an opportunity of

satisfying Sophia, as to the question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded

thus: "Why, madam," answered he, "it was by the luckiest chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was

mentioning what I had found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the masquerade, who

told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to her house the next

morning she would inform me. I went according to her appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I

ever meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and

did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I had very particular business, a

servant showed me into this room; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the play."

Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady Bellaston, without any fear of being

remarked my Sophia; for she was visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a little

alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take

the only method of relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he said, believe, madam, it is

customary to give some reward on these occasions; I must insist on a very high one for my honesty; it is,

"Sir," replied the lady, "I make no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of

Jones, then after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia;

who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.

Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs. Honour, who, notwithstanding all she had said against

him, was now so well bred to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky circumstance, is

he communicated to her the house where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted.

The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth: by which it may be fairly

And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to this commendable deviation from

truth, as young women in the affair of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all, the

sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the

honest impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from owning them.

We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the dictates of the abovementioned

right honourable philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the

person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little fibbing.

Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, "Upton my word, a good pretty young fellow; I

"Nor I neither, madam," cries Sophia. "I must say he behaved very handsomely in relation to my note."

"I did not take much notice of him," answered Sophia, "but I thought he seemed rather awkward, and

"You are extremely right," cries Lady Bellaston: "you may see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good

company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question whether

he is a gentleman. I have always observed there is a something in persons well born, which others can

"Nay, sure, madam," answered Sophia, "one can't suspect after what he hath done; besides, if your ladyship

observed him, there was an elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression that, that"

"I confess," said Lady Bellaston, "the fellow hath words And indeed Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed

"Yes, indeed you must," answered she, laughing; "for I had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the

"Yes, I vow I did," answered she. "I can't imagine what put it into my head: for, give the fellow his due, he

was genteely drest; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend."

"This raillery," cries Sophia, "is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my promise to your ladyship."

"Not at all, child," said the lady; "It would have been cruel before; but after you have promised me never

to marry your father's consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little

raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me

you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even

on his dress? I shall begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have dealt

"Indeed, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any concern on his

"On his account!" answered the lady: "You must have mistaken me; I went no farther than his dress; for I

would not injure your taste by any other comparison I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr. Jones had

"Mr. Jones," answered Sophia; and immediately recollecting herself, "Mr. Jones! no, no; I ask your

"O Sophy! Sophy!" cries the lady; "this Mr. Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your head."

"Then, upon my honour, madam," said Sophia, "Mr. Jones is as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman

"Upon my honour," said Lady Bellaston, "I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I

And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would

willingly have tormented her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance called her away. As

for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to

her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship

of her situation, and the necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her

mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by

circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.

Chapter 1. An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having some knowledge of the subject

As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius only, without the least assistance of

learning, perhaps without being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of letters;

the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a

writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness and activity of the imagination,

which is thus weighed down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise it would be

This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far: for why should writing differ so much from all

other arts? The nimbleness of a dancingmaster is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth any

mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot

conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if, instead of being masters of all the learning

their times, they had been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I believe that all the

imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could have produced those orations that have made the senate of

England, in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read in the

writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with

I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero

persuades us is necessary to the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I conceive,

necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art

of Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate heap of plays; and, for the

To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some little knowledge of the subject on which

he treats, according to the old maxim of law, Quam quisque norit artem in ed se exerceat. With this alone a

writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed, without this, all the other learning in the world will

For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have

met all together, and have clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art of dancing: I

believe it will be readily agreed they could not have equalled the excellent treatise which Mr. Essex hath

given us on that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And, indeed, should the excellent Mr.

Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to paper, and to complete the abovesaid rudiments, by delivering down

the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will have any cause to lament, that none of the

great writers, either antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.

To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive,

that one reason why many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper life, may

This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to arrive at. Books will give us a very

imperfect idea of it; nor will the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the former will

almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.

Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported. Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but

they who copy them draw as unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout, or a drum,

in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be

after Nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by conversation, and the manners of every

Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen, like all the rest of the human species, for

nothing, in the streets, shops, and coffeehouse; nor are they shown, like the upper rank of animals, for so

much apiece. In short, this is a sight to which no persons are admitted without one or other of these

qualifications, viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a

gamester. And, very unluckily x , for the world, persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon

themselves the bad trade of writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a

Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and brocades, with vast wigs and hoops;

which, under the name of lords and ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their clerks in

the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the galleries; and which are no more to be found in real

life, than the centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to let my reader into a secret, this

knowledge of upper life, though very necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a writer

whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels, which, like this I am writing, is of the comic class.

What Mr. Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this station, who are, indeed, so entirely made up

of form and affectation, that they have no character at all, at least, none which appears. I will venture to say

the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very little humour or entertainment. The various callings in

lower spheres produce the great variety of humorous characters; whereas here, except among the few who are

engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is vanity and servile

imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking, bowing and courtesying, make up the business of their

Some there are, however, of this rank, upon whom passion exercises its tryanny, and hurries them far beyond

the bounds which decorum prescribes; of these, the ladies are as much distinguished by their noble

intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous

woman of quality is by the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of a yeoman or

shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character; but let not my country readers conclude from her,

that this is the general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them as such. They might

as well suppose that every clergyman was represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.

There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing

their opinion from some ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these times. On the

contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love intrigue carried on among persons of condition, than

now. Our present women have been taught by their mothers to fix their thoughts only on ambition and vanity,

and to despise the pleasures of love as unworthy their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of such

mothers, married without having husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in the justness of those

sentiments; whence they content themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more innocent,

but I am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention of which would ill suit with the dignity of this

history. In my humble opinion, the true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather folly than vice, and

I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When you left the room, I little imagined you

intended to have left the house without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and convinces me

how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon an idiot; though I know not whether I should not

admire her cunning more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood not a word of what

passed between us, yet she had the skill, the assurance, the what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she

knows you, or ever saw you before. Was this a scheme laid between you, and have you been base enough

to betray me? O how I despise her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for I dare not write what I

should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can detest as violently as I have loved.

Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before a second was brought him from the same

When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ, you cannot be surprized at any expressions

in my former note. Yet, perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would, if possible,

think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my

appointment. How easy is it to think in k well of those we love! Perhaps you desire I should think so. I

P.S. Mr. Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence; for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me

To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or the tender letter gave the greatest

uneasiness to Jones. Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening, unless to

one single person. However, he thought his honour engaged, and had not this been motive sufficient, he

would not have ventured to blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had reason to

think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence might be a discovery to Sophia, which he

dreaded. After some discontented walks, therefore, about the room, he was preparing to depart, when the lady

kindly prevented him, not by another letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very disordered in

her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw herself into a chair, where, having recovered her

breath, she said "You see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none. If any

person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have believed it of myself." "I hope, madam,"

said Jones, "my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe anything against one who is so

sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred upon him." "Indeed!" says she, "sensible of obligations!

Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr. Jones?" "Pardon me, my dear angel," said he, "if, after the

letters I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how I have deserved it" "And have I

then," says she, with a smile, "so angry a countenance? Have I really brought a chiding face with me?" "If

there be honour in man," said he, "I have done nothing to merit your anger. You remember the appointment

you sent me; I went in pursuance" "I beseech you," cried she, "do not run through the odious recital.

Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy. Have you not betrayed my honour to her?" Jones fell upon

his knees, and began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came dancing and capering into

the room, like one drunk with joy, crying out, "She's found! she's found! Here, sir, here, she's here Mrs.

Honour is upon the stairs." "Stop her a moment," cries Jones "Here, madam, step behind the bed, I have no

other room nor closet, nor place on earth to hide you in; sure never so damned an accident." "Dn'd

indeed!" said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs.

Honour. "Heyday!" says she, "Mr. Jones, what's the matter? That impudent rascal your servant would

scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath not the same reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton. I

suppose you hardly expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear young lady! To

be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her

a good husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you." Jones begged her only to

whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the next room. "A lady!" cries she; ay, I suppose one of your

ladies. O Mr. Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I believe we are got into the house of one, for

my Lady Bellaston, I darst to say, is no better than she should be." "Hush! hush!" cries Jones, every word is

overheard in the next room." "I don't care a farthing," cries Honour, "I speaks no scandal of any one; but to

be sure the servants make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets men at another place where the

house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing

besides, they say, she hath of her." Here Jones, after expressing the utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her

mouth: "Heyday! why sure, Mr. Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says what I

heard from others and thinks I to myself, much good may it do the gentlewoman with her riches, if she

comes by it in such a wicked manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest." "The servants are

villains," cries Jones, "and abuse their lady unjustly." "Ay, to be sure, servants are always villains, and so

my lady says, and won't hear a word of it." "No, I am convinced," says Jones, "my Sophia is above listening

to such base scandal." "Nay, I believe it is no scandal, neither," cries Honour, "for why should she meet men

at another house? It can never be for any good: for if she had a lawful design of being courted, as to be sure

any lady may lawfully give her company to men upon that account: why, where can be the sense?" "I

protest," cries Jones, "I can't hear all this of a lady of such honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will

distract the poor lady in the next room. Let me entreat you to walk with me down stairs." "Nay, sir, if you

won't let me speak, I have done. Here, sir, is a letter from my young lady what would some men give to

have this? But, Mr. Jones, I think you are not over and above generous, and yet I have heard some servants

say but I am sure you will do me the justice to own I never saw the colour of your money." Here Jones

hastily took the letter, and presently after slipped five pieces into her hand. He then returned a thousand

thanks to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her to leave him to read her letter: she presently departed,

Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe her rage? Her tongue was at first

incapable of utterance; but streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her heart was

all in a flame. And now, as soon as her voice found way, instead of expressing any indignation against

Honour or her own servants, she began to attack poor Jones. "You see," said she, "what I have sacrificed to

you; my reputation, my honour gone for ever! And what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a

country girl, for an idiot." "What neglect, madam, or what slight," cries Jones, "have I been guilty of?"

"Mr. Jones," said she, "it is in vain to dissemble; if you will make me easy, you must entirely give her up; and

as a proof of your intention, show me the letter." "What letter, madam?" said Jones. "Nay, surely," said she,

"you cannot have the confidence to deny your having received a letter by the hands of that trollop.""And

can your ladyship," cries he, "ask of me what I must part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such

a manner by your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent girl to you, what security could

you have that I should not act the same part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you,

that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be the most contemptible of wretches.""Very

well," said she "I need not insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own opinion; for the

inside of the letter could inform me of nothing more than I know already. I see the footing you are upon."

Here ensued a long conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious, will thank me for not inserting at

length. It shall suffice, therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more pacified, and at

length believed, or affected to believe, his protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that evening was

merely accidental, and every other matter which the reader already knows, and which as Jones set before her

in the strongest light, it is plain that she had in reality no reason to be angry with him.

She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to

the clearest reason, when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed, well convinced that

Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's affections; and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she

submitted at last to bear the second place; or, to express it more properly in a legal phrase, was contented

It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at the house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the

servants, would place these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself would be considered as the

This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones, who was indeed glad to have a prospect

of seeing his Sophia at any rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the imposition on Sophia,

The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after proper ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned

Jones was no sooner alone, than he eagerly broke open his letter, and read as follows:

Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you left this house; and as I have reason to think

you intend coming here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she tells me she knows your

lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by all the regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for it

will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some things which have dropt from her ladyship, that

she is not already without some suspicion. Something favourable, perhaps, may happen; we must wait with

patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have any concern for my ease, do not think of returning hither.

This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones, which job formerly received from his

friends. Besides disappointing all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he was

reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston; for there are some certain engagements,

which, as he well knew, do very difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after the strict

prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human power. At length, after much deliberation,

which during that night supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself sick: for this suggested

itself as the only means of failing the appointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more

The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed

in one to Honour. He then despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the abovementioned excuse;

I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more concerned for the occasion; take great care of

yourself, and have the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger. I am so tormented all this morning

P.S. I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine. Be sure to be alone.

Mr. Jones now received a visit from Mrs. Miller, who, after some formal introduction, began the following

speech: "I am very sorry, sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will consider the ill

consequence which it must be to the reputation of my poor girls, if my house should once be talked of as a

house of illfame. I hope you won't think me, therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any

more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had struck two before one of them went away." "I do assure

you, madam," said Jones, "the lady who was here last night, and who staid the latest (for the other only

brought me a letter), is a woman of very great fashion, and my near relation." "I don't know what fashion

she is of," answered Mrs. Miller; "but I am sure no woman of virtue, unless a very near relation indeed,

would visit a young gentleman at ten at night, and stay four hours in his room with him alone; besides, sir, the

behaviour of her chairmen shows what she was; for they did nothing but make jests all the evening in the

entry, and asked Mr. Partridge, in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with his master all

night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr. Jones,

upon your own account; nay, I have a very high obligation to you for your generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I

did not know how very good you had been till lately. Little did I imagine to what dreadful courses the poor

man's distress had driven him. Little did I think, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you had given them

to a highwayman! O heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you preserved this family! The

character which Mr. Allworthy hath formerly given me of you was, I find, strictly true. And indeed, if I had

no obligation to you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his account, I should show you the utmost

respect in my power. Nay, believe me, dear Mr. Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation were out of

the case, I should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young gentleman should converse with these

women; but if you are resolved to do it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for I do not myself like to

have such things carried on under my roof; but more especially upon the account of my girls, who have little,

heaven knows, besides their characters, to recommend them." Jones started and changed colour at the name

of Allworthy. "Indeed, Mrs. Miller," answered he, a little warmly, "I do not take this at all kind. I will never

bring any slander on your house; but I must insist on seeing what company I please in my own room; and if

that gives you any offence, I shall, as soon as I am able, look for another lodging." "I am sorry we must part

then, sir," said she; "but I am convinced Mr. Allworthy himself would never come within my doors, if he had

the least suspicion of my keeping an ill house." "Very well, madam," said Jones. "I hope, sir," said she,

"you are not angry; for I would not for the world offend any of Mr. Allworthy's family. I have not slept a

wink all night about this matter." "I am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam," said Jones, "but I beg you

will send Partridge up to me immediately"; which she promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy

As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most outrageous manner. "How often," said he, "am I

to suffer for your folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours resolved upon my

destruction?" "What have I done, sir?" answered affrighted Partridge. "Who was it gave you authority to

mention the story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?" "I, sir?" cries Partridge.

"Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in denying it," said Jones. "If I did mention such a matter," answers

Partridge, "I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have opened my lips, if it had not been to his own

friends and relations, who, I imagined, would have let it go no farther." "But I have a much heavier charge

against you," cries Jones, "than this. How durst you, after all the precautions I gave you, mention the name of

Mr. Allworthy in this house?" Partridge denied that he ever had, with many oaths. "How else," said Jones,

"should Mrs. Miller be acquainted that there was any connexion between him and me? And it is but this

moment she told me she respected me on his account." "O Lord, sir," said Partridge, "I desire only to be heard

out; and to be sure, never was anything so unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own how wrong. fully

you have accused me. When Mrs. Honour came downstairs last night, she met me in the entry, and asked me

when my master had heard from Mr. Allworthy; and to be sure Mrs. Miller heard the very words; and the

moment Madam Honour was gone, she called me into the parlour to her. 'Mr. Partridge,' says she, 'what Mr.

Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman mentioned? is it the great Mr. Allworthy of Somersetshire?' 'Upon my

word, madam,' says I, 'I know nothing of the matter.' 'Sure,' says she, 'your master is not the Mr. Jones I have

heard Mr. Allworthy talk of?' 'Upon my word, madam,' says I, 'I know nothing of the matter.' 'Then,' says she,

turning to her daughter Nancy, says she, 'as sure as tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he agrees

exactly with the squire's description.' The Lord above knows who it was told her: for I am the arrantest villain

that ever walked upon two legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when I

am desired. Nay, sir, so far was I from telling her anything about Mr. Allworthy, that I told her the very direct

contrary; for, though I did not contradict it at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they say, are best, so

when I came to consider that somebody must have informed her, thinks I to myself, I will put an end to the

story; and so I went back again into the parlour some time afterwards, and says I, upon my word, says I,

whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman was Mr. Jones; that is, says I, that this Mr. Jones was that Mr.

Jones, told you a confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention any such matter, says I; for my

master, says I, will think I must have told you so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned

any such word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have been thinking with myself ever since,

how it was she came to know it; not but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who

looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to

pass by an old woman without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for all the world shall

never persuade me but that they have a great power to do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old

woman again, but I shall think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem."

The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end to his anger, which had indeed seldom

any long duration in his mind; and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he intended presently

Chapter 4. Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of both sexes

Partridge had no sooner left Mr. Jones, than Mr. Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted a great

intimacy, came to him, and, after a short salutation, said, "So, Tom, I hear you had company very late last

night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been in town above a fortnight, and can keep

chairs waiting at your door till two in the morning." He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of the

same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, "I suppose you have received all this information from

Mrs. Miller, who hath been up here a little while ago to give me warning. The good woman is afraid, it

seems, of the reputation of her daughters." "Oh! she is wonderfully nice," says Nightingale, "upon that

account; if you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the masquerade." "Nay, upon my honour, I

think she's in the right of it," says Jones: "however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent Partridge to

look for another lodging." "If you will," says Nightingale, "we may, I believe, be again together; for, to tell

you a secret, which I desire you won't mention in the family, I intend to quit the house today." "What, hath

Mrs. Miller given you warning too, my friend?" cries Jones. "No," answered the other; "but the rooms are not

convenient enough. Besides, I am grown weary of this part of the town. I want to be nearer the places of

diversion; so I am going to Pallmall." "And do you intend to make a secret of your going away?" said Jones.

"I promise you," answered Nightingale, "I don't intend to bilk my lodgings; but I have a private reason for not

taking a formal leave." "Not so private," answered Jones; "I promise you, I have seen it ever since the second

day of my coming to the house. Here will be some wet eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her, faith!

Indeed, Jack, you have played the fool with that girl. You have given her a longing, which I am afraid

nothing will ever cure her of." Nightingale answered, "What the devil would you have me do? would you

have me marry her to cure her?" "No," answered Jones, "I would not have had you make love to her, as you

have often done in my presence. I have been astonished at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it."

"Pugh, see it!" cries Nightingale. "What the devil should she see?" "Why, see," said Jones, "that you have

made her daughter distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal it a moment; her eyes are never

off from you, and she always colours every time you come into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for she

seems to be one of the bestnatured and honestest of human creatures." "And so," answered Nightingale,

"according to your doctrine, one must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with women, for fear

they should fall in love with us." "Indeed, Jack," said Jones, "you wilfully misunderstand me; I do not fancy

women are so apt to fall in love; but you have gone far beyond common gallantries." "What, do you

suppose," says Nightingale, "that we have been abed together?" "No, upon my honour, answered Jones, very

seriously, "I do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will go farther, I do not imagine you have laid a regular

premeditated scheme for the destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even foreseen the

consequence: for I am sure thou are a very goodnatured fellow, and such a one can never be guilty of a

cruelty of that kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own vanity, without considering that this

poor girl was made a sacrifice to it; and while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour, you have

actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the most serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack,

answer me honestly; to what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of happiness arising from

violent and mutual fondness? all those warm professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did

you imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you intend she should?" "Upon my

soul, Tom," cries Nightingale, "I did not think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I

suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?" "No," cries Jones, "may I be dn'd if

"Lookee, Mr. Nightingale," said Jones, "I am no canting hypocrite, nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity,

more than my neighbours. I have been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I have ever

injured any. Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself, be knowingly the cause of misery to any human

"Well, well," said Nightingale, "I believe you, and I am convinced you acquit me of any such thing."

"I do, from my heart," answered Jones, "of having debauched the girl, but not from having gained her

"If I have," said Nightingale, "I am sorry for it; but time and absence will soon wear off such impressions. It

is a receipt I must take myself; for, to confess the truth to you I never liked any girl half so much in my

whole life; but I must let you into the whole secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a

woman I never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my addresses to her."

At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when Nightingale cried "Nay, prithee, don't turn me

into ridicule. The devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy! Oh! Jones, Jones, I

"I heartily wish you had," cries Jones; "for, if this be the case, I sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't

"I would not," answered Nightingale, "undergo the pain of taking leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I

am convinced, instead of answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor Nancy the

more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it today, and in the evening, or tomorrow

Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as he had determined and was obliged to

leave her, he took the most prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to lodge in the

same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed between them, that Nightingale should procure him

either the ground floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman himself was to occupy that which

This Nightingale, of whom, we shall be presently obliged to say a little more, was in the ordinary transactions

of life a man of strict honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one of strict

honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in his morals; not that he was even here as void of

principle as gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it is certain he had been guilty of some

indefensible treachery to women, and had, in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many deceits,

which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted the greatest villain upon earth.

But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this treachery in a better light, he was so far

from being ashamed of his iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often boast of his skill in

gaining of women, and his triumphs over their hearts, for which he had before this time received some

rebukes from Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to the fair part of the

species, who, if considered, he said, as they ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be

cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a

conquest of which a man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.

Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In

the afternoon, he received an invitation from Mrs. Miller to drink tea; for that good woman, having learnt,

either by means of Partridge, or by some other means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with

Mr. Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an angry manner.

Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the teakettle removed, and the girls sent out of the room,

than the widow, without much preface, began as follows: "Well, there are very surprizing things happen in

this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business that I should have a relation of Mr. Allworthy in my house

and never know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a friend that best of gentlemen hath

been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I did not long

since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches, two destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the

"You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by letting lodgings, I was born and bred a

gentlewoman. My father was an officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up to his

pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death, became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us

had the good luck to die soon after of the smallpox; a lady was so kind as to take the second out of charity,

as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of this lady had been a servant to my grandmother; and, having

inherited a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was married to a gentleman of

great estate and fashion. She used my sister so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth and poverty,

calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she at length broke the heart of the poor girl. In short,

she likewise died within a twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to provide better for me, and

within a month from his decease I was married to a clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before,

and who had been very ill used by my father on that account: for though my poor father could not give any of

us a shilling, yet he bred us up as delicately, considered us, and would have had us consider ourselves, as

highly as if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all this usage, and the moment we

were become fatherless, he immediately renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always liked,

and now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did I live in a state of perfect happiness

with that best of men, till at last Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived me of the

kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest parent. O my poor girls! you never know the blessing

which ye lost.I am ashamed, Mr. Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall never mention him without

tears." "I ought rather, madam," said Jones, "to be ashamed that I do not accompany you." "Well, sir,"

continued she, "I was now left a second time in a much worse condition than before; besides the terrible

affliction I was to encounter, I had now two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than

ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr. Allworthy, who had some little acquaintance with my

husband, accidentally heard of my distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it is; I put it

into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I must and will read it to you.

"I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your own good sense, and the excellent lessons

you must have learnt from the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice which I am

capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will

suffer any immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your duty to those poor infants,

"However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of much worldly consideration, you will

pardon my having ordered a person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg you will

"This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the irreparable loss I have mentioned; and within a

fortnight afterwards, Mr. Allworthy the blessed Mr. Allworthy came to pay me a visit, when he placed me

in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of

L50 ayear upon me, which I have constantly received ever since. judge, then, Mr. Jones, in what regard I

must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake

alone my life is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr. Jones (since I must esteem one for

whom I know Mr. Allworthy hath so much value), if I beg you not to converse with these wicked women.

You are a young gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry with me, sir, for what I

said upon account of my house; you must be sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir,

you cannot but be acquainted, that Mr. Allworthy himself would never forgive my conniving at such matters,

"Upon my word, madam," said Jones, "you need make no farther apology; nor do I in the least take anything

ill you have said; but give me leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr. Allworthy, to deliver

you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether for his honour; I do assure you, I am no

"Alas! sir," answered she, "I know you are not, I know very well who you are; for Mr. Allworthy hath told

me all; but I do assure you, had you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard for

you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise

you no good person will esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr. Jones, the words 'dishonourable birth'

are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to say, unless the word 'dishonourable' be applied to the parents;

for the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they are intirely innocent."

Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, "Since I perceive, madam, you really do know me, and Mr.

Allworthy hath thought proper to mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as to

your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances concerning myself." And these Mrs.

Miller having expressed great desire and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history,

There a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they give an easy credit to each other. Mrs.

Miller believed all which Jones told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She was

beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for, as the hour of assignation now drew nigh,

he began to stipulate for a second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should be the last

at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one of great distinction, and that nothing but what was

intirely innocent was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep his word.

Mrs. Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his chamber, where he sat alone till twelve

As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as it must have appeared that she really had

so, the reader may perhaps wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him to be

confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to require such visits. This behaviour, therefore,

in the lady, may, by some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our business is only to

Mr. Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night; not owing to any uneasiness which he

conceived at being disappointed by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking hours

were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was

one of the bestnatured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called compassion, and which

distinguishes this imperfect character from that noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within

himself, and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without being once stopped by the

calamities which happen to others. He could not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy,

whose love for Mr. Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her

mother, who had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of

her daughter, "who from being," she said, "one of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden,

Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now as if he had already been a deity, as the

antients imagined, and an offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dearbought conquest. To speak simply,

and without any metaphor, Mr. Jones slept till eleven the next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued

Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter, answered, "That there was a dreadful

hurricane belowstairs; that Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were both

crying and lamenting over her." Jones expressed much concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to

relieve, by saying, with a smile, "He fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for that Susan" (which

was the name of the maid) "had given him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In

short," said he, "Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it

seems, and so sat down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the Foundling

Hospital." "Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting," cries Jones. "Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of

mirth? Go immediately to Mrs. Miller, and tell her I beg leave Stay, you will make some blunder; I will go

myself; for she desired me to breakfast with her." He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he could; and

while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth

certain pieces of brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than he

walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour,

which was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs. Miller was in the inner room with

her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to Mr. Jones, "That her mistress hoped he would

excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it impossible for her to have the

pleasure of his company at breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up notice sooner."

Jones desired, "She would give herself no trouble about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he

was heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any service to her, she might command him."

He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs. Miller, who heard them all, suddenly threw open the door, and

coming out to him, in a flood of tears, said, "O Mr. Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men alive. I

give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to

preserve my poor girl.O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined forever!" "I hope, madam," said

Jones, "no villain" "O Mr. Jones!" said she, "that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my

poor girl; hath destroyed her. I know you are a man of honour. You have a gooda noble heart, Mr. Jones.

The actions to which I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay,

indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain,

hath undone my daughter. She is she is is oh! Mr. Jones, my girl is with child by him; and in that condition

he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if such another monster

As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will be no less shocking to you, than it is to me,

I have taken this method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately paying my addresses to a

young lady of fortune, whom he hath provided for myI need not write the detested word. Your own good

understanding will make you sensible, how intirely I am obliged to an obedience, by which I shall be forever

excluded from your dear arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her with the unhappy

consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a secret from the world, and for which I will take care to

provide, as I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I nave suffered; but summon all your

fortitude to your assistance, and forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain ruin

could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you

When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a minute, looking at each other; at last he began

thus: "I cannot express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me beg you, in one

particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the reputation of your daughter." "It is gone, it is lost, Mr.

Jones," cryed she, "as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a room full of company, and

immediately swooning away upon opening it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of

her reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she hath attempted twice to destroy herself

already; and though she hath been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I myself outlive

any accident of that nature. What then will become of my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor

little wretch will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees her sister and myself

distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause. O 'tis the most sensible, and bestnatured little thing! The

barbarous, cruel hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this the reward of all my cares? Is this the

fruit of all my prospects? Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother? Have I been

so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education? Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself

even the conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to lose one or both in such a

manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Jones, with tears in his eyes, "I pity you from my soul." "O! Mr. Jones,"

answered she, "even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no idea of what I feel. The

best, the kindest, the most dutiful of children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my

eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from

her beauty, I owe her ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her. I thought it

an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so

much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe

and encourage these hopes by the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he hath always

directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed to be real. Could I have believed that these

were only snares laid to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?" At these words little

Betsy came running into the room, crying, "Dear mamma, for heaven's sake come to my sister; for she is in

another fit, and my cousin can't hold her." Mrs. Miller immediately obeyed the summons; but first ordered

Betsy to stay with Mr. Jones, and begged him to entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic

Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort the little girl, though he was, in reality,

himself very highly affected with Mrs. Miller's story. He told her "Her sister would be soon very well again;

that by taking on in that manner she would not only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too."

"Indeed, sir," says she, "I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I would burst my heart rather

than they should see me cry. But my poor sister can't see me cry. I am afraid she will never be able to see

me cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her; indeed I can't. And then poor mamma too, what will become

of her? She says she will die too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won't be left behind." "And are you not

afraid to die, my little Betsy?" said Jones. "Yes," answered she, "I was always afraid to die; because I must

have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not afraid of going anywhere with those I love."

Jones was so pleased with this answer' that he eagerly kissed the child; and soon after Mrs. Miller returned,

saying, "She thanked heaven, Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy," says she, "you may go in,

for your sister is better, and longs to see you." She then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for

"I hope, madam," said Jones, "I shall have a more exquisite repast than any you could have provided for me.

This, I assure you, will be the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But whatever success

may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt it. I am very much deceived in Mr. Nightingale, if,

notwithstanding what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom, as well as a very

violent affection for your daughter. If this be the case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will

affect him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as you can. I will go instantly in

Mrs. Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven upon Mr. Jones; to which she

afterwards added the most passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr. Nightingale, and

the good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat cheared at what her mother told her;

The good or evil we confer on others, very often, I believe, recoils on ourselves. For as men of a benign

disposition enjoy their own acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are scarce

any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing injuries, without paying themselves some pangs

Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary, Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting

melancholy by the fire, and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed poor Nancy. He

no sooner saw his friend appear, than he arose hastily to meet him; and after much congratulation said,

"Nothing could be more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the spleen in my life."

"I am sorry," answered Jones, "that I bring news very unlikely to relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must,

of all other, shock you the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further preface, then, I

come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy family, which you have involved in misery and ruin." Mr.

Nightingale changed colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded, in the liveliest

manner, to paint the tragical story with which the reader was acquainted in the last chapter.

Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered violent emotions at many parts of it.

But when it was concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, "What you tell me, my friend, affects me in

the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her

reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret; and then

the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such things happen in this town: and if the husband

should suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his

"Indeed, my friend," answered Jones, "this could not have been the case with your poor Nancy. You have so

intirely gained her affections, that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which afflicts her, and will

end in the destruction of her and her family." "Nay, for that matter, I promise you," cries Nightingale, "she

hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to be, will have very little share in them."

"And is it possible, then," said Jones, "you can think of deserting her?" "Why, what can I do?" answered the

other. "Ask Miss Nancy," replied Jones warmly. "In the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely

think she ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone, and not yours, ought to

be your sole consideration. But if you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less," cries Jones, "than

fulfil the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since I

first saw you together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with, moved

as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether you

have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an opinion, that

you designed honourably: and if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I

"Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted," said Nightingale; "but I am afraid even that very

promise you mention I have given." "And can you, after owning that," said Jones, "hesitate a moment?"

"Consider, my friend," answered the other; "I know you are a man of honour, and would advise no one to act

contrary to its rules; if there were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her disgrace, think of such

an alliance with honour?" "Undoubtedly," replied Jones, "and the very best and truest honour, which is

goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind, you will give me leave to examine it. Can

you with honour be guilty of having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family, and of

having by these means treacherously robbed her of her innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the

wilful occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you, with honour, destroy the

fame, the peace, nay, probably, both the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the thought, that

this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on

you, who dies for you; who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence hath

sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such contemplations as these a moment?"

"Common sense, indeed," said Nightingale, "warrants all you say; but yet you well know the opinion of the

world is so contrary to it, that, was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever showing

"Fie upon it, Mr. Nightingale!" said Jones, "do not call her by so ungenerous a name: when you promised to

marry her, she became your wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And what is this

world, which you would be ashamed to face, but the vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say

such a shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false honour as its shadow. But I am

well assured there is not a man of real sense and goodness in the world, who would not honour and applaud

the action. But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my friend, applaud it? And do not the

warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent

action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly

before your eyes. On the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the arms of her wretched

mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather

than accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to your imagination the circumstance

of her fond bespairing parent, driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely daughter.

View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas,

consider yourself as the cause of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On the other side,

consider yourself, as relieving them from their temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what

transports that lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to her pale cheeks, her fire to her

languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness of all.

Think of this little family made by one act of yours completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am

mistaken in my friend, if it requires any long deliberation, whether he will sink these wretches down for ever,

or, by one generous, noble resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the highest pitch

of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do

That the misery from which you will relieve these poor people, is the misery which you yourself have

"O, my dear friend!" cries Nightingale, "I wanted not your eloquence to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my

soul, and would willingly give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed between us. Nay,

believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter,

which hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult but my own, I

would marry her tomorrow morning: I would, by heaven! but you will easily imagine how impossible it

would be to prevail on my father to consent to such a match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and

"I have not the honour to know your father," said Jones; "but, suppose he could be persuaded, would you

yourself consent to the only means of preserving these poor people?" "As eagerly as I would pursue my

happiness," answered Nightingale: "for I never shall find it in any other woman. O, my dear friend! could

you imagine what I have felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she would not

engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have

fully satisfied them: could my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be wanting to

"Then I am resolved to undertake it," said Jones. "You must not be angry with me, in whatever light it may be

necessary to set this affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid from him: for

things of this nature make a quick progress when once they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already.

Besides, should any fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless immediately prevented,

the public would ring of your name in a manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend

him. If you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not lose a moment in the

business; which, while I pursue, you cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl.

You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given of the wretchedness of the family."

Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having acquainted Jones with his father's

lodging, and the coffeehouse where he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,

"My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew my father, you would never think of

obtaining his consent. Stay, there is one way suppose you told him I was already married, it might be

easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my honour, I am so affected with what you

have said, and I love my Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the

Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then separated, Nightingale, to visit his

Chapter 8. What passed between Jones and old Mr. Nightingale; with the arrival of a person not yet

Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the divinity of fortune, and the opinion of

Seneca to the same purpose; Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of them, expressly holds the

contrary; and certain it is, there are some incidents in life so very strange and unaccountable, that it seems to

Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr. Nightingale the elder in so critical a minute,

that Fortune, if she was really worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived such

another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of the young lady whom he intended for his son, had been

hard at it for many hours; and the latter was just now gone, and had left the former delighted with the

thoughts that he had succeeded in a long contention, which had been between the two fathers of the future

bride and bridegroom; in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and, as it not rarely happens in such

This gentleman, whom Mr. Jones now visited, was what they call a man of the world; that is to say, a man

who directs his conduct in this world as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to make

the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade; but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had

lately declined his business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in goods, to dealing only

in money, of which he had always a plentiful fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to make

a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of private men, and sometimes of those of the public.

He had indeed conversed so intirely with money, that it may be almost doubted whether he imagined there

was any other thing really existing in the world; this at least may be certainly averred, that he firmly believed

The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled out a more improper person for Mr. Jones

to attack with any probability of success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a more

As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts, so the moment he saw a stranger within

his doors, it immediately occurred to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to bring him money,

or to fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable

Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present; for as a young gentleman had visited him

the day before, with a bill from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of Jones, that he was

come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no sooner told him that he was come on his son's account,

than the old gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an exclamation, "That he would

lose his labour." "Is it then possible, sir," answered Jones, "that you can guess my business?" "If I do guess

it," replied the other, "I repeat again to you, you will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one of those

sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his destruction? but I shall

pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had

imagined otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be instrumental in the ruin of

nobody." "How, sir," said Jones, "and was this lady of your providing?" "Pray, sir," answered the old

gentleman, "how comes it to be any concern of yours?" "Nay, dear sir," replied Jones, "be not offended that

I interest myself in what regards your son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was

upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the satisfaction you have given me by what

you say; for I do assure you, your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour. Nay, sir, it is not easy

to express the esteem I have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide

such a match for your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him one of the happiest men upon earth."

There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good liking, as having conceived some

alarm at their first appearance; when once those apprehensions begin to vanish, we soon forget the fears

which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our present ease to those very persons who at

Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no demand on him, as he suspected,

than he began to be pleased with his presence. "Pray, good sir," said he, "be pleased to sit down. I do not

remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before; but if you are a friend of my son, and have

anything to say concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy, it will

be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty, in taking care of the main article. She will bring

him a fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy." "Undoubtedly" cries Jones, "for

she is in herself a fortune; so beautiful, so genteel, so sweettempered, and so welleducated; she is indeed a

most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and hath a most delicate hand at the harpsichord." "I

did not know any of these matters," answered the old gentleman, "for I never saw the lady: but I do not like

her the worse for what you tell me; and I am the better pleased with her father for not laying any stress on

these qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his understanding. A silly fellow would

have brought in these articles as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he never mentioned any

such matter; though to be sure they are no disparagements to a woman." "I do assure you, sir," cries Jones,

"she hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I was afraid you might have been a little

backward, a little less inclined to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the lady; therefore I

came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you, as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse

to his match with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have mentioned, but many more." "If

that was your business, sir," said the old gentleman, "we are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly

easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her fortune." "Sir," answered Jones, "I honour you

every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is a proof of the

soundness of your understanding, as well as the nobleness of your mind.""Not so very moderate, young

gentleman, not so very moderate," answered the father. "Still more and more noble," replied Jones; "and

give me leave to add, sensible: for sure it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole foundation

of happiness. Such a woman as this with her little, her nothing of a fortune" "I find," cries the old

gentleman, "you have a pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better acquainted with the

person of the lady than with her circumstances. Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have?"

"What fortune?" cries Jones, "why, too contemptible a one to be named for your son." "Well, well, well,"

said the other, "perhaps he might have done better." "That I deny," said Jones, "for she is one of the best of

women." "Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean," answered the other. "And yet, as to that now, how much

do you imagine your friend is to have?" "How much?" cries Jones, "how much? Why, at the utmost, perhaps

L200." "Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?" said the father, a little angry. "No, upon my soul,"

answered Jones, "I am in earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I

ask her pardon." "Indeed you do," cries the father; "I am certain she hath fifty times that sum, and she shall

produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son." "Nay," said Jones, "it is too late to talk of

consent now; if she had not fifty farthings, your son is married." "My son married!" answered the old

gentleman, with surprize. "Nay," said Jones, "I thought you was unacquainted with it." "My son married to

Miss Harris!" answered he again. "To Miss Harris!" said Jones; "no, sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter

of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings"

"Are you bantering, or are you in earnest?" cries the father, with a most solemn voice. "Indeed, sir," answered

Jones, "I scorn the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I find true,

that your son had never dared to acquaint you with a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune,

While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a gentleman came into the room, and

But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they were in their dispositions almost the

opposites to each other. The brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he no sooner

saw himself worth L6000 than he purchased a small estate with the greatest part of it, and retired into the

country; where he married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who, though she had

neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she

With this woman he had, during twentyfive years, lived a life more resembling the model which certain

poets ascribe to the golden age, than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times. By her he

had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity, except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language,

he and his wife had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and fondness, which she

returned to such a degree, that she had actually refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little

The young lady whom Mr. Nightingale had intended for his son was a near neighbour of his brother, and an

acquaintance of his niece; and in reality it was upon the account of his projected match, that he was now

come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother from a purpose which he conceived would

inevitably ruin his nephew; for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the

largeness of her fortune, as neither her person nor mind seemed to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity:

for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and very illnatured.

His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew with Miss Miller, than he exprest the

utmost satisfaction; and when the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence of

"If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love your son for his sake or for your own.

You would answer, I suppose, and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his happiness

"Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always appeared to me very absurd, and to insist

on doing this, very tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an error. And if this be

absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends intirely on the

"I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire to chuse for their children on this

occasion; since to force affection is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I know

not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in our natures, it may not be even impatient

"It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think, wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this

occasion; and, in strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew, therefore, I own, in

marrying, without asking your advice, hath been guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you

not a little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on this subject given him a moral

certainty of your refusal, where there was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present

anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his duty here, did you not as much exceed

that authority, when you absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom you

yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen and known as well as I, it must have been madness in you to

"Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without

your consent, in a matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in which his interest is

principally concerned; you yourself must and will acknowledge, that you consulted his interest only, and if he

unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion of happiness, will you, brother, if you

love your son, carry him still wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his simple

choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to him, which may accidentally prove so? In a

word, brother, because he hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as you would,

By the force of the true Catholic faith, St. Anthony won upon the fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little

farther, and by the charms of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but neither history

nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath

Mr. Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his brother, contented himself with only

observing, that they had always differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their children. "I

wish," said he, "brother, you would have confined your care to your own daughter, and never have troubled

yourself with my son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by your example." For young

Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had

Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after much persuasion, they found the father

grew still more and more irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his nephew at the house

At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs greatly altered from what they had been in at

his departure. The mother, the two daughters, and young Mr. Nightingale, were now sat down to supper

together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced without any ceremony into the company, to all of

whom he was well known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that house.

The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and wished her joy, as he did afterwards

the mother and the other sister; and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the same good

humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal or superior in fortune, with all the previous

Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked rather foolish than otherwise upon this

occasion; but Mrs. Miller took the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into the

diningroom, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel,

the preserver of her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing appellations, and made him

every acknowledgment which the highest benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.

After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she declared, if she had not vented, would have

burst her, she proceeded to inform Mr. Jones that all matters were settled between Mr. Nightingale and her

daughter, and that they were to be married the next morning; at which Mr. Jones having expressed much

pleasure, the poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at length with difficulty

silenced, and prevailed on her to return with him back to the company, whom they found in the same good

This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours together, in which the uncle, who was a very

great lover of his bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not drunk, began to be

somewhat flustered; and now Mr. Nightingale, taking the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment

"As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as you have shown such unparalleled

goodness in forgiving this match, which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never forgive

myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything." He then confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.

"How, Jack?" said the old gentleman, "and are you really then not married to this young woman?" "No, upon

my honour," answered Nightingale, "I have told you the simple truth." "My dear boy," cries the uncle, kissing

him, "I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was better pleased in my life. If you had been married, I should

have assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad matter; but there is a great

difference between considering a thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do.

Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in so foolish and preposterous a light, that

there will be no need of any dissuasive arguments." "How, sir?" replies young Nightingale, "is there this

difference between having already done an act, and being in honour engaged to do it?" "Pugh!" said the

uncle, "honour is a creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a creator over it, and may

govern and direct it as they please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought;

even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more

backward in giving you his sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more

backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these engagements." "Pardon me, dear sir," cries

Nightingale, "I can never think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are concerned. I am

well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I

should look upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of all methods, by breaking

her heart." "Break her heart, indeed! no, no, Jack," cries the uncle, "the hearts of women are not so soon

broke; they are tough, boy, they are tough." "But, sir," answered Nightingale, "my own affections are

engaged, and I never could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that children

should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?" "Why,

ay," replied the old gentleman, "so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse wisely. Indeed,

Jack, you must and shall leave the girl." "Indeed, uncle," cries the other, "I must and will have her." "You

will, young gentleman!" said the uncle; "I did not expect such a word from you. I should not wonder if you

had used such language to your father, who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance

which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with you upon an equal footing, might surely

expect better usage: but I know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous education, in

which I have had too little share. There is my daughter, now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never

doth anything without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her." "You have never yet given

her advice in an affair of this kind," said Nightingale; "for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would

be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her inclinations." "Don't abuse my

girl," answered the old gentleman with some emotion; "don't abuse my Harriet. I have brought her up to have

no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit

of being pleased to do whatever I like." Pardon me, sir," said Nightingale, "I have not the least design to

reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her

to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me. But, dear sir, let us return to

the company; for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle,

which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her mother." "Oh! you need not fear me,"

answered he, "I understand myself too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour; and in

return I must expect another of you." "There are but few of your commands, sir," said Nightingale, "which I

shall not very chearfully obey." "Nay, sir, I ask nothing," said the uncle, "but the honour of your company

home to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the

satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in his opinion,

Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his father, submitted to attend him home, and

then they both returned back into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carty himself with the same

The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet in the minds of all whom they had

left behind them; and the more, as, during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated his

voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible alteration in all their faces; and the

good humour which, at their last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now changed

into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate,

This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for as they were all now endeavouring to

conceal their own thoughts, and to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be spectators

of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did

the mother or daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit satisfaction

Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole attention of two friends being engaged in

the part which each is to act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the arts practised

against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes

From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be overreached in a bargain, though the one

must be always the greater loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in payment.

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off his nephew; but not before the latter

had assured Miss Nancy, in a whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all his

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did indeed suspect the very fact; for,

besides observing the great alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and his

overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom from his bride at that time of night was so

extraordinary a proceeding, that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young Nightingale had

revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor,

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these poor people with his suspicion, the

maid of the house informed him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him. He went immediately out,

and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs. Honour,

acquainted him with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all consideration for

every other person; and his whole stock of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own

What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we have first related the many preceding

There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that virtue is the certain road to happiness, and

vice to misery, in this world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have but one

Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal virtues, which like good housewives stay

at home, and mind only the business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point; for so surely

do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and

modern sages, to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue; for, with regard to this life,

no system, I conceive, was ever wiser than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to constitute

the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites, those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the

But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain relative quality, which is always busying itself

withoutdoors, and seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I cannot so easily

agree that this is the surest way to human happiness; because I am afraid we must then include poverty and

contempt, with all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea

of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since

I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation, as here seems opening upon me; my

design was to wipe off a doctrine that lay in my way; since, while Mr. Jones was acting the most virtuous part

imaginable, in labouring to preserve his fellowcreatures from destruction, the devil, or some other evil

spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely miserable in the ruin

This, therefore, would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it was a rule; but as we have in our

voyage through life seen so many other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it is

founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are convinced is not true, and which is indeed

destructive of one of the noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of immortality.

But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and hungry, we shall provide to feed it as

I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, "When children are doing nothing, they are doing

mischief." I will not enlarge this quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general; but so far I

may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage

and fury, we may suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and attempting to undermine,

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all the smiles which she wore in her

countenance, concealed much indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young lady stood

between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she resolved to get rid of her by some means other; nor

was it long before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented itself to her.

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown into that consternation at the

playhouse, by the wit and humour of a set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed

him, that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who had very safely conducted her to

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than once seen Sophia there, since her

arrival in town, and had conceived a very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more

amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that he might now, without any great

It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an occasion of improving his acquaintance

with the beloved object as now offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have prompted

The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia, with the usual compliments, and hopes

As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a flame, Sophia in a very short time

compleated her conquest. Time now flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in

company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had made too long a visit. Though this

circumstance alone would have alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at

present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of her lover of what past within his

bosom; nay, though he did not make any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were

rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence, even in the age when such

complacence was in fashion; the very reverse of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.

Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first arrival; and the length of it very well

satisfied her, that things went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time she saw this

young couple together. This business, she rightly, I think, concluded, that she should by no means 'forward by

mixing in the company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants, that when my lord was

going, they should tell him she desired to speak with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating

how best to accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would very readily embrace the

Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no sooner introduced to her ladyship, than

she attacked him in the following strain: "Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my servants had

made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see you about an affair of some importance."

"Indeed, Lady Bellaston," said he, "I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my visit; for I have

staid above two hours, and I did not think I had staid above halfaone." "What am I to conclude from

thence, my lord?" said she. "The company must be very agreeable which can make time slide away so very

deceitfully." "Upon my honour," said he, "the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston,

who is this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a sudden?" "What blazing star, my

lord?" said she, affecting a surprize. "I mean," said he, "the lady I saw here the other day, whom I had last

night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been making that unreasonable visit." "O, my

cousin Western!" said she; "why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire, and

hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first time." "Upon my soul," said he, "I should swear she had

been bred up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so genteel, so sensible, so polite.""O

brave!" cries the lady, "my cousin hath you, I find." "Upon my honour," answered he, "I wish she had; for

I am in love with her to distraction." "Nay, my lord," said she, "it is not wishing yourself very ill neither,

for she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and her father's estate is a good L3000

ayear." "Then I can assure you, madam," answered the lord, "I think her the best match in England."

"Indeed, my lord," replied she, "if you like her, I heartily wish you had her." "If you think so kindly of me,

madam," said he, "as she is a relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her father?" "And

are you really then in earnest?" cries the lady, with an affected gravity. "I hope, madam," answered he, "you

have a better opinion of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an affair of this kind."

"Indeed, then," said the lady, "I will most readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe,

assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention;

and yet it is one you will never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I blush

to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever be able to conquer." "Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,"

cries he, "you have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of being." "Fie, my lord," said

she, "I should rather hope I had struck fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather

imagined you would have asked your rival's name, that you might have immediately entered the lists with

him." "I promise you, madam," answered he, "there are very few things I would not undertake for your

charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?" "Why, he is," said she, "what I am sorry to say most

happy men with us are, one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a fellow

in meaner circumstances than one of your lordship's footmen." "And is it possible," cried he, "that a young

creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so unworthily?" "Alas! my lord," answered

she, "consider the country the bane of all young women is the country. There they learn a set of romantic

notions of love, and I know not what folly, which this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a

whole winter." "Indeed, madam," replied my lord, "your cousin is of too immense a value to be thrown away;

such ruin as this must be prevented." "Alas!" cries she, "my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have

already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think, intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her.

And to deal more openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with him." "What you tell me,

Lady Bellaston," answered his lordship, "affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of

lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath

your ladyship endeavoured to reason with her?" Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, "My dear lord, sure

you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman out of her inclinations? These inestimable

jewels are as deaf as the jewels they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure their folly; but this

is a medicine which I am certain she will not take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. In short,

nothing but violent methods will do." "What is to be done?" cries my lord; "what methods are to be taken?

Is there any method upon earth? Oh! Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such

a reward." "I really know not," answered the lady, after a pause; and then pausing again, she cried out

"Upon my soul, I am at my wit's end on this girl's account. If she can be preserved, something must be done

immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods will do. If your lordship hath really this attachment

to my cousin (and to do her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which she will soon see her folly, she is

every way deserving), I think there may be one way, indeed it is a very disagreeable one, and what I am

almost afraid to think of. It requires a great spirit, I promise you." "I am not conscious, madam," said he, "of

any defect there; nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an egregious defect indeed, which could

make me backward on this occasion." "Nay, my lord," answered she, "I am so far from doubting you, I am

much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such

a confidence in your honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on any consideration." In this

point likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did

him no more than justice, in speaking well of him. "Well, then," said she, "my lord, I I vow, I can't bear the

apprehension of it. No, it must not be. At least every other method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your

engagements, and dine here today? Your lordship will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss

Western. I promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady Betty, and Miss Eagle, and

Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all go soonand I shall be at home to nobody. Then your

lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some method to convince you of her attachment to

this fellow." My lord made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they parted to dress, it

being now past three in in the morning, or to reckon by the old style, in the afternoon.

Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a member (and no inconsiderable

one) of the great world; she was in reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which

appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society which not long since flourished in this

Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there was one very remarkable; for, as it

was a rule of an honourable club of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the members

should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that every member should, within the twentyfour hours,

tell at least one merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren and sisterhood.

Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain quality may be, perhaps not unjustly,

supposed to have come from the society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he sat in

person in an elbowchair at the upper end of the table; but, upon very strict inquiry, I find there is not the

least truth in any of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of very good sort of people,

and the fibs which they propagated were of a harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good

Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper

instrument for her purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever the lady gave him

her cue; and this was not to be till the evening, when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were

To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we will convey our reader; when Lady

Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of their

rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, "I protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable

lately; you used to tell us all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than if you lived

Mr. Edwards then began as follows: "The fault is not mine, madam: it lies in the dulness of the age, that doth

nothing worth talking of. O la! though now I think on't, there hath a terrible accident befallen poor Colonel

Wilcox. Poor Ned. You know him, my lord, everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned

His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had killed? To which Edwards answered, "A

young fellow we none of us know; a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near

relation of one Mr. Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a

coffeehouse. Upon my soul, he is one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!"

Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was killed, stopt her hand, and listened

with attention (for all stories of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter part of the

story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a

The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was

summoned, and Sophia at last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at her earnest desire,

led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth,

attempted to carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated assurances, that neither his

lordship nor Tom, though she had taught him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.

There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how justly the case had been represented

to him by Lady Bellaston; and now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two noble

persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and

faithfully resolved too, to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage), yet many of

The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia

should be alone, and his lordship should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for the

purpose, most of the servants dispatched out of the house; and for Mrs. Honour, who, to prevent suspicion,

was to be left with her mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to engage her in an

apartment as distant as possible from the scene of the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.

Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with

a project, of which she had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually to remove

Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with Jones, by a means of which she should never

appear to be guilty, even if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of preventing by

huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at

But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other conspirator; his mind was tost in all the

Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the first hint of this design, especially as it

came from a relation of the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the action itself in all

its natural black colours before his eyes, with all the consequences which must, and those which might

probably attend it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the other side; and after a long

conflict, which lasted a whole night, between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he

Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia sitting by her bedside, when the

servant acquainted her that Lord Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him to

stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no sooner departed than poor Sophia began to

intreat her cousin not to encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a little unjustly)

upon her account. "I see his design," said she; "for he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I

am resolved never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together any more, and to order the

"La! child," says Lady Bellaston, "you country girls have nothing but sweethearts in your head; you fancy

every man who is civil to you is making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows about town, and I

am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make love to you indeed! I wish with all my heart he

"But I shall certainly be that mad woman," cries Sophia, "I hope his visits shall not be intruded upon me."

"O child!" said Lady Bellaston, "you need not be so fearful; if you resolve to run away with that Jones, I

"Upon my honour, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship injures me. I will never run away with any man; nor

"Well, Miss Western," said the lady, "if you are not in a humour to see company this morning, you may retire

to your own apartment; for I am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him up into my

Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently afterwards Fellamar was admitted upstairs.

Chapter 4. By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she applies her eloquence to

When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's scruples, she treated them with the same disdain with which one

of those sages of the law, called Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young witness. "My

dear lord," said she, "you certainly want a cordial. I must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie

upon it! have more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or are you apprehensive? Well! if the

story of Helen was modern, I should think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of the

lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is another story of the Sabine ladies and that too, I thank

heaven, is very antient. Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading; but I think Mr. Hook tells us, they

made tolerable good wives afterwards. I fancy few of my married acquaintance were ravished by their

husbands." "Nay, dear Lady Bellaston," cried he, "don't ridicule me in this manner." "Why, my good lord,"

answered she, "do you think woman in England would not laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she

might wear in her countenance? You force me to use a strange kind of language, and to betray my sex

most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to

serve my cousin; for I think you will make her a husband notwithstanding this; or, upon my soul, I would not

even persuade her to fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not upbraid me hereafter with having

Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this kind from a wife or a mistress, declare

whether they are at all sweetened by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk deeper into his

lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero could have said on the occasion.

Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord's pride, began now, like a true orator, to rouse other

passions to its assistance. "My Lord," says she, in a graver voice, "you will be pleased to remember, you

mentioned this matter to me first; for I would not appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put

off my cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need of an advocate to recommend

them." "Nor doth Miss Western," said he, "require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion,

no woman ever had half her charms." "Yes, yes, my lord," replied the lady, looking in the glass, there have

been women with more than half her charms, I assure you; not that I need lessen her on that account: she is a

most delicious girl, that's certain; and within these few hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth

not deserve her, though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a man of spirit."

"I hope so, madam," said my lord; "though I must own he doth not deserve her; for, unless heaven or your

"Well spoken, my lord," answered the lady; "I promise you no disappointment shall happen from my side;

and within this week I am convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public."

The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses, and compliments, very pleasant to have

heard from the parties; but rather dull when related at second hand. Here, therefore, shall put an end to this

dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything was prepared for the destruction of poor Sophia.

But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall treat it in a chapter by itself.

Chapter 5. Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may surprize, the reader

The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy, sat reading a tragedy. It was the

Fatal Marriage; and she was now come to that part where the poor distrest Isabella disposes of her

Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into her bosom. In this situation she had

continued a minute, when the door opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at his

entrance; and his lordship advancing forwards, and making a low bow, said, "I am afraid, Miss Western, I

break in upon you abruptly." "Indeed, my lord," says she, "I must own myself a little surprized at this

unexpected visit." "If this visit be unexpected, madam," answered Lord Fellamar, "my eyes must have been

very faithless interpreters of my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely you could not

otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your possession, without receiving a visit from its owner."

Sophia, confused as she was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think) with a look of inconceivable

disdain. My lord then made another and a longer speech of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling,

said, "Am I really to conceive your lordship to be out of your senses? Sure, my lord, there is no other excuse

for such behaviour." "I am, indeed, madam, in the situation you suppose," cries his lordship; "and sure you

will pardon the effects of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned; for love hath so totally deprived me

of reason, that I am scarce accountable for any of my actions." "Upon my word, my lord," said Sophia, "I

neither understand your words nor your behaviour." "Suffer me then, madam," cries he, "at your feet to

explain both, by laying open my soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you to the highest degree of

distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature! what language can express the sentiments of my heart?" "I

do assure you, my lord," said Sophia, "I shall not stay to hear any more of this." "Do not," cries he, "think of

leaving me thus cruelly; could you know half the torments which I feel, that tender bosom must pity what

those eyes have caused." Then fetching a deep sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes

in a strain which would be little more pleasing to the reader than it was to the lady; and at last concluded with

a declaration, "That if he was master of the world, he would lay it her feet." Sophia then, forcibly pulling

away her hand from his, answered with much spirit, "I promise you, sir, your world and its master I should

spurn from me with equal contempt." She then offered to go; and Lord Fellamar, again laying hold of her

hand, said, "Pardon me, my beloved angel, freedoms which nothing but despair could have tempted me to

take. Believe me, could I have had any hope that my title and fortune, neither of them inconsiderable,

unless when compared with your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the humblest manner, presented

them to your acceptance. But I cannot lose you. By heaven, I will sooner part with my soul! You are, you

must, you shall be only mine." "My lord," says she, "I intreat you to desist from a vain pursuit; for, upon my

honour, I will never hear you on this subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from you this

moment; nor will I ever see you more." "Then, madam," cries his lordship, "I must make the best use of this

moment; for I cannot live, nor will I live without you." "What do you mean, my lord?" said Sophia; "I will

raise the family." "I have no fear, madam," answered he, "but of losing you, and that I am resolved to prevent,

the only way which despair points to me." He then caught her in his arms: upon which she screamed so

loud, that she must have alarmed some one to her assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all

But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise now broke forth, which almost

drowned her cries; for now the whole house rang with, "Where is she? Dn me, I'll unkennel her this

instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know she's in the house, and I'll see her if she's

aboveground. Show me where she is." At which last words the door flew open, and in came Squire

How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the enraged voice of her father was

welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident upon earth

Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father's voice; and his lordship, notwithstanding his

passion, knew the voice of reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the perpetration

of his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach, and hearing likewise whose it was (for as the squire

more than once roared forth the word daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of her struggling, cried out upon her

father), he thought proper to relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and with his rude

If the reader's imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able to describe the situation of these two

persons when Western came into the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat disordered, pale,

breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her

His lordship sat down near her, the bag of his wig hanging over one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress

being somewhat disordered, and rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at his bosom. As

As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an enemy, which very frequently pursues,

and seldom fails to overtake, most of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally speaking,

drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his

running immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue in the most inveterate

manner; nay, he had probably committed violence with his hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, "For

heaven's sake, sir, animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let me beg you to mitigate your

wrath; it should minister a fulness of satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to revenge, it

belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you

will forgive her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return unto her duty."

The strength of the parson's arms had at first been of more service than the strength of his rhetoric. However,

his last words wrought some effect, and the squire answered, "I'll forgee her if she wull ha' un. If wot ha' un,

Sophy, I'll forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak? Shat ha' un! dn me, shat ha' un! Why dost unt answer?

"Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate," said the parson; "you frighten the young lady so, that

"Power of mine a," answered the squire. "You take her part then, you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side

with an undutiful child! Yes, yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I'll gee un to the devil sooner."

"I humbly crave your pardon," said the parson; "I assure your worship I meant no such matter."

My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who no sooner saw her, than, resolving

to follow the instructions of his sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid her some of

his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded to his complaints, and said, "There, my lady cousin;

there stands the most undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and won't marry one of

"Indeed, cousin Western," answered the lady, "I am persuaded you wrong my cousin. I am sure she hath a

better understanding. I am convinced she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much to her

This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr. Western meant; though perhaps

"Do you hear there," quoth the squire, "what her ladyship say? All your family are for the match. Come,

"If my death will make you happy, sir," answered Sophia, "you will shortly be so."

"Indeed, Miss Western"' said Lady Bellaston, "you injure your father; he hath nothing in view but your

interest in this match; and I and all your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to your family in

"Ay, all of us," quoth the squire; "nay, it was no proposal of mine. She knows it was her aunt proposed it to

me first. Come, Sophy, once more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent before your

"Let me give him your hand, cousin," said the lady. "It is the fashion nowadays to dispense with time and

"Pugh!" said the squire, "what signifies time; won't they have time enough to court afterwards? People may

As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady Bellaston, so, never having heard nor

suspected a word of Blifil, he made no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up, therefore, to the

squire, he said, "Though I have not the honour, sir, of being personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the

happiness to have my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in behalf of the young lady, that she may not

"Sir, I am Lord Fellamar," answered he, "and am the happy man whom I hope you have done the honour of

"You are a son of a b," replied the squire, "for all your laced coat. You my soninlaw, and be dn'd to

"I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man," answered the lord; "but I must inform you that I am not

"Resent my a," quoth the squire. "Don't think I am afraid of such a fellow as thee art! because hast got a

spit there dangling at thy side. Lay by your spit, and I'll give thee enough of meddling with what doth not

"It's very well, sir," said my lord, "I shall make no disturbance before the ladies. I am very well satisfied.

His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr. Western, said, "Bless me, sir, what

have you done? You know not whom you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune, and

yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as I am sure you must accept with the highest pleasure."

"Answer for yourself, lady cousin," said the squire, "I will have nothing to do with any of your lords. My

daughter shall have an honest country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her and she shall ha' un. I

am sorry for the trouble she hath given your ladyship with all my heart." Lady Bellaston made a civil speech

upon the word trouble; to which the squire answered "Why, that's kind and I would do as much for your

ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one another. So I wish your ladyship a good night. Come,

madam, you must go along with me by fair means, or I'll have you carried down to the coach."

Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a chair, for she said she should not be

"Prithee," cries the squire, "wout unt persuade me canst not ride in a coach, wouldst? That's a pretty thing

surely! No, no, I'll never let thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise thee." Sophia told

him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. "O break thy heart and be dn'd," quoth he, "if a good

husband will break it. I don't value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of any undutiful b upon earth." He then

took a violent hold of her hand; upon which the parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle

methods. At that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson hold his tongue, saying, "At'nt in pulpit

now? when art a got up there I never mind what dost say; but I won't be priestridden, nor taught how to

behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good night. Come along, Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be

Mrs. Honour appeared belowstairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire offered to attend her mistress; but

he pushed her away, saying, "Hold, madam, hold, you come no more near my house." "And will you take my

maid away from me?" said Sophia. "Yes, indeed, madam, will I," cries the squire: "you need not fear being

without a servant; I will get you another maid, and a better maid than this, who, I'd lay five pounds to a

crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy, she shall contrive no more escapes, I promise

you." He then packed up his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he mounted

himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and

entertained himself with reading a lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his

It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady

desired to have detained her; but, in reality, she was not a little pleased with the confinement into which

Sophia was going; and as her project with Lord Fellamar had failed of success, she was well contented that

Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more unaccountable appearances than this of

Mr. Western, without any satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever it is in our power,

we shall now proceed to show by what method the squire discovered where his daughter was.

In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for it is not our custom to unfold at any time

more than is necessary for the occasion) that Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of reconciling her uncle

and aunt Western, thought she had a probable opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from

committing the same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family. After much deliberation,

therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the

following letter, which we shall give the reader at length, for more reasons than one.

The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of

one of her nieces, though I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of another.

Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at your feet, I met, by the strangest

accident in the world, my cousin Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself, though,

alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she

is in danger of running into the same fatal mischief which, by foolishly and ignorantly refusing your most

In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most Part of yesterday in his company, and a charming young fellow

I promise you he is. By what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you now; but I have

this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth

not yet know where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath secured her. No time

therefore is to be lost; and I need only inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,

and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family. You know, madam, she is a strange woman;

but nothing could misbecome me more, than to presume to give any hint to one of your great understanding

and great knowledge of the world, besides barely informing you of the matter of fact.

I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the good of my family, will recommend me

again to the favour of a lady who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true interest of us all;

and that it may be a means of restoring me to your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former,

Mrs. Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided ever since the flight of Sophia, in order

to administer comfort to the poor squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him in daily

She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff in her hand, dealing forth this daily

allowance of comfort to the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received the above letter;

which she had no sooner read than she delivered it to him, saying, "There, sir, there is an account of your lost

sheep. Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by my advice, it is possible you

The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a

loud huzza for joy. He then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the Chevalier and

several other horses to be saddled, and that parson Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this,

he turned to his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace, saying, "Zounds! you don't seem

"Brother," answered she, "the deepest politicians, who see to the bottom, discover often a very different

aspect of affairs, from what swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less desperate than

they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a

delicacy required in this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want. There is a decorum

to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world,

"Sister," cries the squire, "I know you have no opinion of my parts; but I'll shew you on this occasion who is

a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge of

warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever I can find it. Shew me my own

daughter, and if I don't know how to come at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be

"I protest," cries she, "you make me tremble for the event of this matter, which, if you will proceed by my

advice, you may bring to so good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a woman of

figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As

soon as you arrive in town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother, you have none at

present fit to appear in), you must send your compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her.

When you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have told her your story, and have made

proper use of my name (for I think you just know one another only by sight, though you are relations), I am

confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is the

only method. Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of figure in a

"Dn their figures," cries the squire; "a pretty civilised nation, truly, where women are above the law. And

what must I stand sending a parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a daughter from

her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so ignorant as you think me I know you would have

women above the law, but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is above the law. But this

"Mr. Western," said she, "I think you daily improve in ignorance. I protest you are grown an arrant bear."

"No more a bear than yourself, sister Western," said the squire. "Pox! you may talk of your civility an you

will, I am sure you never show any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though I know somebody,

that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I will show you I have got more good manners than some

"Mr. Western," answered the lady, "you may say what you please, je vous mesprise de tout mon coeur.* I

shall not therefore be angry. Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly says, I have that

regard for the honour and true interest of my family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I

have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed, indeed, brother you are not a fit minister

to be employed at a polite court. Greenland Greenland should always be the scene of the tramontane

"I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. You are got to your Hanoverian linguo.

However, I'll shew you I scorn to be behindhand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what I have

said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed, I have always thought it a folly for relations to

quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my part, I

never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to London; for I never was there but twice in my

life, and then I did not stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected to know much of the

streets and the folks in that time. I never denied that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to

dispute that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare

sitting, with me." "Which I promise you," says she, "I never will." "Well, and I promise you," returned he,

Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady) between the contending parties; and now

the parson arriving, and the horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to follow her

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they both agreed that the prescribed

formalities might very well be dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in the

Affairs were in the aforesaid situation, when Mrs. Honour arrived at Mrs. Miller's, and called Jones out from

the company, as we have before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:

"O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am

undone." "Hath anything happened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All that is bad," cries

Honour: "Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!" At these words

Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on "O! Mr. Jones, I have lost my

lady for ever." "How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!" "You may well call her so," said

Honour; "she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place." "Dn your place!" cries

Jones; "where is what what is become of my Sophia?" "Ay, to be sure," cries she, "servants may be

dn'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To

be sure they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what becomes of

them." "If you have any pity, and compassion," cries Jones, "I beg you will instantly tell me what hath

happened to Sophia?" "To be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me," answered Honour; "I

don't dn you because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure, you are worthy to be pitied,

and I am worthy to be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress" "What hath happened?"

cries Jones, in almost a raving fit. "What? What?" said Honour: "Why, the worst that could have happened

both for you and for me. Her father is come to town, and hath carried ied away from us both." Here Jones

fell on his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. "No worse!" repeated Honour; "what could be worse

for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry Mr. Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for

poor me, I am turned out of doors." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour," answered Jones, "you frightened me out of my

wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia; something, compared to

which, even seeing her married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear

Honour. Women, in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal force." "To be sure, sir," said she,

that's true. There may be some hopes for you; but alackaday! what hopes are there for poor me? And to be

sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for

taking your part, as I have done, against Mr. Blifil." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour," answered he, "I am sensible of

my obligations to you, and will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends." "Alas! sir," said

she, "what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place but the getting another altogether as good?"

"Do not despair, Mrs. Honour," said Jones, "I hope to reinstate you again in the same." "Alackaday, sir,"

said she, "how can I flatter myself with such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so

set against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I now hopes heartily you will; for you

are a generous, goodnatured gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you as dearly

as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted

with my lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people who loves one another

a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady

has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the pity in the world to keep two

such loviers asunder; nay, I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is to be, there

is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To

be sure I wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the squire of his wickedness in

endeavouring to force his daughter contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the squire; and

so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings

behind the squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face. To be sure I never saw him make

so bold as just now; I was afeard the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be

melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are sure of my lady, and that I am certain

you may be; for she never will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed, I am terribly afeared

the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared

too the poor lady will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tenderhearted as a chicken. It is pity,

methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock

me up, I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him; but then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her

father's power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference."

Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or whether it was for want of any vacancy

in the discourse, I cannot determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once stop till

Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that the great lady was upon the stairs.

Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour knew nothing of any

acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world

to whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is common enough) the worst

course, and, instead of exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to

expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the

The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his poor landlady and her family, the

terrors occasioned by Mrs. Honour, and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of

Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head; so that it never once occurred to his

memory to act the part of a sick man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness of his

He received her ladyship, therefore, rather agreeably to her desires than to her expectations, with all the good

humour he could muster in his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the least disorder.

Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself down on the bed: "So, my dear Jones,"

said she, "you find nothing can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I have

neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your distemper would have suffered you to come

abroad: nay, I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see company after

a lyingin; but, however, don't think I intend to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold

"Nay, Lady Bellaston," said Jones, "I am sure your ladyship will not upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I

only waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment, last

"Do not mention it, my dear Mr. Jones," cried she. "If you knew the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it

is impossible to conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of fools, in

order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you

no harm; for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this instant sit for the

There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can properly be answered only by a blow.

Among lovers possibly there may be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the

compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this kind, especially as it was attended

with a look, in which the lady conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her tongue.

Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable and distressed situations imaginable; for, to

carry on the comparison we made use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady, Jones could

not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it, in the presence of a third person; seconds in this kind

of duels not being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who was

ignorant of any other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an

answer from Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance, and, not daring to

give the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than

this scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed colour two or three

times; had got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him, or

the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment, out of which neither

the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter disgrace.

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk; or rather in that state of drunkenness

which deprives men of the use of their reason, without depriving them of the use of their limbs.

Mrs. Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he

arrived at Mr. Jones's chamberdoor without any interruption. This he burst open, and was entering without

any ceremony, when Jones started from his scat and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that

Nightingale never came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed.

Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in which himself had lodged; he therefore

strongly insisted on coming in, often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones, however,

prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon

And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment, where at the very instant of his

entrance he heard Lady Bellaston venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same time

saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which in a lady of tender constitution would have been

In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men, of which she did not know what would

be the issue, as she heard Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted to retire to

her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion she found already occupied by another.

"Is this usage to be borne, Mr. Jones?" cries the lady. "Basest of men! What wretch is this to whom you

have exposed me?" "Wretch!" cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of concealment

"Marry come up! Wretch forsooth? as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks

Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of Mrs. Honour's resentment, as a more

experienced gallant would have done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most unfortunate

man in the world; and presently after, addressing himself to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd

protestations of innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her reason, which she had as

ready as any woman in the world, especially on such occasions, calmly replied: "Sir, you need make no

apologies, I see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs. Honour: but now I do, I can suspect

nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong

constructions upon my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be in my power to be much

Mrs. Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing, therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the

soft tone, she likewise softened hers."I'm sure, madam," says she, "I have been always ready to

acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure I never had so good a friend as your ladyship and to

be sure, now I see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off for very mad. I

constructions upon your ladyshipto be sure it doth not become a servant as I am to think about such a great

lady I mean I was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more miserable wretch is me. I

have lost the best mistress" Here Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears. "Don't cry, child," says

the good lady; "ways perhaps may be found to make you amends. Come to me tomorrow morning." She

then took up her fan which lay on the ground, and without even looking at Jones, walked very majestically

out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women of quality, which their inferiors

Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she absolutely refused him, and got into her

At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs. Honour, while she was adjusting herself

after the discomposure she had undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady; on which

she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to

obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour to find out

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs. Honour; for a secret (as some of my

readers will perhaps acknowledge from experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not only to

those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper it about till it come to the ears of every one,

except the ignorant person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publickly known.

Nothwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs. Miller could not forbear in the

morning some gentle for the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These were,

however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of

Mr. Jones himself, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition of the good woman,

expressed much concern for what had past, excused it aswell as he could, and promised never more to bring

But though Mrs. Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in private at their first meeting, yet the

occasion of his being summoned downstairs that morning was of a more agreeable kind, being indeed to

perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in wedlock to Mr. Nightingale, who was now

ready drest, and full as sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife in so

And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this young gentleman had made from his

uncle, and for his appearance in the condition in which we have seen him the night before.

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly to indulge his own inclinations (for

he dearly loved his bottle), and partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose,

he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter,

who, though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience or want of

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for his nephew, a messenger arrived with

a piece of news, which so entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration

for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns.

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had taken the opportunity of almost the

first moment of his absence, and had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though

her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth nothing, yet she had never thought

proper to communicate her amour even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had never been

Old Mr. Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost confusion he ordered a postchaise

to be instantly got ready, and, having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the

The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose,

and had at last made him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices tendered

him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant, who had received no strict orders to the contrary,

readily complied; and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs. Miller, he had staggered up to Mr.

This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew not as yet in what manner), and

all parties being quickly ready, the mother, Mr. Jones, Mr. Nightingale, and his love, stept into a

hackneycoach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar language,

soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the

And now Mr. Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her family brought to a happy

conclusion, began to apply himself to his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his

folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest some few should think he acted more

disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from being

unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very considerable interest in bringing it to that final

To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly say with him in Terence, Homo sum:

humani nihil a me alienum puto.* He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of any

one; and he felt either the one or the other in greater proportion as he himself contributed to either. He could

not, therefore, be the instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of wretchedness to the

highest pitch of joy without conveying great felicity to himself; more, perhaps, than worldly men often

purchase to themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading through the deepest

Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will, perhaps, think this short chapter contains

abundance of matter; while others may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as

impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr. Jones to the gallows, or, if

Mr. Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his table, which he luckily opened in the

Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my resolutions a moment, however strong made or

justly founded. Last night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to hear if you can, as

you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you

can invent. Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come to me, therefore, the moment you

receive this. If you can forge an excuse, I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too I will think no

more. Come to me directly. This is the third letter I have writ, the two former are burnt I am almost

If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my doors, come to me this instant.

I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings. The moment you receive this let me

see you; I shall not stir out; nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain you long.

Jones had just read over these three billets, when Mr. Nightingale came into the room. "Well, Tom," said he,

"any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night's adventure?" (for it was now no secret to any one in that

house who the lady was). "The Lady Bellaston?" answered Jones very gravely. "Nay, dear Tom," cries

Nightingale, "don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at

the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?" "And did you really then know

the lady at the masquerade?" said Jones. "Yes, upon my soul, did I," said Nightingale, "and have given you

twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I

fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of

the lady as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young fellow she

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when his amour began; yet,

as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that

character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes,

under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some overnice ladies will not be seen with her, is

visited (as they term it) by the whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect

that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a

latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong

inclination to tittletattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he

entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to her

dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid

giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious application, and of

forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our head.

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other,

observing, cried, "Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have affected

you, I promise you should never have heard them." "O my dear friend!" cries Jones, "I am so entangled with

this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am under

obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing,

perhaps, solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I possibly desert such a

woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better

of me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I

am half distracted with doubts how to act." "And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?" cries

Nightingale. "Honourable!" answered Jones; "no breath ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is

not purer, the limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body, consummate

perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated

qualities, that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it."

"And can you, my good friend," cries Nightingale, "with such an engagement as this upon your hands,

hesitate a moment about quitting such a" "Hold," said Jones, "no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of

ingratitude." "Pooh!" answered the other, "you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of

this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently

bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his gratitude." In short, Nightingale proceeded so

far on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely

removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he

began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only

her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this digust, his

mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on

his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more odious. The

result of all was, that, though his turning himself out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with

her, would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a handsome pretence:

which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, "I have it, my boy! I

have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon the success."

"Marriage?" cries Jones. "Ay, propose marriage," answered Nightingale, "and she will declare off in a

moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the offer to her in earnest, and was

Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. "Perhaps," said he, "she may be less shocked at this

proposal from one man than from another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then? caught in

my own trap, and undone for ever." "No," answered Nightingale, "not if I can give you an expedient by

which you may at any time get out of the trap." "What expedient can that be?" replied Jones. "This,"

answered Nightingale. "The young fellow I mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have

in the world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done him, that I am sure he would,

without any difficulty, give you a sight of her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and

declare off before the knot is tied, if she should really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not."

After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance, consented; but, as he swore he wanted the

confidence to propose the matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated:

I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement abroad, I should have missed receiving the

honour of your ladyship's commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer of

vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I

been in, for fear your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There is one only way to

secure it. I need not name what that is. Only permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my

own, so my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your feet; and believe me when I assure

you, I can never be made completely happy, without you generously bestow on me a legal right of calling you

When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness and formality, have sworn that you already

had the legal right you mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous animal a husband

and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading

me out of my senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in order to enable you to

support your pleasures at my expense? Are these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return

for? but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your Profound respect.

P.S. I am prevented from revising: Perhaps I have said more than I meant. Come to me at eight this

It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston

have conferred favours on a man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she treat the

most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine, madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an

unguarded moment, overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think of indulging

myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and

which, when discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your opinion of me, I must pray

for a sudden opportunity of returning those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to

receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall ever remain, And so concluded in the very

I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you come here I shall not be at home.

Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom which those who have ever

experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his

mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of

falshood or dishonesty: nor would he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been involved in

a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be guilty of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the

other; and surely the reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly in favour

Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which he received many thanks and much

applause from his friend. He answered, "Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on each

other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the

one instance as I am in the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England."

The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs. Miller, who performed herself the

office of cook, had exerted her best talents to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance

she ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones; her whole soul was fired with gratitude towards

him, and all her looks, words, and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and even her

Dinner was just ended when Mrs. Miller received a letter; but as we have had letters enow in this chapter, we

The letter, then, which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was from Mr. Allworthy, and the purport of

it was, his intention to come immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be accommodated

with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew.

The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded

on his occasion. This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match with her

daughter, by presently turning her new soninlaw out of doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one

hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr. Allworthy, after all

the obligations received from him, for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due; for that

gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what

is practised by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not only from

the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by

every other method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the favours he conferred, while he was

heaping them with both hands. When he settled the annuity of L50 a year therefore on Mrs. Miller, he told

her, "it was in consideration of always having her firstfloor when he was in town (which he scarce ever

intended to be), but that she might let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's

warning." He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he had no opportunity of giving such

notice; and this hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were then

empty; for he would most certainly have been well satisfied to have relinquished them, on a less sufficient

But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks, direct their conduct by something

To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are

not even contented, though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the

fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of this mark,

they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of the hangman.

Mrs. Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this letter; with the of which she had no

sooner acquainted the company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently

relieved her anxiety. "As for myself, madam,' said he, "my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning;

and Mr. Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive his lady, will consent to return

to his new lodging, whither Mrs. Nightingale will certainly consent to go." With which proposal both

The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs. Miller began again to glow with additional gratitude to

Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr. Jones having in his last speech called

her daughter Mrs. Nightingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave

the fond mother more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his having dissipated her

The next day was then appointed for the removal of the newmarried couple, and of Mr. Jones, who was

likewise to be provided for in the same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was again

restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly

accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a

little heightened by the news of Mr. Blifil's coming to town for he clearly saw the intention of his journey);

and what greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs. Honour, who had promised to inquire after Sophia,

In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were scarce any grounds for him to hope

that he should hear any good news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs. Honour as if he had expected she

would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia, and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether

this impatience arose from that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to know the

worst, and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains; or whether he still flattered himself with some

secret hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of

all the powers exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope

in the midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite overlooked by it; so that to

The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him! Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make

mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but these cold fits last not long in good

constitutions. Which temper Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact information

about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours in expectation, when, being unable any longer to

conceal his uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made him frantick, when the

following letter was brought him from Mrs. Honour, with which we shall present the reader verbatim et

I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to

bee sur, Sir, you nose very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such anuther offar mite

not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so

veri kind as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such thing, to be sur shee is won of

thee best ladis in thee wurld, and pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare harts. To

bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your

onur to be a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing, to repete it to hurt a pore

servant that as alwais add thee gratest respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons tung

within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that

I shud haf ben in so gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I never was a dremd of an);

such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a

cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs. Etoff herself, nor no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin

such a thing when it fals in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf sad, for I wish

ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt

ass to miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that matar, nou bein under thee cumand off

anuther parson, and note one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and belive me to be, sir,

Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had

little farther design than to secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she chose should

make no farther progress than it had made already; but mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia;

for though that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated it again, her ladyship

could not persuade herself of this; since, as she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she

conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our heroine, where no such

While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand dreadful machinations, and deep

political designs, which he imagined to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto

seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it, by

throwing a temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he should be

There was a lady, one Mrs. Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lodged, being intimately

acquainted with the women there, and indeed a very great friend to Mrs. Miller. Her age was about thirty, for

she owned sixandtwenty; her face and person very good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had

been married young by her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great fortune, had left off

trade. With him she lived without reproach, but not without pain, in a state of great selfdenial, for about

twelve years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year of her

widowhood was just at an end, and she had past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular

friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond.

Very good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely necessary for her

to marry again; and she resolved to please herself in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the

From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too plainly that you were not indifferent to me;

but neither my tongue nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the family where you

are lodged given me such a character of you, and told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as

convince me you are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have also the satisfaction to

hear from them, that neither my person, understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a fortune

sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I

know I shall incur the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear the world, I should not

be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops me; I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry

with a woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to the possession of me, I am yours; if

At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source

being stopt from which hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston, not above

five guineas remained; and that very morning he had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His

honourable mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them

again. To be subsisted at her expense, from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much

against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's fortune would have been exceeding convenient

to him, and he could have no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did

any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could not

think of it upon any account. Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be his? Would it not be

kinder to her, than to continue longer engaged to a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in

friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had almost determined to be false to her from

a high point of honour: but that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of nature, which

cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as

It would be but a poor return to the favour have done me to sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you,

and I would certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am, from any affair of that kind. But

I should not be the honest man you think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to another,

who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave, though it is probable I shall never possess her. God

forbid that, in return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to give you my hand when I

cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were

married to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely effaced all impressions of her. Be

assured that your secret was not more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and grateful

When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff,

kissed it several times, and then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of mind than ever

While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge came capering into the room, as was

his custom when he brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been dispatched that morning

by his master, with orders to endeavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover

whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a joyful countenance told our heroe that

he had found the lost bird. "I have seen, sir," says he, "Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the

servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen him

these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most

remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could

recollect me." "Well, but what is your good news?" cries Jones; "what do you know of my Sophia?" "You

shall know presently, sir," answered Partridge, "I am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir,

you would come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some

time before he recollected my face." "Confound your face!" cries Jones, "what of my Sophia?" "Nay, sir,"

answered Partridge, "I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you; and I should

have told you all before this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me, you will frighten

all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the

day we left Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years." "Well, pray go on your own

way," said Jones: "you are resolved to make me mad, I find." "Not for the world," answered Partridge, "I

have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have

to live." "Well, but Black George?" cries Jones. "Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time before he could

recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw him. Non sum qualis eram.* I have had troubles

in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it will change the colour of a man's hair

in a night. However, at last, know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and were at the

same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world

according to their learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a thousand years hence.

Well, sir, where was I? O well, we no sooner knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the

hand, we agreed to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I have

met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and

told him that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever since, than he called for another

pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was

overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and after we had emptied that pot I said I

would be my pot too, and so we drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you the

"What news?" cries Jones, "yon have not mentioned a word of my Sophia!" "Bless me! I had like to have

forgot that. Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me all; that Mr.

Blifil. is coming to town in order to be married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will

have her before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr. Seagrim, it is a thousand pities somebody should not have

her; for he certainly loves her above all the women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it

is not for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of that, there is another lady, one of

much greater quality and fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said, betrayed him; but the poor fellow

answered, he had mentioned no name: "Besides, sir," said he, "I can assure you, George is sincerely your

friend, and wished Mr. Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said he would do anything in his power

upon earth to serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you

have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you."

"Well," says Jones, a little pacified, "you say this fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my

"In the same house!" answered Partridge; "why, sir, he is one of the servants of the family, and very well

drest I promise you he is; if it was not for black beard you would hardly know him."

"One service then at least he may do me," says Jones: "sure he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia."

"You have hit the nail ad unguem," cries Partridge; "how came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it

"Well, then," said Jones, "do you leave me at present, and I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him

tomorrow morning; for I suppose you know where to find him." "O yes, sir," answered Partridge, "I shall

certainly find him again; there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no

"The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by," answered Partridge, "not above a street or two off. I don't, indeed,

know the very name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some suspicion into

his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you."

"Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed," replied Jones; "however, I will write to my charmer, since I

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr. Jones sat himself down to write, in which

employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.

I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather write a play than a prologue; in like

manner, I think, I can with less pains write one of the books of this history, than the prefatory chapter to each

To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on the head of that author who first

instituted the method of prefixing to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and which at

first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath had usually so little connexion with the drama before

which it stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those indeed of more modern

date, seem all to be written on the same three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of

all contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to be represented. The sentiments

in all these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great

invention of authors, who have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the same thing.

In like manner, I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do me the honour of imitating my

manner) will, after much scratching his pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first

established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern prologues, may as properly be prefixed

to any other book in this history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other history as to this.

But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the reader will find sufficient emolument in the

First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to

tune his catcall to the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical instruments so well

prepared, that they have been able to play in full concert at the first rising of the curtain.

The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the critic will be always sure of meeting

with something that may serve as a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry

appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully

these chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we have always taken care to intersperse

somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.

Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great advantage from both these; for, as they are not

obliged either to see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are thus protracted, by the

former they have a quarter of an hour longer allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the

advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first, a matter by no means of trivial

consequence to persons who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a more general

motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books, and good books, but the

Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they are for the most part so obvious, that

we shall not at present stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal merit of both

Chapter 2. A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed situation of Sophia

We must now convey the reader to Mr. Western's lodgings, which were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by

the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was the

first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he heard

Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackneycoach, which brought her from the house of Lady Bellaston,

she desired to retire to the apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed, and whither he

attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed

between them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blifil, who, as he

acquainted her, was to be in town in a few days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and

resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her father, that after many bitter vows, that

he would force her to have him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words and

While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the closest state prisoner, namely, fire and

candle, the squire sat down to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the landlord of the

Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make an excellent third man, and could inform them of the

news of the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal, since the horses of

In this agreeable society Mr. Western past that evening and great part of the succeeding day, during which

period nothing happened of sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this time Sophia past by

herself; for her father swore she should never come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to

marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food, on which occasions he

The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at breakfast together on a toast and

"A gentleman!" quoth the squire, "who the devil can he be? Do, doctor, go down and see who 'tis. Mr. Blifil

The doctor returned with an account that it was a very welldrest man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took

him for an officer of the army; that he said he had some particular business, which he could deliver to none

"An officer!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to do with me? If he wants an order for

baggagewaggons, I am no justice of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant. Let un come up then, if he must

A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his compliments to the squire, and desired the

"Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but with a very different message from

"His lordship," said the gentleman, "is willing to impute everything to the effect of liquor, and the most

trifling acknowledgment of that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent attachment to

your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it

for you both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be able to put up an affair of

this kind without danger of any imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me

make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay

his respects to you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the footing of a lover."

"I don't understand much of what you say, sir," said the squire; "but I suppose, by what you talk about my

daughter, that this is the lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something about

his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be the caseyou may give my service to his lordship, and tell

"Perhaps, sir," said the gentleman, "you are not sufficiently apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe

"Lookee, sir," answered the squire; "to be very plain, my daughter is bespoke already; but if she was not, I

would not marry her to a lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and

"Well, sir," said the gentleman, "if that is your resolution, the message I am to deliver to you is, that my lord

"You may tell my lord, answered the squire, "that I am busy and cannot come. I have enough to look after at

"I am sure, sir," quoth the other, "you are too much a gentleman to send such a message; you will not, I am

convinced, have it said of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him satisfaction. His

lordship would have been willing, from his great regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in

another way; but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer his putting up such an

"I offered him!" cries the squire; "it is a dn'd lie! I never offered him anything."

Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same

time with some manual remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr. Western, than that worthy

squire began to caper very briskly about the room, bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if

The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not retired far; he immediately attended,

therefore, on the squire's vociferation, crying, "Bless me! sir, what's the matter?" "Matter!" quoth the squire,

"here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob and murder mefor he hath fallen upon me with that stick

there in his hand, when I wish I may be dn'd if I gid un the least provocation."

"No, as I hope to be saved," answered the squire, "I believe I might say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any

affront to my lord but I never said the word, 'you lie.' I understand myself better, and you might have

understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man. If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have

dared strike me. I'd have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this minute, and I'll

take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee

The captain, with some indignation, replied, "I see, sir, you are below my notice, and I shall inform his

lordship you are below his. I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you." At which words he withdrew, the

parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though

he made some efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success. However, when the

captain was departed, the squire sent many curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out

from his lips till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and louder as he was more and

more remote, they did not reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure.

Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's outcries from first to last, began now first to

thunder with her foot, and afterwards to scream as loudly as the gentleman himself had done before, though

in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his

daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of any harm happening to her, threw him

presently into agonies; for, except in that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life was

Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take the law of him, the squire now

mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and

breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold

by the hand, she cryed passionately, "O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I hope to heaven no

harm hath happened to you." "No, no," cries the squire, "no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much,

but rat me if I don't ha the la o' un." "Pray, dear sir," says she, "tell me what's the matter; who is it that hath

insulted you?" "I don't know the name o' un," answered Western; "some officer fellow, I suppose, that we are

to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath

not. For thof he was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in the world." "But, dear

sir," cries she, "what was the occasion of your quarrel?" "What should it be, Sophy," answered the squire,

"but about you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the death of your poor father at last.

Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord knows who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I would

not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your

father's troubles; come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this day or two; do but promise me to

marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the

happiest woman; you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach and six at

your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my estate od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at

giving up the whole." "Will my papa be so kind," says she, "as to hear me speak?" "Why wout ask, Sophy?"

cries he, "when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of the best pack of dogs in England.

Hear thee, my dear litle girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that pleasure, I

would not gee a brass varden to live a moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you,

indeed you don't, or you never could have run away and left your poor father, who hath no other joy, no other

comfort upon earth, but his little Sophy." At these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the

tears streaming from hers) answered, "Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me tenderly, and heaven

is my witness how sincerely I have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension of being

forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately, that I

would, with pleasure, sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to reason myself into doing

more, and had almost worked up a resolution to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your

inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force my mind; nor can I ever." Here the squire

began to look wild, and the foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia observing, begged to be heard out, and

then proceeded: "If my father's life, his health, or any real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your

resolved daughter; may heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve you! No, that

most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake." "I

tell thee, it will preserve me," answers the father; "it will give me health, happiness, life, everything. Upon

my soul I shall die if dost refuse me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul." "Is it possible," says she,

"you can have such a desire to make me miserable?" "I tell thee noa," answered he loudly, "dn me if there

is a thing upon earth I would not do to see thee happy." "And will not my dear papa allow me to have the

least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists in opinion, what must be my

condition, when I shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth?" "Better think

yourself so," said he, "than know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond." "If it will content you,

sir," said Sophia, "I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him, nor any other, while my papa

lives, without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be again your poor Sophy,

and my whole business and pleasure be, as it hath been, to please and divert you." "Lookee, Sophy,"

answered the squire, "I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would then have reason to

think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I'd have you to know I have a got more wisdom, and know more

of the world, than to take the word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned." "How, sir, have I

deserved this want of confidence?" said she; "have I ever broke a single promise to you? or have I ever been

found guilty of a falsehood from my cradle?" "Lookee, Sophy," cries he; "that's neither here nor there. I am

determined upon this match, and have him you shall, dn me if shat unt. Dn me if shat unt, though dost

hang thyself the next morning." At repeating which words he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and

thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair, and, had not a flood

Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more contrition or remorse than the turnkey

of Newgate feels at viewing the agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewell of her condemned

husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman,

who sees his debtor dragged to prison for L10, which, though a just debt, the wretch is wickedly unable to

pay. Or, to hit the case still more nearly, he felt the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor

innocent, whom she hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at the first proposal of what is called seeing

company. Indeed this resemblance would be exact, was it not that the bawd hath an interest in what she doth,

and the father, though perhaps he may blindly think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his

In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very vulgar observation on the effect of tears,

he locked the room, and returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the young lady,

which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire

into a violent rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the clergy, which we have too

The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early to entertain a strange opinion of her

guests. However, as she was informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had taken care to

exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she did not think proper to give any offence; for, though she

was not without some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose great sweetness of temper and

affability the maid of the house had made so favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's

servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest, than to provoke one, whom, as she said, she

Though Sophia cat but little, yet she was regularly served with her meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked

any one rarity, that the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to have procured it

for her; since, however strange it may appear to some of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to

The dinnerhour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet, the squire himself (for he had sworn not

to part with the key) attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between

him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she left the country, and she treated every servant with more

respect than some persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their inferiors). Sophia would have

had him take the pullet back, saying, she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly

All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a great favourite with his master, as his

employment was in concerns of the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to take

many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he said, very desirous to see his young

lady; he made therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while civilities were

passing between him and Sophia, for which he received only a goodhumoured rebuke at the door when he

The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, were, as George well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia.

It was therefore no wonder that he, who was a very goodnatured fellow, should take care to supply her with

this kind of delicacy, at a time when all the servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she

Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually hath on a widow, whose appetite it often

renders sharper than it can be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the sublimest

grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after

some little consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as full of eggs as George had

But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would have delighted the Royal Society

much more; for if a fowl with three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a

thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts all the laws of animal

oecconomy, as to contain a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was

metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society

of his day; but no age nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Academies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps

in a fruitless inquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue which passed between Messieurs

Jones and Partridge, will be very easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its passage

Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her favourite dish was there before her, no sooner

saw the letter than she immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:

Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should endeavour, however difficult, to paint the

horrors of my mind at the account brought me by Mrs. Honour; but as tenderness alone can have any true

idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling, so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia

possesses in the most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must have suffered on this

melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of

any misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and with that I am accursed. It is, my

Sophia, the dreadful consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do myself too much

honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption,

and pardon me a greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my presence, my absence, my

death, or my tortures can bring you any relief? Can the most Perfect admiration, the most watchful

observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the most resigned submission to your will,

make you amends for what you are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel, to those

arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the

riches of the world with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If, on the contrary,

wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and

if there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace of your dear mind, but by abandoning

me, I conjure you drive me for ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no compassion for my

sufferings bear the least weight in that tender bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than

myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first wish (why would not fortune indulge me

in it?) was, and pardon me if I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my second wish

is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him

What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she read it, or whether more than once, shall

all be left to our reader's imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at present: for

this reason, among others, that she did not now write any, and that for several good causes, one of which was

In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had received, or on something else, a violent

noise from below disturbed her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at altercation between

two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did

not so soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt Western, who was just arrived in

town, where having, by means of one of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her

We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our usual goodbreeding, attend her

The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged) were smoaking their pipes together,

when the arrival of the lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he immediately ran

down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom

he stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never would own this, nor did he perhaps

Mrs. Western, on her arrival in the dining room, having flung herself into a chair, began thus to harangue:

"Well, surely, no one ever had such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike acts, are

grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into this odious place? no person of condition, I dare

swear, ever set foot here before." "I don't know," cries the squire, "I think they do well enough; it was

landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get

among um." "Well, and where's my niece?" says the lady; "have you been to wait upon Lady Bellaston yet?"

"Ay, ay," cries the squire, "your niece is safe enough; she is upstairs in chamber. "How!" answered the lady,

"is my niece in this house, and does she not know of my being here?" "No, nobody can well get to her," says

the squire, "for she is under lock and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first night I

came to town, and I have taken care o' her ever since; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you."

"Good heaven!" returned Mrs. Western, "what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work would be the

consequence of my consent to your coming to town yourself! nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will,

nor can I charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise me, brother, that you would

take none of these headstrong measures? Was it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece

to run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to oblige her to take such another step?" "Zds and

the devil!" cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; "did ever mortal hear the like? when I expected

you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this manner!" "How, brother!" said

the lady, "have I ever given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking up your

daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free country are not to be treated with such arbitrary

power? We are as free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that freedom better. If you

expect I should stay a moment longer in this wretched house, or that I should ever own you again as my

relation, or that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist upon it that my

niece be set at liberty this instant." This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her back to the

fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the

head of her Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire

was not proof against the awe which she inspired. "There," he cried, throwing down the key, "there it is, do

whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till Blifil came to town, which can't be long; and

"I will answer it with my life," cries Mrs. Western, "but I shall not intermeddle at all, unless upon one

condition, and that is, that you will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one measure

yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you ratify these preliminaries, brother. I yet will

endeavour to preserve the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral state."

"I pray you, good sir," said the parson, "permit yourself this once to be admonished by her ladyship:

peradventure, by communing with young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to

"What, dost thee open upon me?" cries the squire: "if thee dost begin to babble, I shall whip thee in

"Fie, brother," answered the lady, "is this language to a clergyman? Mr. Supple is a man of sense, and gives

you the best advice; and the whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell you I expect an

immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly

to your own surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr. Supple, evacuate the garrison, and renounce

"Why, there lies the key on the table," cries the squire. "She may take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?"

"No, brother," answered the lady, "I insist on the formality of its being delivered me, with a full ratification of

"Why then I will deliver it to you. There 'tis," cries the squire. "I am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever

denying to trust my daughter to you. She hath alived wi' you a whole year and muore to a time, without my

"And it would have been happy for her," answered the lady, "if she had always lived with me. Nothing of this

"Why, you are to blame, brother," answered she. "I have been often obliged to tell you so, and shall always be

obliged to tell you so. However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from past errors,

as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders. Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these

negociations. All your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore, insist, that you do not

"Zds and bld, sister," cries the squire, what would you have me say? You are enough to provoke the

"There, now," said she, "just according to the old custom. I see, brother, there is no talking to you. I will

appeal to Mr. Supple, who is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human creature into a

"Irritate him?" said the lady; "sure, you are as great a fool as himself. Well, brother, since you have promised

not to interfere, I will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy upon all affairs

which are under the directions of men! The head of one woman is worth a thousand of yours." And now

having summoned a servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.

She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door) ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many

hearty curses against her, not sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, "Now one hath

been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last, for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't

The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire having ordered in another bottle, which

was his usual method when anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of this

medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper was become perfectly placid and serene,

when Mrs. Western returned with Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and the

aunt acquainted Mr. Western, "that she intended to take her niece with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed,

"Very well, madam," quoth Western, "whatever you please. The girl can never be in better hands than yours;

and the parson here can do me the justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back, that you was

"Nay, brother," says Mrs. Western, "I have always, I'm sure, given you as favourable a character. You must

own you have a little too much hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to reflect, I

"Why then, sister, if you think so," said the squire, "here's your good health with all my heart. I am a little

passionate sometimes, but I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do everything your

"I have not the least doubt of her," answered Mrs. Western. "She hath had already an example before her eyes

in the behaviour of that wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O brother,

what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when you set out for London, when who should arrive

but that impudent fellow with the odious Irish name that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly upon me without

notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced

me to give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered him the letter from his wife, which

I bid him answer himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will not see her,

"I zee her!" answered the squire; "you need not fear me. I'll ge no encouragement to such undutiful wenches.

It is well for the fellow, her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a dance thru the

horsepond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your

"Brother," cries the aunt, "you need not shock my niece by such odious repetitions. Why will you not leave

And now Mrs. Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I

say luckily, for had it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most probably, have arisen

between the brother and sister; between whom education and sex made the only difference; for both were

equally violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt

Chapter 5. In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with Mrs. Miller and Partridge

The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that grateful fellow had promised to do for

his old benefactor, greatly comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which he had

suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of the said George, he received the following

answer to his letter, which Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her liberty,

As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are

at an end, by the arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am all at present, and with whom I enjoy all the

liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or

converse with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I have most solemnly given, and

shall most inviolably keep: and though she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an

omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the word conversing. However, as I cannot but

consider this as a breach of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I shall, after this,

continue to write myself or to receive letters, without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred

thing, and to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what is expressed by it; and this

consideration may, perhaps, on reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a comfort to

you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I

firmly resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of consequence without his consent. A

firm persuasion of this must teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps) made

impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I hope, Allworthy to you; and if it

will, you have my injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on me, and your good

intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be some time kinder to us both than at present. you as

I charge you write to me no more at present at least; and accept this, which is now of no service to me,

which I know you must want, and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found it.*

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out in less time than Jones took in reading

it. The sensations it occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide the mind of a

good man when he peruses the will of his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses make

the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was more pleased than displeased;

and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much

in love as was poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a

consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in direct opposition to it, and particularly in

this, that it never flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.

One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress had regained her liberty, and was now

with a lady where she might at least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable circumstance

was the reference which she made to her promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested

he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his letter, I very much

question whether he could have heard a more afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to

another, though the match had been never so great, and never so likely to end in making her completely

happy. That refined degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the flesh, and is, indeed,

entirely and purely spiritual, is a gif t confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard

declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with the utmost readiness, resign a lover to a rival,

when such resignation was proved to be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I

conclude that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I have ever seen an instance of it.

Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of

good spirits, from the lastmentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment, which he had before

made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the

playhouse, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for humour

which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he

expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take

their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music

was played, he said, "It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one

another out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look,

madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the commonprayer book before the gunpowdertreason

service." Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were

candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth."

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he

break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the strange

dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered,

"That is the ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I

can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than

that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused

much laughter in the neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the

ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into

so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and

whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told

me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no

harm at such a distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person."

"Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thyself?" "Nay, may call me

coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man

frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy

upon such foolhardiness! Whatever happens, it is good enough for you. Follow you? I'd follow the devil

as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases. Oh! here he is

again. No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's

dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear him?" And

during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and

with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him.

When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more

than I conceived possible." "Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it;

but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it

was the ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange

dress; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou

imagine, then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you

yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the

garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should

have been, had it been my own case? But hush! O la! what noise is that? There he is again. Well to be

certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are."

Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against the

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor

could he help observing upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be deceived by

faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had

ever committed a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprized,

gave him no other satisfaction, than, "that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge

cried out, "There, sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think

me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what's his name,

squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I

thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge,

"I know it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so; for

as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person. There, there Ay, no

wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would

serve her so. To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. Ay, go about your

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet introduces before the king. This he did not at first

understand, till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless

himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, "If she did not

imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is," said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to

hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much

higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."

The gravedigging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprize at the number

of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, "That it was one of the most famous burialplaces

about town." "No wonder then," cries Partridge, "that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse

gravedigger. I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves while he is digging one.

The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.

You had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, "Well! it is

strange to see how fearless some men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead

man, on any account. He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit."

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him, "Which of the

players he had liked best?" To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "The

king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the

town; for they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "He the best

player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had

seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in

that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help

me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you

are only joking with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting

before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the

While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he

immediately knew to be Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the gallery, and

had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had something to say, which might be of great service

to himself. She then acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the

morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and

Mrs. Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to anything that

He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for many nights after sweated two or three

hours before he went to sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying

It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact impartiality to his children, even though no

superior merit should bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when that superiority

As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my children; so I must confess the same

inclination of partiality to Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same excuse, from the

This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine, never suffers me to quit her any long time

without the utmost reluctance. I could now, therefore, return impatiently to inquire what hath happened to this

lovely creature since her departure from her father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr.

Mr. Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast, upon the sudden news he received of his

daughter, and in the first hurry to go after her, had not once thought of sending any account of the discovery

to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first

inn he came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his having found Sophia, and with

his firm resolution to marry her to him immediately, if he would come up after him to town.

As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind, which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or

some such accident, could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by her having run away,

though he was obliged to lay this to his own account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed,

he now proposed the of a very strong passion besides avarice, by marrying this young lady, and this was

hatred; for he concluded that matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying either hatred or love; and

this opinion is very probably verified by much experience. To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary

behaviour of married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to conclude that the generality seek the

indulgence of the former passion only, in their union of everything but of hearts.

There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr. Allworthy. That good man, when he

found by the departure of Sophia (for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from him), the great

aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be seriously concerned that he had been deceived into

carrying matters so far. He by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who think it as

immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children in the affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure

of their servants when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or decency at least, withheld often

from using absolute force. On the contrary, as he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he

thought every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and inviolate; and very wisely concluded, that

the surest way to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous affection.

Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of deceit, by many vows and protestations that he

had been deceived himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well tallied; but now to

persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing his addresses, was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that

the very appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius; but this young gentleman so

well knew his own talents, that nothing within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be atchieved.

Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and the hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by

perseverance. He begged that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose, he might at least be at

liberty to try all fair means for success. Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any

other than the most gentle methods! "Besides, sir," said he, "if they fail, you may then (which will be surely

time enough) deny your consent." He urged the great and eager desire which Mr. Western had for the match;

and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed all that had happened; and from

All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little stronger on the authority of parents

than Mr. Blifil himself had done. He ascribed the measures which Mr. Blifil was desirous to take to Christian

motives; "and though," says he, "the good young gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost

Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same tune, though in a different key, and

would have discovered much moral fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the recovery

Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the desires of his nephew. He said he would

accompany him to London, where he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady: "But

I declare," said he, "I will never give my consent to any absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall

Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior understanding to be triumphed over by

the inferior; and thus is the prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the tenderness of the best of

Blifil, having obtained this unhopedfor acquiescence in his uncle, rested not till he carried his purpose into

execution. And as no immediate business required Mr. Allworthy's presence in the country, and little

preparation is necessary to men for a journey, they set out the very next day, and arrived in town that evening,

when Mr. Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at the play.

The morning after his arrival, Mr. Blifil waited on Mr. Western, by whom he was most kindly and graciously

received, and from whom he had every possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should

very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the squire suffer the young gentleman to

return to his uncle till he had, almost against his will, carried him to his sister.

Chapter 7. In which Mr. Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr. Blifil

Mrs. Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial politics, to her niece, when her brother and

Blifil broke in with less ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil than she

turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having

"Brother," said she, "I am astonished at your behaviour; will you never learn any regard to decorum? Will

you still look upon every apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants? Do you

think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of condition, without the least decency or

notice?" "Why, what a pox is the matter now?" quoth the squire; "one would think I had caught you at"

"None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you," answered she. 'You have surprized my poor niece so, that she

can hardly, I see, support herself. Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your spirits; for I see you

have occasion." At which words Sophia, who never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.

"To be sure, sister," cries the squire, "you are mad, when I have brought Mr. Blifil here to court her, to force

"Sure, brother," says she, "you are worse than mad, when you know in what situation affairs are, to I am

sure I ask Mr. Blifil's pardon, but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a reception. For my

own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see Mr. Blifil; but his own good sense would not have

Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western, without giving him time to form a speech

for the purpose, answered, "Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but come, let the

girl be fetched back again, or let Mr. Blifil go to her. He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be

"Brother," cries Mrs. Western, "Mr. Blifil, I am confident, understands himself better than to think of seeing

my niece any more this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice contexture; and our spirits,

when disordered, are not to be recomposed in a moment. Had you suffered Mr. Blifil to have sent his

compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting on her in the afternoon, I should possibly

have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I despair of bringing about any such matter."

"I am very sorry, madam," cried Blifil, "that Mr. Western's extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never

enough acknowledge, should have occasioned" "Indeed, sir," said she, interrupting him, "you need make no

I don't care what anybody knows of me," answered the squire; "but when must he come to see her? for,

consider, I tell you, he is come up on purpose, and so is Allworthy." "Brother," said she, "whatever message

Mr. Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece, shall be delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no

instructions to make a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr. Blifil at a proper time."

"The devil she won't! " answered the squire. "Odsbud! Don't we know I say nothing, but some volk are

wiser than all the world. If I might have had my will, she had not run away before: and now I expect to

hear every moment she is guone again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well she

hates" "No matter, brother," replied Mrs. Western, "I will not hear my niece abused. It is a reflection on

my family. She is an honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will pawn my whole

reputation in the world on her conduct. I shall be glad to see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have

somewhat of importance to mention to you. At present, Mr. Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me; for I am

in haste to dress." "Well, but," said the squire, "do appoint a time." "Indeed," said she, "I can appoint no time.

I tell you I will see you in the afternoon." "What the devil would you have me do?" cries the squire, turning

to Blifil; "I can no more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will be in a better humour in

the afternoon." "I am condemned, I see, sir, to misfortune," answered Blifil; "but I shall always own my

obligations to you." He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs. Western, who was altogether as ceremonious

on her part; and then they departed, the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should see his

If Mr. Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was less. As to the former, he imputed the whole

behaviour of his sister to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in the visit;

but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from two or three

words which dropt from the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear when I have

Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be plucked up by the rude hands of Mr.

Western. In the heat of resentment he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the captain

had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at all, had his lordship been able to find the

captain after he had seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he had received the

affront; but so industrious was the captain in the discharge of his duty, that, having after long inquiry found

out the squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a tavern, that he might not miss the

squire in the morning, and by that means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his lodgings.

In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his lordship, as we have said, made a visit to

Lady Bellaston, who laid open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly saw the

absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his words, especially as he had those honourable

designs on his daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who readily

undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance of a most favourable reception from all the

elders of the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober, and should be made acquainted

with the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had

formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew not what,

procured himself tolerable cloaths, and past for a gentleman. "Now," says she, "as I have, for the sake of my

cousin, made it my business to inquire after this fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;" with which

she then acquainted his lordship. "I am thinking, my lord," added she "(for this fellow is too mean for your

personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your lordship to contrive some method of having

him pressed and sent on board a ship. Neither law nor conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise

you, however well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in the streets to be pressed into the

service; and as for the conscientious part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most

meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with

my cousin, it may probably be the means of preserving him from the gallows, and perhaps may make his

Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which she was pleased to take in the affair,

upon the success of which his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present no

objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it in execution. He then most earnestly

recommended to her ladyship to do him the honour of immediately mentioning his proposals to the family; to

whom he said he offered a carte blanche, and would settle his fortune in almost any manner they should

require. And after uttering many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and departed, but

not before he had received the strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing his person,

where he should no longer be in a capacity of making any attempts to the ruin of the young lady.

The moment Mrs. Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was despatched with her compliments to Lady

Bellaston; who no sooner received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her cousin, rejoiced at

this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the

prospect of making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than to a gentleman whom

she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot; though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a

The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials, fell to business, which was indeed almost as

soon concluded as begun; for Mrs. Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks

glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness of his passion, the earnestness of his

proposals, and the generosity of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit terms.

In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to Jones, and both cousins very pathetically

lamented the unfortunate attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs. Western

entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's management. She concluded, however, at last, with declaring

her confidence in the good understanding of her niece, who, though she would not give up her affection in

favour of Blifil, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple inclination to the

addresses of a fine gentleman, who brings her both a title and a large estate: "For, indeed," added she, "I must

do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country

"Nay," said Lady Bellaston, "I don't then so much wonder at my cousin; for I promise you this Jones is a very

agreeable fellow, and hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us. What do you think,

Mrs. Western I shall certainly make you laugh; nay, I can hardly tell you myself for laughing will you

believe that the fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you should be inclined to disbelieve

it, here is evidence enough, his own handwriting, I assure you." She then delivered her cousin the letter with

the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to see, he will find already on record in the XVth

"Upon my word, I am astonished," said Mrs. Western; "this is, indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your

leave, I may possibly make some use of this letter." "You have my full liberty," cries Lady Bellaston, "to

apply it to what purpose you please. However, I would not have it shown to any but Miss Western, nor to her

unless you find occasion." "Well, and how did you use the fellow?" returned Mrs. Western. "Not as a

husband," said the lady; "I am not married, I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts

This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and

she was emboldened to give it up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out of the way, and

partly by having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to

But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart hated Sophia, should be so

desirous of promoting a match which was so much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire

such readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and there he will find, in scarce legible

characters, that women, notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, in matrimonial

matters, do in reality think it so great a misfortune to have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they

imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher than upon these disappointments; again, he will find it

written much about the same place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the possession of a man,

will go above halfway to the devil, to prevent any other woman from enjoying the same.

If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see no other motive to the actions of that

lady, unless we will conceive she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I see no cause to

Now this was the affair which Mrs. Western was preparing to introduce to Sophia, by some prefatory

discourse on the folly of love, and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil

broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her behaviour to Blifil, which, though the

squire, as was usual with him, imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much more

The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr. Jones, who, at the appointed hour, attended

on Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but before we relate the conversation which now past, it may be proper, according to our

method, to return a little back, and to account for so great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from

changing her lodging principally to avoid Mr. Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been seen, sought

And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding day, when, hearing from Lady

Bellaston that Mr. Western was arrived in town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly,

where she was received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was even threatened

to be kicked out of doors. From hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she was well

acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated her not more kindly, but more politely; or,

to say the truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both, plainly convinced, not only

that her scheme of reconciliation had proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of

bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of revenge only filled her mind; and in

this temper meeting Jones at the play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.

The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in the account she gave of her own

story, with the fondness Mrs. Western had formerly shewn for Mr. Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the

disappointment of which Mrs. Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had expressed toward her. She

had, therefore, no doubt but that the good lady would as easily listen to the addresses of Mr. Jones as she had

before done to the other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr. Jones; and the advance

which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how justly I will not say), was an argument rather in

Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her desire of serving him, arising, as she said,

from a firm assurance how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for her

former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr. Jones in whose custody his mistress was, of which she

thought him ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham

addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the younger, informing him at the same time

of the success which Mr. Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same stratagem.

Mr. Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions towards him which she had expressed,

and indeed testified, by this proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the lady's

knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case in regard to Mr. Fitzpatrick, he said, he was

afraid Miss Western would never agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter detestation of all

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a

small deviation from politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had not the delight he

felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a

"Indeed, sir," answered the lady, with some warmth, "I cannot think there is anything easier than to cheat an

old woman with a profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my aunt, I must

say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship. Can't you pretend that the despair of possessing

her niece, from her being promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to my cousin

Sophia, I can't imagine her to be such a simpleton as to have the least scruple on such an account, or to

conceive any harm in punishing one of these haggs for the many mischiefs they bring upon families by their

tragicomic passions; for which I think it is a pity they are not punishable by law. I had no such scruple

myself; and yet I hope my cousin Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she cannot detest every real

species of falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she

deserve any. However, sir, I have given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have the less

Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his utmost power to rectify it; but he only

faultered and stuttered into nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to abide by the

consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge

deeper instead of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have the goodnature which

Mrs. Fitzpatrick displayed to Jones, by saying, with a smile, "You need attempt no more excuses; for I can

easily forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of fondness for his mistress."

She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it, omitting no argument which her

invention could suggest on the subject; for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce

anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing her; and, like a true woman, she would

Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not, indeed, the least probability of

success. He easily perceived the motives which induced Mrs. Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her

advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he had for Sophia; but was so conscious

of the inequality of their situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that so divine a young

lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man; nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to

wish she should. He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have not at present

There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too general terms) with whom self is so

predominant, that they never detach it from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling principle, they

are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with, and, though the property of others, convey it to their

own use. In the company of these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of another woman which

they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty,

her wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what do I deserve, who possess

To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending another woman; and, while he is

expressing ardour and generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming lover this

man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it

may seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom all this really happened, and who

now began to feel a somewhat for Mr. Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor

To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible object than it is generally thought; for,

notwithstanding some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to repeat what

gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the

approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that kind of lustre which the

When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have become the mouth of Oroondates

himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick heaved a deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been

some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried, "Indeed, Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the

curse of such tenderness to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better than

you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to such a passion, and such a person, is

"Sure, madam," said Jones, "you can't mean" "Mean!" cries Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I know not what I mean;

there is something, I think, in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet it in men, and fewer still

know how to value it when they do. I never heard such truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but

you force one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who can overlook such

The manner and look with which all this was spoke, infused a suspicion into Jones, which we don't care to

convey in direct words to the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, "I am afraid, madam, I have

"Not at all, sir," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Indeed I pity you, Mr. Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going,

consider of the scheme I have mentioned I am convinced you will approve it and let me see you again as

soon as you can. Tomorrow morning if you will, or at least some time tomorrow. I shall be at home all

Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully retired; nor could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear

making him a present of a look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have had no

understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more;

for, faulty as he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now so confined to his

Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.

Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to give her no second opportunity, to

make the best of this; and accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in sorrowful notes to

Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs. Western, and being by that means

acquainted with the place to which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set

The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of this gentleman. He may likewise be

pleased to remember the suspicion which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the

room with Mrs. Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that

suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect that

she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a

head which was naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that greeneyed monster mentioned

And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had just received directions to the door,

Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a young welldressed fellow coming from

his wife, he made directly up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? "for I am sure,"

Jones answered very modestly, "That he had been visiting a lady there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, "What

business have you with the lady?" Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice, features, and

indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out "Ha, my good friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood

"Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, "I don't know your name nor your face." "Indeed, sir," said Jones,

"neither have I the pleasure of knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen before at

Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make up

"At Upton!" cried the other; "Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it

is." "O! upon my soul," cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet. Upon my soul I will

drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you

rascal. Upon my soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another." And then,

drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, which was the only science he understood.

Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat unexpectedly; but presently recovering

himself, he also drew, and though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that

he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no

sooner received it, than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, "I have

"I hope not," cries Jones, "but whatever be the consequence, you must be sensible you have drawn it upon

yourself." At this instant a number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no

resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the wounded gentleman.

"Ay," cries one of the fellows, "the wounded gentleman will be taken care enough of; for I suppose he hath

not many hours to live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." "Dn me, Jack," said another,

"he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port now;" and many other such jests was our poor

Jones made the subject of by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar, and had

dogged him into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this

The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded, that his business was now to deliver his

prisoner into the hands of the civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a publichouse,

The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well drest, and hearing that the accident had happened in a duel, treated

his prisoner with great civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to inquire after the wounded

gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's hands. The report brought back was, that the wound

was certainly mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable informed Jones, that he must

go before a justice. He answered, "Whenever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for

though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood I find

Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and

deposed that he believed the wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It

was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut

his eyes till seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at not hearing

from his master so long, received a message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.

He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and was no sooner arrived in the

presence of Jones, than he lamented the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the

while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor

fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which

he had like to have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the hands of Black George.

Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having eagerly broke open the letter, read as

You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown

me a letter from you to Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am convinced it is your own

hand; and what more surprizes me is, that it is dated at the very time when would have me imagine you was

under such concern on my account. I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is, that your name may

Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs with which he was now tormented, we cannot

give the roader a better idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost have

pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems

When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he can, or when a tragic writer hath

brought them to the highest pitch of human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that

Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we were nearly arrived at this period, since

it would be difficult for the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contrived much greater

torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a goodnatured

woman would hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at present be supposed to feel. What

then remains to complete the tragedy but a murder or two, and a few moral sentences!

But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress, and to land them at last on the shore of

happiness, seems a much harder task; a task, indeed, so hard that we do not undertake to execute it. In regard

to Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the

end either Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are the calamities in which he is at

present involved, owing to his imprudence, by which, if a man doth not become felon to the world, he is at

least a felo de se*; so destitute is he now of friends, and so persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of

bringing him to any good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think he ought not to lose any

This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which we may be supposed to have for this

rogue, whom we have unfortunately made our heroe, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance

with which we are entrusted, upon condition that we use it only on very important occasions. If he doth not,

therefore, find some natural means of fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will do no violence

to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which

may very probably be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.

In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their mythology, which was at that time more

firmly believed by the vulgar than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of delivering a

favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the

more extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and delight of the credulous reader. Those

writers could with greater ease have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one world to

another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed modern can deliver him from a jail.

The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their tales from the genii and fairies, which they

believe in as an article of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have none of these helps.

To natural means alone we are confined; let us try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor

Jones; though, to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear, that he doth not yet know the worst of

his fortune; and that a more shocking piece of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the

Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when Blifil, who had gone out very early that

He had not been long seated before he began as follows: "Good Lord! my dear uncle, what do you think hath

happened? I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever having

shewn any kindness to such a villain." "What is the matter, child?" said the uncle. "I fear I have shown

kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the vices of its objects." "O,

sir! " returned Blifil, "it is not without the secret direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption.

Your adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your bosom, hath proved one of the

greatest villains upon earth." "By all that's sacred, 'tis false," cries Mrs. Miller. "Mr. Jones is no villain. He is

one of the worthiest creatures breathing; and if any other person had called him villain, I would have thrown

all this boiling water in his face." Mr. Allworthy looked very much amazed at this behaviour. But she did not

give him leave to speak, before, turning to him, she cried, "I hope you will not be angry with me; I would not

offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear him called so." "I must own, madam," said

Allworthy, very gravely, "I am a little surprized to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not know."

"O! I do know him, Mr. Allworthy," said she, "indeed I do; I should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I

denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my little family; we have all reason to bless him while we live. And I

pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such."

"You surprize me, madam, still more," said Allworthy; "sure you must mean some other. It is impossible you

should have any such obligations to the man my nephew mentions." "Too surely," answered she, "I have

obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the preserver of me and mine. Believe me,

sir, he hath been abused, grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all goodness and

honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things I have heard you say of this poor helpless child,

have so disdainfully called him fellow. Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a kinder appellation from

you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful things which I have heard him utter of you. He never

mentions your name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him on his knees, imploring

all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I do not love that child there better than he loves you."

"I see, sir, now," said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers with which the devil marks his best beloved,

"Mrs. Miller really doth know him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of your acquaintance to

whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been

very free with it, but I forgive him." "And the Lord forgive you, sir!" said Mrs. Miller; "we have all sins

"Upon my word, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, "I do not take this behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly;

and I do assure you, as any reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest of men,

they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs.

Miller, the young man who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate for the ungrateful

wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder

"You are deceived, sir," answered Mrs. Miller; "if they were the last words which were to issue from my lips,

I would say you were deceived; and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have deceived you! I

do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but they are all the faults of wildness and of youth;

faults which he may, nay, which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should not, they are vastly

overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest hearts that ever man was blest with."

"Indeed, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, "had this been related of you, I should not have believed it." "Indeed,

sir," answered she, "you will believe everything I have said, I am sure you will: and when you have heard the

story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you will be so far from being offended, that you will own

(I know your justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I

"Well, madam," said Allworthy, "I shall be very glad to hear any good excuse for a behaviour which, I must

confess, I think wants an excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his

story without interruption. He would not have introduced a matter of slight consequence with such a preface.

Mrs. Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr. Blifil began thus: "I am sure, sir, if you don't think

proper to resent the illusage of Mrs. Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your

goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands." "Well, child," said Allworthy, "but what is this new

instance? What hath he done of late?" "What," cries Blifil, "notwithstanding all Mrs. Miller hath said, I am

very sorry to relate, and what you should never have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to

conceal from the whole world. In short, he hath killed a man; I will not say murdered for perhaps it may not

Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to Mrs. Miller, he cried, "Well, madam,

"Why, I say, sir," answered she, "that never was more concerned at anything in my life; but, if the fact be

true, I am convinced the man, whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in this town

who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest provocation could have

tempted him; for of all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or so

sweettempered. He was beloved by everyone in the house, and every one who came near it."

While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door interrupted their conversation, and prevented

her from proceeding further, or from receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this was a visitor to Mr.

Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the

melancholy news she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife, and not only gave her many

Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances, in relating of which we follow the

example of Plutarch, one of the best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear trivial,

Chapter 3. The arrival of Mr. Western, with some matters concerning the paternal authority

Mrs. Miller had not long left the room when Mr. Western entered; but not before a small wrangling bout had

passed between him and his chairmen; for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars,

had conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in the squire; and they were moreover farther

encouraged by his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than their fare); they

therefore very boldly demanded another shilling, which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed

many hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into the room; swearing that all

the Londoners were like the court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. "Dn me,"

says he, "if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their handbarrows again. They have jolted me

When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same passionate tone on another.

"There," says he, "there is fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we

imagined we had a fox to deal with, odrat it, it turns out to be a badger at last!

"Pray, my good neighbour," said Allworthy, "drop your metaphors, and speak a little plainer." "Why, then,"

says the squire, "to tell you plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of

somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a

bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my consent. They have

beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover."

"You surprize me much, my good friend," said Allworthy. "Why, zounds! I am surprized myself," answered

the squire. "I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was had

into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady

Catherine, and my lady I don't know who; dn me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of

hooppetticoat bs! Dn me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one Acton was, that the storybook says

was turned into a hare, and his own dogs killed un and eat un. Odrabbit it, no mortal was ever run in such a

manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to clap back, another snapped me. 'O! certainly one of

the greatest matches in England,' says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); 'A very advantageous

offer indeed,' cries another cousin (for you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o' um

before). 'Surely,' says that fat ase b, my Lady Bellaston, 'cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of

"Now I begin to understand," says Allworthy; "some person hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the

"My liking!" said Western, "how the devil should it? I tell you it is a lord, and those are always volks whom

you know I always resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years' purchase

now for a bit of land, which one o' um had a mind to put into a park, only because I would have no dealings

with lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben't I engaged to you, and did I ever go

"As to that point, neighbour," said Allworthy, "I entirely release you from any engagement. No contract can

be binding between parties who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards acquire the

"Slud! then," answered Western, "I tell you I have power, and I will fulfil it. Come along with me directly to

Doctors' Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force, and she

shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives."

"Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "shall I beg you will hear my full sentiments on this matter?" "Hear thee;

ay, to be sure I will," answered he. "Why, then, sir," cries Allworthy, "I can truly say, without a compliment

either to you or the young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily,

from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly neighbours, and between whom

there had always existed so mutual an intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and

with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of all who knew her, but my own observation

assured me that she would be an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her personal

qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too

well known to need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high degree in that best of

women, who is now one of the first of angels, which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes

observation; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use negatives on this

occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is called repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit,

much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience, the affectation of

which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no

judicial opinions, no profound criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all

attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness of a teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once,

to try her only, desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr. Thwackum and Mr.

Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness, 'You will pardon me, good Mr. Allworthy; I am sure

you cannot in earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree.'

Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my

request. She answered with the same good humour, 'I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront neither so

much as to give my judgment on his side.' Indeed, she always shewed the highest deference to the

understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to the making a good wife. I shall only add, that as she

is most apparently void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real."

Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full of tears at the praise of Sophia,

blubbered out, "Don't be chickenhearted, for shat ha her, dn me, shat ha her, if she was twenty times as

"Remember your promise, sir," cried Allworthy, "I was not to be interrupted." "Well, shat unt," answered the

"Now, my good friend," continued Allworthy, "I have dwelt so long on the merit of this young lady, partly as

I really am in love with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is really

advantageous on my nephew's side) might not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly

embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my family; but though I may

wish for many good things, I would not, therefore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to

possess myself of them. Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or approbation, is an

act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws of our country could restrain it; but a good

conscience is, never lawless in the worst regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the

neglect of legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of that kind; for, is it not cruel, nay,

impious, to force a woman into that state against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be accountable

to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the

matrimonial duties in an adequate manner is no easy task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while

we at the same time deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear her

very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal? I must speak very

plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are accessories to all the guilt which their children

afterwards incur, and of course must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their punishment; but if they

could avoid this, good heaven! is there a soul who can bear the thought of having contributed to the

"For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of this young lady are most unhappily averse

to my nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure you I

"Well, sir," said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips the moment they were uncorked), "you cannot

say but I have heard you out, and now I expect you'll hear me; and if I don't answer every word on't, why then

I'll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I desire you to answer me one question Did not I beget her? did

not I beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that knows his own child; but I am sure I

have the best title to her, for I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I be, am I

not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my own child? and if I am to govern her in

other matters, surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all this

while? Am I desiring her to do anything for me: to give me anything? Zu much on t'other side, that I am

only desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t'other half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor?

Why, is unt it to make her happy? It's enough to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to marry

myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber; but, on the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my

land in such a manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro' woman upon earth would ha me.

What the devil in hell can I do more? I contribute to her damnation! Zounds! I'd zee all the world dn'd

bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr. Allworthy, you must excuse me, but I am surprized to

hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense."

Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if he would have endeavoured it, have

conveyed into that smile any mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may

Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. "As to using any violence on the young lady, I am

sure I shall never consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any one, much less on a

lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I

have read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not hope then by such perseverance

at last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr.

Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but that a parent hath at least a

negative voice in these matters; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, and

declare that she thought children inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will of their parents.

Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the

lady herself is inclined to give him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am too sensible

"But surely," says Blifil, "when she hears of this murder which he hath committed, if the law should spare his

"What's that?" cries Western. "Murder! hath he committed a murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him

hanged?Tol de rol, tol lol de rol." Here he fell a singing and capering about the room.

"Child," says Allworthy, "this unhappy passion of yours distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you,

"I desire no more," cries Blifil; "I am convinced my dear uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I

"Lookee," says Allworthy, "you have my leave to write, to visit, if she will permit it but I insist on no

thoughts of violence. I will have no confinement, nothing of that kind attempted."

"Well, well," cries the squire, "nothing of that kind shall be attempted; we will try a little longer what fair

means will effect; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way Tol lol de rol! I never heard better news in

my life I warrant everything goes to my mind. Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the

Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a sparerib of pork, and a fowl and

eggsauce. There will be nobody but ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent

Parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobaccobox, which I left at an inn there, and I would not lose it

for the world; for it is an old acquaintance of above twenty years' standing. I can tell you landlord is a vast

Mr. Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the squire went off, singing and capering at the

When he was gone, Mr. Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with much gravity. He told his nephew, "He

wished with all his heart he would endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot," says he, "flatter you

with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that aversion in a woman may be conquered by

perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but the usual triumphs gained by

perseverence in a lover are over caprice, prudence, affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of levity,

which excites women not overwarm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity by prolonging the time of

courtship, even when they are well enough pleased with the object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to

make him a very pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, will rather gather

strength than be conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another apprehension which you must excuse. I

am afraid this passion which you have for this fine young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its

object, and is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only foundation of matrimonial felicity. To

admire, to like, and to long for the possession of a beautiful woman, without any regard to her sentiments

towards us, is, I am afraid, too natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only; at least, I am pretty

confident that to love the creature who we are assured hates us is not in human nature. Examine your heart,

therefore, thoroughly, my good boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least suspicion of this kind, I

am sure your own virtue and religion will impel you to drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your

The reader may pretty well guess Blifil's answer; but, if he should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure

to satisfy him, as our history now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear to be

The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble safe and unregarded through the

pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to

enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to

repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set dogs

after her; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his

I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion, when first found strayed from the

pale of her nursery, to be in pretty much the same situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an

uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and

rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from

some, it is only to deliver her over to one of their own chusing, of more disagreeable to her than any of the

rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play,

the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long

Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not

contented with all that she had suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who

seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, she was no

The servants were no sooner departed after dinner, than Mrs. Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia,

informed her, "That she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first opportunity

of leaving her alone with him." "If you do, madam," answered Sophia, with some spirit, "I shall take the first

opportunity of leaving him by himself." "How! madam!" cries the aunt; "is this the return you make me for

my kindness in relieving you from your confinement at your father's?" "You know, madam," said Sophia,

"the cause of that confinement was a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I detested, and will

my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in another equally bad?" "And do you

think then, madam," answered Mrs. Western, that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr.

Blifil?" "Very little, in my opinion," cries Sophia; "and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly

have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure." "Then my pleasure, I find," said the aunt, "hath

very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from nobler motives. The view of

aggrandizing my family, of ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are

there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?" "None, upon my honour," said Sophia.

"A pincushion upon my coach would please me just as well." "Never mention honour," cries the aunt. "It

becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear

your groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however mean and base your

own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I

encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its advantage in

fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advantage of ours." "Surely,"

says Sophia, "I am born deficient, and have not the senses with which other people are blessed; there must be

certainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely mankind

would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with

possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles."

"No, no, miss," cries the aunt; "you are born with as many senses as other people; but I assure you, you are

not born with a sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the world; so I

declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree

to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you tomorrow morning to my brother,

and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor see your face again." Sophia stood a few moments silent

after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she

cryed, "Do with me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my

dear aunt forsakes me, where shall I look for a protector?" "My dear niece," cries she, "you will have a very

good protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow Jones can

make you decline." "Indeed, madam," said Sophia, "you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you

have shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it will satisfy you, I

will receive the sacrament upon it never to see his face again." "But, child, dear child," said the aunt, "be

reasonable; can you invent a single objection?" "I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection

answered Sophia. "What?" cries the aunt; "I remember none." "Sure, madam," said Sophia, "I told you he had

used me in the rudest and vilest manner." "Indeed, child," answered she, "I never heard you, or did not

understand you: but what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?" "Indeed, madam, said Sophia, "I am

almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust his hand

into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast at this moment."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Western. "Yes, indeed, madam," answered Sophia; "my father luckily came in at that

instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded to." "I am astonished and

confounded," cries the aunt. "No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we were a

family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is

impossible! sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation against him." "I hope, madam," said

Sophia, "you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is

true." "I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present," returned the aunt. "Yet surely he could

have no dishonourable design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he hath not; for they

are not only honourable, but generous. I don't know; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all

I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several

lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish

custom, and what I never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can

bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I

should not have soon been brought to endure so much." "You will pardon me, dear madam," said Sophia, "if I

make one observation: you own you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny

it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them." "You say true, dear Sophy,"

answered she; "I had once the offer of a title." "Why, then," said Sophia, "will you not suffer me to refuse this

once?" "It is true, child, said she, "I have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good an offer; that is,

not so very, very good an offer." "Yes, madam," said Sophia; "but you have had very great proposals from

men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered itself."

"I own it was not," said she. "Well, madam," continued Sophia, "and why may not I expect to have a second,

perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to

the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair." "Well,

my dear, dear Sophy," cries the aunt, "what would you have me say?" "Why, I only beg that I may not be left

alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him

in your company." "Well, I will grant it," cries the aunt. "Sophy, you know I love you, and can deny you

nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought

cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has had verses

to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something you formerly. I

am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must

the human form." Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her conquests, and her cruelty, till

the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs. Western never once offered to leave

the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt

into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her niece said; and agreed that a little

Thus Sophia, by a little welldirected flattery, for which surely none will blame her, obtained a little ease for

herself, and, at least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than she

hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable

When Mr. Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs. Miller set forwards to her

soninlaw's lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he

had known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs. Miller, had been furnished with a room

in the same house with Mr. Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction on

account of Mr. Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could, she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where

The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so extremely delightful to persons in any kind

of distress, that the distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is more than compensated by

bringing this comfort with it. Nor are instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate

observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not to be numbered among our general

faults. The black ingredient which fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid, turned

upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier than ourselves, without some degree of

malignity; while we commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient benevolence and

pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships

within my observation, have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one from which I have known very

few absolutely exempt. But enough of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.

Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under the weight of his adversity, and

that she might thus lose any future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated somewhat of

her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her persecution, by sending him the company of two

such faithful friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For Partridge, though he had many

imperfections, wanted not fidelity; and though fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his master, yet the

While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his friends, Partridge brought an account that

Mr. Fitzpatrick was still alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon which, Jones

fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, "My dear Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an

accident, which, whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you, and in which your

conscience cannot accuse you of having been the least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done

more than taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the coroner's inquest certainly find it;

and then you will be easily admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial, yet it is a trial

which many men would stand for you for a shilling." "Come, come, Mr. Jones," says Mrs. Miller, "chear

yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told Mr. Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge

Jones gravely answered, "That whatever might be his fate, he should always lament the having shed the blood

of one of his fellowcreatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have

another misfortune of the tenderest kind O! Mrs. Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth."

"That must be a mistress," said Mrs. Miller; "but come, come; I know more than you imagine" (for indeed

Partridge had blabbed all); "and I have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you

think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he hath of the lady."

"Indeed, my dear friend, indeed," answered Jones, "you are an entire stranger to the cause of my grief. If you

was acquainted with the story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no danger from

Blifil. I have undone myself." "Don't despair," replied Mrs. Miller; "you know not what a woman can do; and

if anything be in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty. My son, my dear Mr.

Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty.

Shall I go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me say."

"Thou best of women," cries Jones, taking her by the hand, "talk not of obligations to me; but as you have

been so kind to mention it, there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are acquainted

with the lady (how you came by your information I know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you

could contrive to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever acknowledge your

"Give it me," said Mrs. Miller. "If I see it not in her own possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my

last! Comfort yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past follies, and I warrant

all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear

"Believe me, madam," said he, "I do not speak the common cant of one in my unhappy situation. Before this

dreadful accident happened, I had resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the wickedness as

well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your

house, for which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I have been hurried

into vices, I do not approve a vicious character, nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it."

Mrs. Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the sincerity of which she averred she had an

entire faith; and now the remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that good woman and Mr.

Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr. Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him much

better comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so much contributed as

the kind undertaking of Mrs. Miller to deliver his letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means

to accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed Partridge that she had

strictly charged him, on pain of having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any answer. He was,

moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so warm an advocate to Mr. Allworthy himself in this good

After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been with him much longer), they both took

their leave, promising to return to him soon; during which Mrs. Miller said she hoped to bring him some

good news from his mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised to enquire into the state of Mr. Fitzpatrick's

wound, and likewise to find out some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.

The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we likewise shall now attend her.

Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived now on a perfect friendly footing with

Sophia was dressing, when she was acquainted that there was a gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she

was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs. Miller was immediately admitted.

Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to each other, being past, Sophia said,

"I have not the pleasure to know you, madam." "No, madam," answered Mrs. Miller, "and I must beg pardon

for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give you this trouble, I hope" "Pray,

what is your business, madam?" said Sophia, with a little emotion. "Madam, we are not alone," replied Mrs.

When Betty was departed, Mrs. Miller said, "I was desired, madam, by a very unhappy young gentleman, to

deliver you this letter." Sophia changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and after

some hesitation, said "I could not conceive, madam, from your appearance, that your business had been of

such a nature. Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry to entertain an

"If you will have patience, madam, " answered Mrs. Miller, "I will acquaint you who I am, and how I came

by that letter." "I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything," cries Sophia; "but I must insist on your

Mrs. Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms implored her compassion; to which

Sophia answered: "Sure, madam, it is surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of this

person. I would not think, madam" "No, madam." says Mrs. Miller, "you shall not think anything but the

truth. I will tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the bestnatured creature that ever

was born." She then began and related the story of Mr. Anderson. After this she cried, "This madam,

this is his goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath preserved my child." Here,

after shedding some tears, she related everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances

which would have most reflected on her daughter, and concluded with saying, "Now, madam, you shall judge

whether I can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and

The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined

her complexion to too great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and cried, "I

know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be blamed But what service can my

reading this letter do your friend, since I am resolved never" Mrs. Miller fell again to her entreaties, and

begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said, carry it back. "Well, madam," says Sophia, "I cannot help

it, if you will force it upon me. Certainly you may leave it, whether I will or no." What Sophia meant, or

whether she meant anything, I will not presume to determine; but Mrs. Miller actually understood this as a

hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her leave, having first begged permission to wait

The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs. Miller was out of sight; for then Sophia opened and read

This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of little more than confessions of his own

unworthiness, and bitter lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations of his

unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the honour of

being admitted to her presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady Bellaston in such a manner,

that, though it would not entitle him to her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And

concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than to marry Lady Bellaston.

Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor

could her invention suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him,

though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to

That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt Western, and in the afternoon they were all

three, by appointment, to go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum. Sophia would

have gladly been excused from all, but would not disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting

illness, she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered into her head. When she was drest,

therefore, down she went, resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one it

proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her

dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was at the very

Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia, was the company of Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera,

and who attended her to the drum. And though both places were too publick to admit of any particularities,

and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one place, and by the cards at the other, she could not,

however, enjoy herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women, which will not suffer

them to be even easy in the presence of a man whom they know to have pretensions to them, which they are

Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in

the sense it is here applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to describe the

A drum, then, is an assembly of welldressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest

do nothing at all; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and like the

landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get

No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that

we hear persons of fashion eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined entirely to upper

life. How insupportable must we imagine this round of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how

difficult must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her looks, when her mind dictated

nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!

Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will leave her to soothe her melancholy at least,

though incapable, we fear, of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers us, is now arrived

Mrs. Miller had a long discourse with Mr. Allworthy, at his return from dinner, in which she acquainted him

with Jones's having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their separation; and with

the distresses to which that loss had subjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the

faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she had to Jones; not that she was entirely

explicit with regard to her daughter; for though she had the utmost confidence in Mr. Allworthy, and though

there could be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which was unhappily known to more than half a dozen,

yet she could not prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which reflected most on the chastity of

poor Nancy, but smothered that part of her evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the

Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not to have the least mixture of good in

them. "However," says he, "I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad as he is, and I

shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but must insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I

promise you, it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to take the measures I have taken."

"Well, sir," says she, "I make not the least doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and natural

colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man deserves better of you than some other folks that

"Madam," cries Allworthy, a little ruffied, "I will not hear any reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say

a word more of that kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the worthiest and best of men; and I

once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too long

concealing facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the wretch to this good young man is what I most

resent; for, madam, I have the greatest reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my

"I am sure, sir," answered Mrs. Miller, a little frightened (for, though Mr. Allworthy had the utmost

sweetness and benevolence in his smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), "I shall never speak against any

gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure, sir, such behaviour would very little become me,

especially when the gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry with me, you must not

indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have

been angry with me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How often have I heard you call him your

son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a parent? Nay, sir, I cannot forget the

many tender expressions, the many good things you have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues;

of his goodnature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them, for I find them all true. I have

experienced them in my own cause. They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed

you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor youth, to whom I am so much

obliged, hath suffered; when I consider the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life, I

must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready to plunge into my heart, I must lament the

Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to be with anger; for, after a short

silence, taking Mrs. Miller by the hand, he said very affectionately to her, "Come, madam, let us consider a

little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantageous to

her, but you know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's reconciliation. I know Mr.

Nightingale very well, and have formerly had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to

serve you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an only son, and the thing is now

irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you."

Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy for this kind and generous offer,

nor could she refrain from taking this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, "to whom," said

she, "I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present trouble." Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was

too good a man to be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now actuated Mrs. Miller; and

indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have been a

little softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice itself could not have derived from an evil

Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had been above an hour together, when their conversation was put an end to

by the arrival of Blifil and another person,which other person no less than Mr. Dowling, the attorney, who

was now become a great favourite with Mr. Blifil, and whom Mr. Allworthy, at the desire of his nephew, had

made his steward; and had likewise recommended him to Mr. Western, from whom the attorney received a

promise of being promoted to the same office upon the first vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in

transacting some affairs which the squire then had in London in relation to a mortgage.

This was the principal affair which then brought Mr. Dowling to town; therefore he took the same

opportunity to charge himself with some money for Mr. Allworthy, and to make a report to him of some

other business; in all which, as it was of much too dull a nature to find any place in this history, we will leave

Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour by those soothing methods which we

have before related, she had not brought her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar.

This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the preceding evening, that she was well

satisfied from the conduct of Sophia, and from her carriage to his lordship, that all delays would be

dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to press the match forward with such rapidity that the young

lady should have no time to reflect, and be obliged to consent while she scarce knew what she did; in which

manner, she said, onehalf of the marriages among people of condition were brought about. A fact very

probably true, and to which, I suppose, is owing the mutual tenderness which afterwards exists among so

A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar; and both these so readily embraced the

advice, that the very next day was, at his lordship's request, appointed by Mrs. Western for a private interview

between the young parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon in such high

terms, that, after having urged everything she possibly could invent against it without the least effect, she at

last agreed to give the highest instance of complacence which any young lady can give, and consented to see

As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we shall be excused from reciting the whole that

past at this interview; in which, after his lordship had made many declarations of the most pure and ardent

passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she at last collected all the spirits she could raise, and with a trembling

low voice said, "My lord, you must be yourself conscious whether your former behaviour to me hath been

consistent with the professions you now make." "Is there," answered he, "no way by which I can atone for

madness? what I did, I am afraid, must have too plainly convinced you, that the violence of love had deprived

me of my senses." "Indeed, my lord," said she, "it is in your power to give me a proof of an affection which I

much rather wish to encourage, and to which I should think myself more beholden." "Name it, madam," said

my lord, very warmly. "My lord," says she, looking down upon her fan, "I know you must be sensible how

uneasy this pretended passion of yours hath made me." "Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?" says he.

"Yes, my lord," answered Sophia, "all professions of love to those whom we persecute are most insulting

pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution: nay, it is taking a most ungenerous

advantage of my unhappy situation." "Most lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me," cries he, "of

taking an ungenerous advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are directed to your honour and interest,

and while I have no view, no hope, no ambition, but to throw myself, honour, fortune, everything at your

feet." "My lord," says she, "it is that fortune and those honours which gave you the advantage of which I

complain. These are the charms which have seduced my relations, but to me they are things indifferent. If

your lordship will merit my gratitude, there is but one way." "Pardon me, divine creature," said he, "there can

be none. All I can do for you is so much your due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there is no room

for your gratitude." "Indeed, my lord," answered she, "you may obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every

kind thought and wish which it is in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, for sure to a

generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let me beseech you, then, to cease a pursuit in which you

can never have any success. For your own sake as well as mine, I entreat this favour; for sure you are too

noble to have any pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature. What can your lordship propose but

uneasiness to yourself by a perseverance, which, upon my honour, upon my soul, cannot, shall not prevail

with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to." Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said "Is it

then, madam, that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and scorn; or will you pardon me if I

suspect there is some other?" Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, "My lord, I shall not

be accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged to your lordship for the generous offer you

have made; I own it is beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on

my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it." Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not

perfectly understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but he

concluded his ranting speech with saying, "That if she had preengaged herself to any gentleman, however

unhappy it would make him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist." Perhaps my lord laid too

much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we cannot else well account for the indignation with which he

inspired Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he had given her.

While she speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs. Western came into the room, the fire glaring

in her cheeks, and the flames bursting from her eyes. "I am ashamed," says she, "my lord, of the reception

which you have met with. I assure your lordship, we are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell

you, Miss Western, the family expect a different behaviour from you." Here my lord interfered on behalf of

the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled her handkerchief, threw herself into a

The remainder of the conversation between Mrs. Western and his lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted

of bitter lamentations on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece should and would

consent to all he wished. "Indeed, my lord," says she, "the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted

to her fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame for everything. The girl hath silly

country notions of bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good

This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some time before left the room, with more

appearance of passion than she had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many

expressions of thanks to Mrs. Western, many ardent professions of passion which nothing could conquer, and

many assurances of perseverance, which Mrs. Western highly encouraged, took his leave for this time.

Before we relate what now passed between Mrs. Western and Sophia, it may be proper to mention an

unfortunate accident which had happened, and which had occasioned the return of Mrs. Western with so

The reader then must know, that the maid who at present attended on Sophia was recommended by Lady

Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some time in the capacity of a combbrush: she was a very sensible

girl, and had received the strictest instructions to watch her young lady very carefully. These instructions, we

are sorry to say, were communicated to her by Mrs. Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston had now so

ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the good waitingwoman had formerly borne to Sophia

was entirely obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new mistress.

Now, when Mrs. Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the girl), returning to her young lady,

found her very attentively engaged in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed on

that occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which the girl entertained; but in, deed they had

yet a stronger foundation, for she had overheard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and Mrs.

Mrs. Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after receiving many commendations and

some rewards for her fidelity, was ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she should

Unluckily, Mrs. Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged with his lordship. Betty,

according to order, sent her directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances relating to

what had past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor woman to believe that Sophia had communicated

the whole affair; and so pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the letter and relating to

This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was one of that order of mortals who are apt

to believe everything which is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive nor defensive

weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be imposed upon by any one who will only be at the

expense of a little falsehood for that purpose. Mrs. Western, having drained Mrs. Miller of all she knew,

which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her

with assurances that Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the letter, nor ever receive

another; nor did she suffer her to depart without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to which she

could afford no better name than that of procuress. This discovery had greatly discomposed her temper,

when, coming into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very warmly

protesting against his lordship's addresses. At which the rage already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in

upon her niece in a most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what past at that time

No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone, than Mrs. Western returned to Sophia, whom she upbraided in the most

bitter terms for the ill use she had made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in conversing

with a man with whom she had offered but the day before to bind herself in the most solemn oath never more

to have any conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such conversation. "How, how! Miss

Western," said the aunt; "will you deny your receiving a letter from him yesterday?" "A letter, madam!"

answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. "It is not very well bred, miss," replies the aunt, "to repeat my words.

I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing it me immediately." "I scorn a lie, madam," said Sophia; "I did

receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and, indeed, I may say, against my consent." "Indeed, indeed,

miss," cries the aunt, "you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it at all; but where is the letter?

To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned an answer; and at last only

excused herself by declaring she had not the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her

aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this short question, whether she would resolve to marry

Lord Fellamar, or no? to which she received the strongest negative. Mrs. Western then replied with an oath,

or something very like one, that she would early the next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.

Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following manner: "Why, madam, must I of necessity be

forced to marry at all? Consider how cruel you would have thought it in your own case, and how much kinder

your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never marry

contrary to my father's consent, nor without asking yours And when I ask the consent of either improperly,

it will be then time enough to force some other marriage upon me. "Can I bear to hear this," cries Mrs.

Western, "from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her pocket?" "I have no such letter, I promise

you," answered Sophia; "and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you any further

disturbance." "How, Miss Western!" said the aunt, "have you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to

own your affection for such a villain to my face?" "Sure, madam," said Sophia, "you put a very strange

construction on my words." "Indeed, Miss Western," cries the lady, "I shall not bear this usage; you have

learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined

you by this false system of education; and, please heaven, he shall have the comfort of its fruits; for once

more I declare to you, that tomorrow morning I will carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces from the

field, and remain henceforth, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of perfect neutrality. You are both too

wise to be regulated by my measures; so prepare yourself, for tomorrow morning you shall evacuate this

Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she said. In this resolution therefore we must

at present leave her, as there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.

Mr. Jones passed about twentyfour melancholy hours by himself, unless when relieved by the company of

Partridge, before Mr. Nightingale returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his friend;

for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time employed in his service.

He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the beginning of the unfortunate rencounter

were a crew belonging to a manofwar which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went in search

of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought after were all gone ashore. He then traced them

from place to place, till at last he found two of them drinking together, with third person, at a hedgetavern

Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was in the room when he came in). As soon

as they were alone, Nightingale, taking Jones by the hand, cried, "Come, my brave friend, be not too much

dejected at what I am going to tell you I am sorry I am the messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty

to tell you." "I guess already what that bad news is," cries Jones. "The poor gentleman then is dead." "I

hope not," answered Nightingale. "He was alive this morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the

accounts I could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as you told it, your own remorse

would be all you would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I

entreat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be an

"What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you," said Jones, "to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?"

"Have patience," cries Nightingale," and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry I could make, I at

last met with two of the fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not

relate the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it." "Why, what do they say?" cries Jones.

"Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were at

too great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you: but they both agree that the first blow

was given by you." "Then, upon my soul," answered Jones, "they injure me. He not only struck me first, but

struck me without the least provocation. What should induce those villains to accuse me falsely?" "Nay, that I

cannot guess," said Nightingale, "and if you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your friend, cannot conceive

a reason why they should belie you, what reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they

should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several times, and so did another gentleman who

was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you; for he

begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man in the case; and asked them over and over, if

they were certain; to which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by their evidence upon oath.

For heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your

business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would not shock you; but you know, I believe,

the severity of the law, whatever verbal provocations may have been given you." "Alas! my friend," cries

Jones, "what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to live with the

reputation of a murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have the confidence to solicit

them to speak in the behalf of a man condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have

no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly superior; which will, I am certain, afford me

He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the truth of what he had at first asserted.

The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline to credit his friend, when Mrs. Miller

appeared, and made a sorrowful report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he cried

out most heroically, "Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as to what shall happen, at least with regard to my

life; and if it be the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the blood I have spilt, I hope

the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least,

A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends, at which, as few readers would have

been pleased to be present, so few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will, therefore, pass

on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak

Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, "He knew no lady in the world whom he could possibly

expect to see there." However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs. Miller and Mr.

Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the lady admitted.

If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly was he astonished when he discovered

this lady to be no other than Mrs. Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order to

cure the surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the arrival of this lady.

Who this Mrs. Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was, he must be perfectly satisfied. He

will therefore be pleased to remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr.

Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath.

Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr. Fitzpatrick at that time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the

lady who had lately filled that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr. Fitzpatrick therefore,

having thoroughly examined Mrs. Waters on the road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their

arrival at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any scruple accepted. As husband and wife

this gentleman and lady continued together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife they

Whether Mr. Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good thing till he had secured another,

which he had at present only a prospect or whether Mrs. Waters had so well discharged her office, that he

intended still to retain her as principal, and to make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not

say; but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never communicated to her the letter given him by

Mrs. Western, nor ever once hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever mention the

name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him wherever he met him, he did not imitate those

prudent persons who think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the safest seconds on these

occasions. The first account, therefore, which she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he

As Mr. Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a

little more confused than usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who had given

him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart had received a wound, which, though not of a

mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was she acquainted

that Mr. Jones himself was the man who had been committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than

she took the first opportunity of committing Mr. Fitzpatrick to the care of his nurse, and hastened away to

She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an immediate check from the melancholy

aspect of poor Jones, who started and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, "Nay, I do not

wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me; for few gentlemen are troubled here with

visits from any lady, unless a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr. Jones. Indeed, I little thought,

when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have been in such a place." "Indeed, madam," says

Jones, "I must look upon this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal

habitations." "I protest, Mr. Jones," says she, "I can hardly persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow

I saw at Upton. Why, your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can be the matter

with you?" "I thought, madam," said Jones, "as you knew of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason."

"Pugh!" says she, "you have pinked a man in a duel, that's all." Jones exprest some indignation at this levity,

and spoke with the utmost contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, "Well, then, sir, if you

take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no

danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of

representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more honour from curing him: but the

king's surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are at present no symptoms,

he apprehends not the least danger of life." Jones shewed great satisfaction at this report; upon which she

affirmed the truth of it, adding, "By the most extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house;

and have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and says, whatever be the consequence,

that he was entirely the aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame."

Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs. Waters brought him. He then informed her

of many things which she well knew before, as who Mr. Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, He

likewise told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars,

concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of which he had been guilty;

every one of which, he said, had been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardonable if

he did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her

Mrs. Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low spirits and confinement. She

repeated some witticisms about the devil when he was sick, and told him, "She doubted not but shortly to see

him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then," says she, "I don't question but your conscience will be

Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her no great honour, in the opinion of

some readers, to remember; nor are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be treated

with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest of this conversation, and only observe that it

ended at last with perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady; for the

former was greatly transported with the news she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so

pleased with the penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview, conceived. a very

Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr. Nightingale was pretty well effaced; but the dejection

into which Mrs. Miller had thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with the words of

Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt,

and had taken a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him were to be equalled

only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the

We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we have, therefore, travelled together

through so many pages let us behave to one another like fellowtravellers in a stage coach, who have passed

several days in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities

which may have occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their

vehicle with chearfulness and good humour; since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it

As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to

imitate the good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes and

raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jestsake

personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and serious.

In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy

entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into

this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere made, and

which may sometimes perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon

thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative

only; and, indeed. when thou hast perused the many great events which this book will produce, thou wilt

And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have

been an entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in anything I have

offended, it was really without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy

friends; but I do most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou hast

been told, among other stories of me, that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told

thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more

reason; for none hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of the

abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me

All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before this page shall offer itself to thy

perusal; for however short the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their

While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which we left him tormenting himself,

Partridge came stumbling into the room with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair

standing on end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a spectre,

Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. He

did, indeed, himself change colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was the matter?

"I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me. Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay

in the outward room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard what I have

heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said Jones. "The matter, sir? O good Heaven!" answered Partridge, "was

that woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?" "She was, Partridge," cried Jones.

"And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?" said he, trembling. "I am afraid what past between us

is no secret," said Jones. "Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir, answer me," cries Partridge. "You know

I did," cries Jones. "Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries Partridge; "but as

Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror than Partridge himself. He was,

indeed, for some time struck dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his

words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, "How! how! what's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries

Partridge, "I have not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most certainly true. That

woman who now went out is your own mother. How unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see

her at that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived to bring about this

"Sure," cried Jones, "Fortune will never have done with me till she hath driven me to distraction. But why do

I blame Fortune? I am myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have befallen me

are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived

me of my senses! And was Mrs. Waters, then but why do I ask? for thou must certainly know her If thou

hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back

again to me. O good Heavens! incest with a mother! To what am I reserved!" He then fell into the most

violent and frantic agonies of grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at

last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to himself; and then, having acquainted

Partridge that he would find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was

If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be

apt to admire the many strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between Partridge and

Mrs. Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr. Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently

observe in life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little circumstances; and more than

After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned back to his master, without having seen Mrs.

Waters. Jones, who was in a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he brought him

his account. He was not long, however, in this condition before he received the following letter:

Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned something concerning you which greatly

surprizes and affects me; but as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such high

importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able

to see you. O, Mr. Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the reflection upon which is

like to embitter all my future life, who it was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever

P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr. Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger;

so that whatever other grievous crimes you have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not among the number.

Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one

of his faculties). Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it likewise; nor had it upon

him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both

their countenances. While they both remained speechless, the turnkey entered the room, and, without taking

any notice of what sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a man

without desired to speak with him. This person was presently introduced, and was other than Black George.

As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the turnkey, he instantly saw the great

disorder which appeared in the face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened, which was

reported in the very worst light in Mr. Western's family; he concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was

dead, and that Mr. Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave him much

uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition, and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship

which he had been overtempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the obligations he had

The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the present sight. He told Jones he was heartily

sorry for his misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner of service. "Perhaps, sir,"

said he, "you may want a little matter of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is heartily

Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks for the kind offer he had made; but

answered, "He had not the least want of that kind." Upon which George began to press his services more

eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power

of any living man to give. "Come, come, my good master," answered George, "do not take the matter so

much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure you an't the first gentleman who hath

killed a man, and yet come off." "You are wide of the matter, George," said Partridge, "the gentleman is not

dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in

your power to do him any good." You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr. Partridge," answered

George; "if his concern is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master." "What do you say, Mr.

George?" cried Jones. "Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned? Sophia! how dares

such a wretch as I mention her so profanely!" "I hope she will be yours yet," answered George. "Why yes, sir,

I have something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there

hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a vast

big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair, that she

would never set foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I, but everything was very

quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in

such good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and swore she should be her own

mistress, and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought this news would please you, and so I

slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it." Mr. Jones assured George that it did greatly please

him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable creature, nothing

could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.

The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not important enough to be here related. The reader

will, therefore, forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this great goodwill of the

Mrs. Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began to set forth the great honours and advantages

which would accrue to the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely refused;

in which refusal, when the squire took the part of his daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent

passion, and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience nor his prudence could bear it any

longer; upon which there ensued between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of

Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs. Western departed, and had consequently no

leisure to acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might have possibly produced ill

effects; but, to say truth, I believe it never once occurred to her memory at this time.

When Mrs. Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as well indeed from necessity as

inclination, began to return the compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against her aunt,

by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest

degree acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr. Allworthy had insisted on an entire

relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did

not in the least question succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once more gave a

loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affectionate

heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned,

been removed, I much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not like, to have

obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole business of her life to oblige him, and

would never marry any man against his consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest happiness,

Chapter 3. Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he made on that occasion

The morning after these things had happened, Mr. Allworthy went, according to his promise, to visit old

Nightingale, with whom his authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three hours, he at last

Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed of those strange chances whence very

good and grave men have concluded that Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret

villany, in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty, however warily they tread in those of

Mr. Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr. Nightingale's, saw Black George; he took no notice of him, nor did

However, when their conversation on the principal point was over, Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he

knew one George Seagrim, and upon what business he came to his house? "Yes," answered Nightingale, "I

know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow he is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up

L500 from renting a very small estate of L30 a year." "And this is the story which he hath told you?" cries

Allworthy. "Nay, it is true, I promise you," said Nightingale, "for I have the money now in my own hands, in

five bankbills, which I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some purchase in the north of England." The

bankbills were no sooner produced at Allworthy's desire, than he blessed himself at the strangeness of the

discovery. He presently told Nightingale that these bankbills were formerly his, and then acquainted him

with the whole affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of business than highwaymen,

gamesters, and other thieves of that kind, so there are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of

gamesters, as usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind; whether it be that the one way of cheating is a

discountenance or reflection upon the other, or that money, which is the common mistress of all cheats,

makes them regard each other in the light of rivals; but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he

exclaimed against the fellow in terms much severer than the justice and honesty of Allworthy had bestowed

Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret till he should hear farther from him;

and, if he should in the meantime see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice to him of the

discovery which he had made. He then returned to his lodgings, where he found Mrs. Miller in a very

dejected condition, on account of the information she had received from her soninlaw. Mr. Allworthy, with

great chearfulness, told her that he had much good news to communicate; and, with little further preface,

acquainted her that he had brought Mr. Nightingale to consent to see his son, and did not in the least doubt to

effect a perfect reconciliation between them; though he found the father more sowered by another accident of

the same kind which had happened in his family. He then mentioned the running away of the uncle's

daughter, which he had been told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs. Miller and her soninlaw did not

The reader may suppose Mrs. Miller received this account with great thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but

so uncommon was her friendship to Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness she suffered for his

sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at hearing a piece of news tending so much to the happiness of her

own family; nor whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the obligations she had to Jones, did not

hurt as well as please her; when her grateful heart said to her, "While my own family is happy, how miserable

is the poor creature to whose generosity we owe the beginning of all this happiness!"

Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I may use that expression) on these first tidings,

told her he had still something more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure. "I think," said he,

"I have discovered a pretty considerable treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps,

indeed, his present situation may be such that it will be of no service to him." The latter part of the speech

gave Mrs. Miller to understand who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, "I hope not, sir." "I hope so

too," cries Allworthy, "with all my heart; but my nephew told me this morning he had heard a very bad

account of the affair." "Good Heaven! sir," said she "Well, I must not speak, and yet it is certainly very

hard to be obliged to hold one's tongue when one hears." "Madam," said Allworthy, "you may say

whatever you please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against any one; and as for that young

man, I assure you I should be heartily pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, and particularly

of this sad affair. You can testify the affection I have formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured me

for loving him so much. I did not withdraw that affection from him without thinking I had the justest cause.

Believe me, Mrs. Miller, I should be glad to find I have been mistaken." Mrs. Miller was going eagerly to

reply, when a servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with her immediately.

Allworthy then enquired for his nephew, and was told that he had been for some time in his room with the

gentleman who used to come to him, and whom Mr. Allworthy guessing rightly to be Mr. Dowling, he

When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the banknotes to him, without mentioning any name, and

asked in what manner such a person might be punished. To which Dowling answered, "He thought he might

be indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of some nicety, it would be proper to go to counsel.

He said he was to attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr. Western's, and if Mr. Allworthy pleased he

would lay the case before them." This was agreed to; and then Mrs. Miller, opening the door, cried, "I ask

pardon, I did not know you had company; but Allworthy desired her to come in, saying he had finished his

business. Upon which Mr. Dowling withdrew, and Mrs. Miller introduced Mr. Nightingale the younger, to

return thanks for the great kindness done him by Allworthy: but she had scarce patience to let the young

gentleman finish his speech before she interrupted him, saying, "O sir! Mr. Nightingale brings great news

about poor Mr. Jones: he hath been to see the wounded gentleman, who is out of all danger of death, and,

what is more, declares he fell upon poor Mr. Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, sir, you would not have

Mr. Jones be a coward. If I was a man myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw my

sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr. Allworthy, tell him all yourself." Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs.

Miller had said; and concluded with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the

bestnatured fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was

going to cease, when Mrs. Miller again begged him to relate all the many dutiful expressions he had heard

him make use of towards Mr. Allworthy. "To say the utmost good of Mr. Allworthy," cries Nightingale, "is

doing no more than strict justice, and can have no merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man can be more

sensible of the obligations he hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. Indeed, sir, I am convinced the weight

of your displeasure is the heaviest burthen he lies under. He hath often lamented it to me, and hath as often

protested in the most solemn manner he hath never been intentionally guilty of any offence towards you; nay,

he hath sworn he would rather die a thousand deaths than he would have his conscience upbraid him with one

disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I ask pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to

intermeddle too far in so tender a point." "You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought," cries Mrs.

Miller. "Indeed, Mr. Nightingale," answered Allworthy, "I applaud your generous friendship, and I wish he

may merit it of you. I confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from this unfortunate gentleman; and, if

that matter should turn out to be as you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what you say), I may,

perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I have of this young man; for this good gentlewoman

here, nay, all who know me, can witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own son. Indeed, I

have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my care. I still remember the innocent, the helpless situation

in which I found him. I feel the tender pressure of his little hands at this moment. He was my darling, indeed

As the answer which Mrs. Miller made may lead us into fresh matters, we will here stop to account for the

visible alteration in Mr. Allworthy's mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions of this kind,

it is true, frequently occur in histories and dramatic writers, for no other reason than because the history or

play draws to a conclusion, and are justified by authority of authors; yet, though we insist upon as much

authority as any author whatever, we shall use this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to

This alteration then in the mind of Mr. Allworthy was occasioned by a letter he had just received from Mr.

Square, and which we shall give the reader in the beginning of the next chapter.

MY WORTHY FRIEND, I informed you in my last that I was forbidden the use of the waters, as they were

found by experience rather to increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now acquaint you

with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr. Harrington

I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to learn to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace

mine, as to show any surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have so long studied. Yet, to

say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern

philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much stronger support to a good mind, than all the

consolations that are drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our enjoyments here, or

any other topic of those declamations which are sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn

patience in bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real contempt of it, and much less of

making us think it is a real good. I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of atheism, or

even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are called philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient

as modern, have, from the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future state; but in reality, that light

was so faint and glimmering, and the hopes were so incertain and precarious, that it may be justly doubted on

which side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes his Phaedon with declaring, that his best arguments

amount only to raise a probability; and Cicero himself seems rather to Profess an inclination to believe, than

any actual belief in the doctrines of immortality. As to myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was much

You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you it hath not been till very lately that I could,

with truth, call myself so. The pride of Philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and the sublimest of all

wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks of old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious

to show me my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth, before I sunk into utter darkness for ever.

I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to the main Purpose of this letter.

When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing which sits heavier upon my conscience than

the injustice I have been guilty of to that poor wretch, your adopted son. I have, indeed, not only connived at

the villany of others, but been myself active in injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell

you, on the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the principal fact, upon the

misrepresentation of which you discarded him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your

supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified any real concern; and what happened

afterwards arose from the wildness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it, from the baseness of

another person (but it is my desire to justify the innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this

young man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity for friendship, the highest integrity,

and indeed every virtue which can ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be

numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the contrary, I am satisfied, when you

Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing this from you so long: to reveal it now I

can have no inducement but the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the innocent, and of

making all the amends in my Power for a Past offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect

desired, and will restore this deserving young man to your favour; the hearing of which, while I am yet alive,

The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so visibly appearing in Mr. Allworthy,

notwithstanding he received from Thwackum, by the same post, another letter of a very different kind, which

we shall here add, as it may possibly be the last time we shall have occasion to mention the name of that

I am not at all surprized at hearing form your worthy nephew a fresh instance of the villany of Mr. Square the

atheist's young pupil. I shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I heartily pray that your own

blood may not seal up his final commitment to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in

your behaviour to this wretch, so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of your character, I

say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to prick and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet

be wanting to my duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order to bring you to a due sense of your

errors. I therefore pray you seriously to consider the judgment which is likely to overtake this wicked villain;

and let it serve at least as a warning to you, that you may not for the future despise the advice of one who is

Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged much of this diabolical spirit out of a

boy, of whom, from his infancy, I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession. But reflections of

I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily. I should have applied on that occasion

earlier, had I thought you would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition. Your objection to

pluralities is being righteous overmuch. If there were any crime in the practice, so many godly men would

not agree to it. If the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a declining way), I hope you will

think of me, since I am certain you must be convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest

welfare a welfare to which all worldly considerations are as trifling as the small tithes mentioned in

This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative stile to Allworthy, and of this he had

afterwards sufficient reason to repent, as in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of goodness for

the lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never liked this man. He knew him to be proud and

illnatured; he also knew that his divinity itself was tinctured with his temper, and such as in many respects

he himself did by no means approve; but he was at the same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable

in teaching the two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life and manners, an unimpeached honesty, and

a most devout attachment to religion. So that, upon the whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor love the

man, yet he could never bring himself to part with a tutor to the boys, who was, both by learning and

industry, extremely well qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as they were bred up in his own house,

and under his own eye, he should be able to correct whatever was wrong in Thwackum's instructions.

Mr. Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender concerning Jones, which had brought tears into

the good man's eyes. This Mrs. Miller observing, said, "Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this poor young man

is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal it; but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those

villains said. Mr. Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems these fellows were employed

by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr. Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship. I assure them I don't know

who they will press next. Mr. Nightingale here hath seen the officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman,

and hath told him all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never have done, had he

known Mr. Jones to have been a gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling vagabond."

Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every word she said, "Yes, sir," answered she,

"I believe you are. It is a very different story, I believe, from what those fellows told the lawyer."

"What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?" said Allworthy. "Nay, nay," said she, "this is so like you to

deny your own goodness: but Mr. Nightingale here saw him." "Saw whom, madam?" answered he. "Why,

your lawyer, sir," said she, "that you so kindly sent to inquire into the affair." "I am still in the dark, upon my

honour," said Allworthy. "Why then do you tell him, my dear sir," cries she. "Indeed, sir," said Nightingale,

"I did see that very lawyer who went from you when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate, in

company with two of the fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and who were by

that means present at the unhappy rencounter between him and Mr. Fitzpatrick." "I own, sir," said Mrs.

Miller, "when I saw this gentleman come into the room to you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I apprehended you

had sent him thither to inquire into the affair." Allworthy showed marks of astonishment in his countenance

at this news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr.

Nightingale, he said, "I must confess myself, sir, more surprized at what you tell me than I have ever been

before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?" "I am most certain," answered

Nightingale. "At Aldersgate?" cries Allworthy. "And was you in company with this lawyer and the two

fellows?" "I was, sir," said the other, "very near half an hour." "Well, sir," said Allworthy, "and in what

manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all that past between him and the fellows?" "No, sir," answered

Nightingale, "they had been together before I came. In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I had

several times examined the fellows, who persisted in a story directly contrary to what I had heard from Mr.

Jones, and which I find by Mr. Fitzpatrick was a rank falshood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say

nothing but what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr. Jones, that, when I saw the

same person with you, I concluded your goodness had prompted you to send him thither." "And did you not

send him thither?" says Mrs. Miller. "Indeed I did not," answered Allworthy; "nor did I know he had gone

on such errand till this moment." "I see it all!" said Mrs. Miller, "upon my soul, I see it all! No wonder they

have been closeted so close lately. Son Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately find

them out if they are aboveground. I will go myself" "Dear madam," said Allworthy, "be patient, and do

me the favour to send a servant upstairs to call Mr. Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if not, Mr.

Blifil." Mrs. Miller went out muttering something to herself, and presently returned with an answer, "That

Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose spirits were all up in arms in the cause of

her friend. He was not however without some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When Blifil came into

the room, he asked him with a very serious countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before

given him, "Whether he knew anything of Mr. Dowling's having seen any of the persons who were present at

There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprize on a man whose business it is to

conceal truth, or to defend falshood. For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble office it is to

save the lives of their fellowcreatures at the Old Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous

examination, to divine every question which may be asked their clients on the day of tryal, that they may be

supplyed with proper and ready answers, which the most fertile invention cannot supply in an instant.

Besides, the sudden and violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these surprizes, causes frequently such

an alteration in the countenance, that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And such indeed

were the alterations which the countenance of Blifil underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce

blame the eagerness of Mrs. Miller, who immediately cryed out, "Guilty, upon my honour! guilty, upon my

Mr. Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into

the earth, he said, "Why do you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have employed him;

for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have undertaken such an errand, and especially without

Blifil then answered, "I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence, yet may I hope your pardon?" "My

pardon," said Allworthy, very angrily. "Nay, sir," answered Blifil, "I knew you would be offended; yet

surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for

those who do not deserve it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself are not entirely

free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send

Mr. Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless inquiry, but to discover the witnesses, and to endeavour to soften

their evidence. This, sir, is the truth; which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not deny."

"I confess," said Nightingale, "this is the light in which it appeared to me from the gentleman's behaviour."

"Now, madam," said Allworthy, "I believe you will once in your life own you have entertained a wrong

Mrs. Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to

have been the ruin of Jones, yet in this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest;

so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And, indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, "That the devil

often deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch," to be a great abuse on that gentleman's character.

Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who are only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half his;

but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps them off in all extremities, till

As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is more perfectly established by recovery

from some diseases; so anger, when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case of Mr.

Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised by Square's

letter, sunk of course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly offended, bore alone all

As for that young man, the resentment of Mr. Allworthy began more and more to abate towards him. He told

Blifil, "He did not only forgive the extraordinary efforts of his goodnature, but would give him the pleasure

of following his example." Then, turning to Mrs. Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he

cryed, "What say you, madam? shall we take a hackneycoach, and all of us together pay a visit to your

Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but they must have a great deal of

goodnature, and be well acquainted with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I

hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who are, will acknowledge, that

it was impossible for him to raise any objection to this visit. Fortune, however, or the gentleman lately

mentioned above, stood his friend, and prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant

when the coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called Mrs. Miller from the company, acquainted

her with the dreadful accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr. Allworthy's intention, begged her to find

some means of stopping him: "For," says he, "the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him; and if

he should now go, he will find Mr. Jones and his mother, who arrived just as I left him, lamenting over one

The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his dreadful news, was never less capable of

invention than at present. However, as women are much readier at this than men, she bethought herself of an

excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, "I am sure, sir, you will be surprized at hearing any objection from

me to the kind proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid of the consequence of it, if carried

immediately into execution. You must imagine, sir, that all the calamities which have lately befallen this poor

young fellow must have thrown him into the lowest dejection of spirits; and now, sir, should we all of a

sudden fling him into such a violent fit of joy, as I know your presence will occasion, it may, I am afraid,

produce some fatal mischief, especially as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from being

"Is his servant without?" cries Allworthy; "pray call him hither. I will ask him some questions concerning his

Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr. Allworthy; but was at length persuaded, after Mrs. Miller,

who had often heard his whole story from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.

Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room, though many years had passed since he

had seen him. Mrs. Miller, therefore, might have spared here a formal oration, in which, indeed, she was

something prolix; for the reader, I believe, may have observed already that the good woman, among other

"And are you," said Allworthy to Partridge, "the servant of Mr. Jones?" "I can't say, sir," answered he, "that I

am regularly a servant, but I live with him, an't please your honour, at present. Non sum qualis eram; as your

Mr. Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as to his health, and other matters; to all

which Partridge answered, without having the least regard to what was, but considered only what he would

have things appear; for a strict adherence to truth was not among the articles of this honest fellow's morality,

During this dialogue Mr. Nightingale took his leave, and presently after Mrs. Miller left the room, when

Allworthy likewise dispatched Blifil; for he imagined that Partridge, when alone with him, would be more

explicit than before company. They were no sooner left in private together than Allworthy began, as in the

"Sure, friend," said the good man, "you are the strangest of all human beings. Not only to have suffered as

you have formerly, for obstinately persisting in a falsehood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and to pass

thus upon the world for a servant of your own son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your

"I see, sir," said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, "that your honour is prepossessed against me, and

resolved not to believe anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but yet there is One

"How!" said Allworthy, "will you yet deny what you was formerly convicted of upon such unanswerable,

such manifest evidence? Nay, what a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all which

twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left the country! nay, I thought you had been long

since dead. In what manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet with him,

unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise

your son in my opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately to support his father for so

"If your honour will have patience to hear me," said Partridge, "I will tell you all. "Being bid go on, he

proceeded thus: "When your honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon after; for

I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking, I suppose, it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me

out from the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the barber's shop, which, in a country place

like that, is a poor livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of L12 a year

from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was your honour's own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth

these things besides) but, as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now, as I owed

two or three small debts, which began to be troublesome to me, particularly one* which an attorney brought

up by lawcharges from 15s. to near L30, and as I found all my usual means of living had forsook me, I

*This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who,

not contented with the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single action, brought afterwards

another action on the judgment, as it was called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring

money into the pockets of attorneys to the great scandal of the law, of the nation, of Christanity, and even of

"The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and

one of the best gentlemen that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a thousand good and

charitable acts which he did while I staid with him; and I have known him often refuse business because it

was paultry and oppressive." "You need not be so particular," said Allworthy; "I know this gentleman, and a

very worthy man he is, and an honour to his profession." "Well, sir," continued Partridge, "from hence I

removed to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another lawyer, who was likewise a

very good sort of a man, and to be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the

three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well again, had it not been for a most unlucky

accident. Here I kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a trespass, I

think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and

employed a lawyer, one one I can't think of his name; but he sent for a writ against me, and had me to size.

When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me to hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told

my lord a parcel of the confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to drive my hogs into other folk's

gardens, and a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market. To

be sure, one would have thought that, instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the

greatest hogmerchant in England. Well" "Pray," said Allworthy, "do not be so particular, I have heard

nothing of your son yet." "O it was a great many years," answered Partridge, "before I saw my son, as you are

pleased to call him. I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork (for that one suit ruined me

again, and I lay seven years in Winchester jail)." "Well," said Allworthy, "pass that over till your return to

England." "Then, sir," said he, "it was about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some time,

and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that and Gloucester where the barber was just

dead, I went thither, and there I had been about two months when Mr. Jones came thither." He then gave

Allworthy a very particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well as he could remember,

which had happened from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not

forgetting to insinuate the great love and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying,

"Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth." And then repeated a most solemn protestation, "That he

was no more the father of Jones than the Pope of Rome;" and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head, if

"What am I to think of this matter?" cries Allworthy. "For what purpose should you so strongly deny a fact

which I think it would be rather your interest to own?" "Nay, sir," answered Partridge (for he could hold no

longer), "if your honour will not believe me, you are like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had

mistaken the mother of this young man, as well as you have his father." And now being asked what he

meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story,

which he had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs. Miller to conceal from him.

Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge himself had been while he related it.

"Good heavens!" says he, "in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men! How much

beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried!" He had scarce uttered these words,

when Mrs. Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he cried, "Here,

sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate mother of Mr. Jones. I am sure she will acquit me

Mrs. Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and almost without taking any notice of him,

advanced to Mr. Allworthy. "I believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that you do not

recollect me." "Indeed," answered Allworthy, you are so very much altered, on many accounts, that had not

this man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to my remembrance.

Have you, madam, any particular business which brings you to me?" Allworthy spoke this with great reserve;

for the reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct of this lady; neither with what he

Mrs. Waters answered "Indeed, sir, I have very particular business with you; and it is such as I can impart

only to yourself. I must desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure you what I have to

Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the lady to satisfy Mr. Allworthy that

he was perfectly innocent. To which she answered, "You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy

Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Waters which is written in the next

Mrs. Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr. Allworthy could not refrain from saying, "I am sorry,

madam, to perceive by what I have since heard, that you have made so very ill a use" "Mr. Allworthy,"

says she, interrupting him, "I know I have faults, but ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor

shall forget your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to wave all upbraiding me

at present, as I have so important an affair to communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you

"Have I then," said Allworthy, "ignorantly punished an innocent man, in the person of him who hath just left

us? Was he not the father of the child?" "Indeed he was not," said Mrs. Waters. "You may be pleased to

remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and I acknowledge myself to have been guilty

of a cruel neglect, in not having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how necessary it was."

"Well, madam" said Allworthy, "be pleased to proceed." "You must remember, sir," said she, "a young

fellow, whose name was Summer." "Very well," cries Allworthy, "he was the son of a clergyman of great

learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest friendship." "So it appeared, sir," answered she; "for I believe

you bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where, I think, he had finished his studies,

when he came to reside at your house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides the

handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much wit and good breeding." "Poor

gentleman," said Allworthy, "he was indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins of

this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to tell me he was the father of your child."

"Indeed, sir," answered she, "he was not." "How!" said Allworthy, "to what then tends all this preface?" "To a

story," said she, "which I am concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear something

which will surprize you, will grieve you." "Speak," said Allworthy, "I am conscious of no crime, and cannot

be afraid to hear." "Sir," said she, "that Mr. Summer, the son of your friend, educated at your expense, who,

after living a year in the house as if he had been your own son, died there of the smallpox, was tenderly

lamented by you, ' and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this child."

"How!" said Allworthy; "you contradict yourself." "That I do not," answered she; "he was indeed the father

of this child, but not by me." "Take care, madam," said Allworthy, "do not, to shun the imputation of any

crime, be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing, and before whose

tribunal falshood will only aggravate your guilt." "Indeed, sir," says she, "I am not his mother; nor would I

now think myself so for the world." "I know your reason," said Allworthy "and shall rejoice as much as you

to find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest it before me." "So far what I confest," said

she, "was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed it thither at the command of its

mother; at her commands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both

for my secrecy and my shame." "Who could this woman be?" said Allworthy. "Indeed, I tremble to name

her," answered Mrs. Waters. "By all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine," cried he.

"Indeed she was a near one." At which words Allworthy started, and she continued "You had a sister, sir."

"A sister!" repeated he, looking aghast. "As there is truth in heaven," cries she, "your sister was the mother

of that child you found between your sheets." "Can it be possible?" cries he. "Good heavens!" "Have

patience, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "and I will unfold to you the whole story. Just after your departure for

London, Miss Bridget came one day to the house of my mother. She was pleased to say, she had heard an

extraordinary character of me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the young women there, so

she was pleased to say. She then bid me come to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she

employed me to read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and

made me many presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of secrecy, to which I gave her such

satisfactory answers, that, at last, having locked the door of her room, she took me into her closet, and then

locking that door likewise, she said 'she should convince me of the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by

communicating a secret in which her honour, and consequently her life, was concerned.' She then stopt, and

after a silence of a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she inquired of me if I thought my

mother might safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity. She then imparted to

me the great secret which laboured in her breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than

she afterwards suffered in childbirth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself only should attend at

the time, and that Mrs. Wilkins should be sent out of the way, as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part

of Dorsetshire, to inquire the character of a servant; for the lady had turned away her own maid near three

months before; during all which time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she said, though, as she

afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the place. This, and many other such things which she

used to say of me, were all thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter have, when I

was to own the child; for she thought it could never be believed she would venture to hurt a young woman

with whom she had intrusted such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well paid for all these affronts,

which, together with being informed with the occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady had

a greater suspicion of Mrs. Wilkins than of any other person; not that she had the least aversion to the

gentlewoman, but she thought her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have often

heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs. Wilkins had committed a murder, she believed she would acquaint you

with it. At last the expected day came, and Mrs. Wilkins, who had been kept a week in readiness, and put off

from time to time, upon some pretence or other, that she might not return too soon, was dispatched. Then the

child was born, in the presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my mother conveyed to her own

house, where it was privately kept by her till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss

Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the

artful conduct of your sister, in pretending illwill to the boy, and that any regard she shewed him was out of

Mrs. Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and concluded by saying, "Thus, sir, you

have at last discovered your nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I question not but he

"I need not, madam," said Allworthy, "express my astonishment at what you have told me; and yet surely you

would not, and could not, have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I confess I

recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some

liking to him. I mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well on his own account as

on his father's, that I should willingly have consented to a match between them; but she exprest the highest

disdain of my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the subject. Good heavens!

Well! the Lord disposeth all things. Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this

secret with her out of the world." "I promise you, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "she always profest a contrary

intention, and frequently told me she intended one day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was

highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy

to the child, that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh! sir, had that lady lived to have

seen this poor young man turned like a vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that

you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he was not guilty Forgive me,

Mr. Allworthy, I must say it was unkind. Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved it of you."

"Indeed, madam," said Allworthy, "I have been abused by the person, whoever he was, that told you so."

"Nay, sir," said she, "I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of any wrong. The

gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said, taking me for Mr. Fitzpatrick's wife, that,

if Mr. Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the

prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It

was by this man I found out who Mr. Jones was; and this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is

your steward. I discovered his name by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but Partridge,

who met him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew him formerly at Salisbury."

"And did this Mr. Dowling," says Allworthy, with great astonishment in his countenance, "tell you that I

would assist in the prosecution?" "No, sir," answered she, "I will not charge him wrongfully. He said I

should be assisted, but he mentioned no name. Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought

it could be no other." "Indeed, madam," says Allworthy, "from circumstances I am too well convinced it

was another. Good Heaven! by what wonderful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes

discovered! Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have mentioned comes, for I expect him

Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when in came, not Mr. Dowling, but the gentleman

The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no sooner saw Allworthy, than, without

considering in the least the presence of Mrs. Waters, he began to vociferate in the following manner: "Fine

doings at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued with a

daughter?" "What's the matter, neighbour?" said Allworthy. "Matter enough," answered Western: "when I

thought she was just a coming to; nay, when she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and

when I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the lawyer, and finished all; what do

you think I have found out? that the little b hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying on a

correspondence that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have quarrelled with upon her account, sent me

word o't, and I ordered her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un signed with

the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience to read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of parson

Supple's sermons; but I find plainly it is all about love; and indeed what should it be else? I have packed her

up in chamber again, and tomorrow morning down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be

married directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water all her days; and the sooner such a

b breaks her heart the better, though, dn her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long enough to

plague me." "Mr. Western," answered Allworthy, "you know I have always protested against force, and you

yourself consented that none should be used." "Ay," cries he, "that was only upon condition that she would

consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus! shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially

when I desire nothing but her own good?" "Well, neighbour," answered Allworthy, "if you will give me

leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady." "Will you?" said Western; "why that is kind now,

and neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do with her; for I promise you she

hath a very good opinion of you." "Well, sir," said Allworthy, "if you will go home, and release the young

lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within his halfhour." "But suppose," said Western, "she should

run away with un in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of hanging the fellow at

last; for that the man is alive, and like to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again

presently." "How!" said Allworthy; "what, did you employ him then to inquire or to do anything in that

matter?" "Not I," answered Western, "he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord." "Just now!" cries

Allworthy, "why, where did you see him then? I want much to see Mr. Dowling." "Why, you may see un an

you will presently at my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a

mortgage. 'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr.

Nightingale." "Well, sir," said Allworthy, "I will be with you within the halfhour." "And do for once," cries

the squire, "take a fool's advice; never think of dealing with her by gentle methods, take my word for it, those

will never do. I have tried 'um long enough. She must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her I'm

her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful punishment of it in t'other world, and

then tell her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on bread and water." "I

will do all I can," said Allworthy; "for I promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with

this amiable creature." "Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o' that," cries the squire; "a man may go

farther and meet with worse meat; that I may declare o' her, thof she be my own daughter. And if she will but

be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better

than I do; but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and expect you; and so your humble

As soon as Mr. Western was gone, Mrs. Waters said, "I see, sir, the squire hath not the least remembrance of

my face. I believe, Mr. Allworthy, you would not have known me either. I am very considerably altered since

that day when you so kindly gave me that advice, which I had been happy had I followed." "Indeed, madam,"

cries Allworthy, "it gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary." "Indeed, sir," says she, "I. was

ruined by a very deep scheme of villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would justify me

in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence, and induce you to pity me: you are not now at leisure

to hear my whole story; but this I assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn promises of marriage; nay,

in the eye of heaven I was married to him; for, after much reading on the subject, I am convinced that

particular ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal sanction to marriage, and have only a worldly use in

giving a woman the privileges of a wife; but that she who lives constant to one man, after a solemn private

affiance, whatever the world may call her, hath little to charge on her own conscience." "I am sorry, madam,"

said Allworthy, "you made so ill a use of your learning. Indeed, it would have been well that you had been

possessed of much more, or had remained in a state of ignorance. And yet, madam, I am afraid you have

more than this sin to answer for." "During his life," answered she, "which was above a dozen years, I most

solemnly assure you I had not. And consider, sir, on my behalf, what is in the power of a woman stript of her

reputation and left destitute; whether the goodnatured world will suffer such a stray sheep to return to the

road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous. I protest, then, I would have chose it had it been in my

power; but necessity drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though still unmarried, I lived as

a wife for many years, and went by his name. I parted with this gentleman at Worcester, on his march against

the rebels, and it was then I accidentally met with Mr. Jones, who rescued me from the hands of a villain.

Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have

the twentieth part of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had, I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a

resolution to abandon them." "I hope he hath," cries Allworthy, "and I hope we will preserve that resolution. I

must say, I have still the same hopes with regard to yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to be too

unmerciful on these occasions; yet time and perseverance will get the better of this their disinclination, as I

may call it, to pity; for though they are not, like heaven, ready to receive a penitent sinner; yet a continued

repentance will at length obtain mercy even with the world. This you may be assured of, Mrs. Waters, that

whenever I find you are sincere in such good intentions, you shall want no assistance in my power to make

Mrs. Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of tears, made him many most passionate

acknowledgments of his goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than human nature.

Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making use of every expression which his

invention could suggest to comfort her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Dowling, who, upon

his first entrance, seeing Mrs. Waters, started, and appeared in some confusion; from which he soon

recovered himself as well as he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr.

Western's lodgings; but, however, thought it his duty to call and acquaint him with the opinion of counsel

upon the case which he had before told him, which was that the conversion of the moneys in that case could

not be questioned in a criminal cause, but that an action of trover might be brought, and if it appeared to the

jury to be the moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for the value.

Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and then, advancing with a stern look to

Dowling, he said, "Whatever be your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do you

know this lady?" "That lady, sir!" answered Dowling, with great hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most

solemn voice, said, "Look you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a moment longer

in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask. Do

you know this lady?" "Yes, sir," said Dowling, "I have seen the lady." "Where, sir?" "At her own

lodgings." "Upon what business did you go thither, sir; and who sent you?" "I went, sir, to inquire, sir, about

Mr. Jones." "And who sent you to inquire about him?" "Who, sir? why, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me." "And what

did you say to the lady concerning that matter?" "Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word." "Will you

please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory?" "He told me, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "that if Mr. Jones had

murdered my husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very

worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were

the very words he spoke." "Were these the words, sir?" said Allworthy. "I cannot charge my memory

exactly," cries Dowling, "but I believe I did speak to that purpose." "And did Mr. Blifil order you to say

so?" "I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor have willingly exceeded my authority in

matters of this kind. If I said so, I must have so understood Mr. Blifil's instructions." "Look you, Mr.

Dowling," said Allworthy; "I promise you before this lady, that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr.

Blifil's order I will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth; for I believe what you say, that you

would not have acted of your own accord, and without authority in this matter. Mr. Blifil then likewise

sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersgate?" "He did, sir." "Well, and what instructions did he then

give you? Recollect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he used." "Why,

sir, Mr. Blifil sent me to find out the persons who were eyewitnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they

might be tampered with by Mr. Jones, or some of his friends. He said, blood required blood; and that not only

all who concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice, were

sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it

was not proper you should appear in it." "He did so?" says Allworthy. "Yes, sir," cries Dowling; "I should

not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other person living but your worship."

"What lengths, sir?" said Allworthy. "Nay, sir," cries Dowling, "I would not have your worship think I

would, on any account, be guilty of subornation of perjury; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I

told them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the other side, they should refuse them, and

that they might be assured they should lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I said, we

were told that Mr. Jones had assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, they should declare

it; and I did give them some hints that they should be no losers." "I think you went lengths indeed," cries

Allworthy. "Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth; nor should

I have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you." "You would not have thought, I believe," says

Allworthy, "to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr. Jones was my own nephew." "I am sure, sir,"

answered he, "it did not become me to take any notice of what I thought you desired to conceal." "How!"

cries Allworthy, "and did you know it then?" "Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "if your worship bids me speak

the truth, I am sure I shall do it. Indeed, sir, I did know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam

Blifil ever spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the

letter I brought your worship from her." "What letter?" cries Allworthy. "The letter, sir," answered

Dowling, "which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the hands of Mr. Blifil." "O

heavens!" cries Allworthy: "Well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to you?" "She took me

by the hand," answered he, "and, as she delivered me the letter, said, 'I scarce know what I have written. Tell

my brother, Mr. Jones is his nephew He is my son. Bless him,' says she, and then fell backward, as if dying

away. I presently called in the people, and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes

afterwards." Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then, turning to Dowling, said, "How

came you, sir, not to deliver me this message?" "Your worship," answered he, "must remember that you was

at that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I always am, I delivered the letter and message

to Mr. Blifil, who told me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he did, and that your

worship, partly out of friendship to Mr. Jones, and partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it

mentioned, and did intend to conceal it from the world; and therefore, sir, if you had not mentioned it to me

first, I am certain I should never have thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to your

We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to convey a lie in the words of truth; this

was the case at present; for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed upon

him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the promises which Blifil had made to

Dowling, were the motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly saw Blifil would

not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness,

joined to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from

Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what

had past, conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his

chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since

As Allworthy was returning to his room, he met Mrs. Miller in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of

terror, said to him, "Of sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not on this

account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the

"Madam," says Allworthy, "I am under such an astonishment at what I have heard, that I am really unable to

satisfy you; but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries, and

The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to Mrs. Waters, took her by the

hand, and then, turning to Mrs. Miller, said, "What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the

services she hath done me? O! Mrs. Miller, you have a thousand times heard me call the young man to

whom you are so faithful a friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all. Your

friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my

bosom. She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs.

Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused; abused by one whom you too

The joy which Mrs. Miller now felt, bereft her of the power of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her

of her senses, if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length,

recovering so far from her transport as to be able to speak, she cried, "And is my dear Mr. Jones then your

nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to see him

as happy as he deserves?" "He certainly is my nephew," says Allworthy, "and I hope all the rest." "And is

this the dear good woman, the person," cries she, "to whom all this discovery is owing?" "She is indeed,"

says Allworthy. "Why, then," cried Mrs. Miller, upon her knees, "may Heaven shower down its choicest

blessings upon her head, and for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many!"

Mrs. Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very shortly be released; for that the surgeon

was gone, in company with a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr.

Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his prisoner his liberty.

Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return home; but that he was then obliged to

go on some business of consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the

Mr. Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in

such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whither he is

going: to which the other making no answer, he again desired to know when he would be pleased to return?

Allworthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then, turning about, he

said "Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her

deathbed." Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is just

Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which

Western delivered him; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears from his

When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some

minutes ensued; during which the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with

her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who

was himself a little disconcerted, began thus: "I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion

of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended.

Be assured, madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals had been, I should not have suffered

you to have been so long persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble

you with any further solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them."

"Sir," said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, "this behaviour is most kind and generous, and such as I

could expect only from Mr. Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you will pardon

me for saying, it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my suffering much

cruel treatment from a father, who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all parents. I am

convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not

in our own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favour." "I assure you, most

amiable young lady," said Allworthy, "I am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son,

and had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly, madam, we cannot force our inclinations,

much less can they be directed by another." "Oh! sir," answered Sophia, "every word you speak proves you

deserve that good, that great, that benevolent character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing

less than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist the commands of my father." "I

sincerely believe you, madam," replied Allworthy, "and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight,

since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!" "You speak now, Mr. Allworthy," cries

she, "with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our lives with

one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of wretchedness. Perhaps that wretchedness would be even

increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our affections. If I had married Mr.

Blifil" "Pardon my interrupting you, madam," answered Allworthy, "but I cannot bear the supposition.

Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your escape. I have discovered the wretch

for whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a villain." "How, sir!" cries Sophia

"you must believe this surprizes me." "It hath surprized me, madam," answered Allworthy, "and so it will

the world. But I have acquainted you with the real truth." "Nothing but truth," says Sophia, "can, I am

convinced, come from the lips of Mr. Allworthy. Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news

Discovered, you say may villany be ever so!" "You will soon enough hear the story," cries Allworthy;

"at present let us not mention so detested a name. I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose.

O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to it. I

have a near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to that of

this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you

would admit a visit from him?" Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered, "I will deal with the utmost

sincerity with Mr. Allworthy. His character, and the obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I

have determined at present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to

the affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your good

offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who know you, have

experienced, do not, the very moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not engage me in

another as miserable and as fruitless." "Indeed, Miss Western," replied Allworthy, "I am capable of no such

conduct; and if this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may

suffer under it." "I must smile now, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "when you mention the torments of a

man whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me." "Pardon me, dear

young lady," cries Allworthy, "I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of

his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced,

is my unhappy nephew's for Miss Western." "A nephew of your's, Mr. Allworthy!" answered Sophia. "It is

surely strange. I never heard of him before." "Indeed, madam," cries Allworthy, "it is only the circumstance

of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and which, till this day, was a secret to me. Mr. Jones,

who has long loved you, he! he is my nephew!" "Mr. Jones your nephew, sir!" cries Sophia, "can it be

possible?" "He is, indeed, madam," answered Allworthy; "he is my own sister's son as such I shall always

own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past behaviour to him; but I was

as ignorant of his merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly Indeed I have."

Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded "I never shall be able to reward him

for his sufferings without your assistance. Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great

esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; but there is great

goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there is." Here he stopped, seeming to expect an

answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from the hurry of

spirits into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her: "I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a

discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can

promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities, which makes it

impossible he should not behave well to such an uncle." "I hope, madam," said Allworthy, "he hath those

good qualities which must make him a good husband. He must, I am sure, be of all men the most

abandoned, if a lady of your merit should condescend" "You must pardon me, Mr. Allworthy," answered

Sophia; "I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr. Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit; but I shall

never receive Mr. Jones as one who is to be my husband Upon my honour I never will." "Pardon me,

madam," cries Allworthy, "if I am a little surprized, after what I have heard from Mr. Western I hope the

unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it.

Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villany may have injured him

everywhere. He is no murderer, I assure you; as he hath been called." "Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "I

have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you; but, whatever his apprehensions

or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath always been a fixed

principle with me, never to have married without his consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent;

and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do not indeed conceive that the

authority of any parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of this

kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth

of my story; and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own conscience will acquit

me." "I hear you, Miss Western," cries Allworthy, "with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments;

but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you, young lady; but am I to look on all which I

have hitherto heard or seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your father on the

account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely indifferent?" "I beg, Mr. Allworthy," answered

Sophia, "you will not insist on my reasons; yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, Mr. Allworthy, conceal

I will be very sincere with youI own I had a great opinion of Mr. Jones I believe I know I have suffered

for my opinion I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father; but that is now past I beg I

may not be farther pressed; for, whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many

virtues he hath great virtues, Mr. Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the world, and

make you happy." "I wish I could make him so, madam," replied Allworthy; "but that I am convinced is

only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favour." "You are

deceived; indeed, sir, you are deceived," said Sophia. "I hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me.

Mr. Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no farther on this subject. I should be sorry nay, I will not

injure him in your favour. I wish Mr. Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well; and I repeat it again to you,

whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former

thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would more

resolutely reject than Mr. Jones; nor would the addresses of Mr. Blifil himself be less agreeable to me."

Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference, and was just now arrived at the door to

listen; when, having heard the last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and, bursting open

the door in a rage, cried out "It is a lie! It is a dn'd lie! It is all owing to that dn'd rascal Jones; and if

she could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day." Here Allworthy interposed, and addressing himself to

the squire with some anger in his look, he said, "Mr. Western, you have not kept your word with me. You

promised to abstain from all violence." "Why, so I did," cries Western, "as long as it was possible; but to

hear a wench telling such confounded lies Zounds! doth she think, if she can make vools of other volk, she

can make one of me? No, no, I know her better than thee dost." "I am sorry to tell you, sir," answered

Allworthy, "it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady, that you know her at all. I ask pardon

for what I say: but I think our intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your daughter,

Mr. Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you

on this account than any other man whatever." "Odrabbit it!" cries the squire, "I wish she was thine, with all

my heart wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the trouble o' her." "Indeed, my good friend," answered

Allworthy, "you yourself are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that confidence in the young

lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest father on earth." "I confidence

in her?" cries the squire. "'Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won't do as I would ha' her?

Let her gi' but her consent to marry as I would ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha'

me." "You have no right, neighbour," answered Allworthy, "to insist on any such consent. A negative

voice your daughter allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow you no more." "A

negative voice!" cries the squire. "Ay! ay! I'll show you what a negative voice I ha. Go along, go into your

chamber, go, you stubborn." "Indeed, Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "indeed you use her cruelly I cannot

bear to see this you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment."

"Yes, yes," said the squire, "I know what she deserves: now she's gone, I'll shew you what she deserves. See

here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me to understand

that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench.

Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter."

The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal

preface, acquainted him with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to

Blifil, and with ever particular which hath been disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters.

Men overviolent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as changeable in them. No sooner than was

Western informed of Mr. Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily with the uncle

in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for her marriage with Jones, as he had before

Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what had passed between him and Sophia, at

The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at this account. At last he cried out,

"Why, what can be the meaning of this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o' un she was, that I'll be sworn to.

Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath

got a hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at my cousin, my Lady Bellaston's.

He hath turned the head o' her, that's certain but dn me if he shall ha her I'll ha no lords nor courtiers in

Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution to avoid all violent measures, and

very earnestly recommended gentle methods to Mr. Western, as those by which he might be assured of

succeeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to

comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in promising to bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon,

that he might, as he said, "make all matters up with the young gentleman." At Mr. Allworthy's departure,

Western promised to follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, "I don't know how 'tis, but dn

me, Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please; and yet I have as good an estate as you,

When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just arrived before him. He hurried

therefore instantly into an empty chamber, whither he ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone. It is

impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the meeting between the uncle and nephew (for

Mrs. Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret of his birth).

The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed, beyond my power to describe: I shall not

therefore attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had prostrated himself, and

received him into his arms, "O my child!" he cried, "how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What

amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I have entertained, and for all

the sufferings they have occasioned to you?" "Am I not now made amends?" cries Jones. "Would not my

sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness,

this tenderness, overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast upon me.

To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my great, my

noble, my generous benefactor." "Indeed, child," cries Allworthy, "I have used you cruelly." He then

explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having

been induced by that treachery to use him so ill. "O, talk not so!" answered Jones; "indeed, sir, you have used

me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best must have

acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe

everything to that goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on selfaccusation, by

carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved; and

it shall be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for, believe

me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away upon me: though I have been a great, I am not

a hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge

myself with any gross villany, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be

ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to myself, and have brought me to

the brink of destruction." "I am rejoiced, my dear child," answered Allworthy, "to hear you talk thus sensibly;

for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was never

among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone

may subject virtue (for virtue, I am now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty

which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder

if the world is deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin,

others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will

reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from this moment, you shall never be

reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to

avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great difference between those faults which

candor may construe into imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The former,

perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he reform, his character will, at length, be totally

retrieved; the world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and he may reflect, not

without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once

discovered, is irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The censures of

mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into

retirement, he will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is afraid of hobgoblins,

retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt him. Repose, like a false

friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself; if he looks backward, unavailable

repentance treads on his heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till, like a condemned

prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour

which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is not your case; and rejoice with

thankfulness to him who hath suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that

destruction to which a persistence in even those errors must have led you. You have deserted them; and the

prospect now before you is such, that happiness seems in your own power." At these words Jones fetched a

deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, "Sir, I will conceal nothing from you: I fear

there is one consequence of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost a

treasure." "You need say no more," answered Allworthy; "I will be explicit with you; I know what you

lament; I have seen the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as an

earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in

one instance. To abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it shall be in your favour or

no. She hath already suffered enough from solicitations which hate to think of; she shall owe no further

constraint to my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your account as he hath

formerly been on another's; but I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no

more uneasy hours." "O, my dear uncle!" answered Jones, "lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in

which I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey you

would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her

displeasure beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her misery, will

be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional blessing

which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone." "I will not flatter you, child,"

cries Allworthy; "I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in any

person than appeared in her vehement declarations against receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you

can account better than myself." "Oh, sir! I can account too well," answered Jones; "I have sinned against her

beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than

the real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot save me

A servant now acquainted them that Mr. Western was below stairs; for his eagerness to see Jones could not

wait till the afternoon. Upon which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to entertain

Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself; to which the good man consented, and, having

Mrs. Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet seen him since his release from prison)

than she came eagerly into the room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his

newfound uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, "I wish I could give you joy on another account, my

Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant. "Why then," says she, "I have been with

the young lady, and have explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son Nightingale. She can

have no longer any doubt about the letter; of that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to

take his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the letter of his inditing. I told her the very

reason of sending the letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a

plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a

single instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town: I am afraid I went too far there; but Heaven

forgive me! I hope your future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can; but all to no

purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she had forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed

such detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely silenced me. I often attempted to excuse

you; but the justness of her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and one of

the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could have almost kissed her for one expression she

made use of. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. 'I once fancied, madam' said she, 'I had

discovered great goodness of heart in Mr. Jones; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire

profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a goodnatured libertine can

expect is, that we should mix some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an angelic

creature, that is the truth on't." "O, Mrs. Miller!" answered Jones, "can I bear to think I have lost such an

angel?" "Lost! no," cries Mrs. Miller; "I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such vicious

courses, and you may yet have hopes; nay, if she should remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a

sweet pretty young lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard of it this

very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little beyond the truth again; for I told her you had

refused her; but indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little comfort; when I

mentioned the young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but

when I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant; and these were her

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room

even by the authority of Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over

Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, "My old friend Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my

heart! all past must be forgotten; I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here knows,

nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and where a body means no harm, what signifies a

hasty word or two? One Christian must forget and forgive another." "I hope, sir," said Jones, "I shall never

forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter

stranger." "A't," says Western, "then give me thy fist; a't as hearty an honest cock as any in the kingdom.

Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment." Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire

being unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to delay

introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to Jones as in

compliance with the eager desires of Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the teatable.

The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had it happened earlier in our

history, we would have entertained our reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very

material, it shall suffice to say, that matters being entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit, Mr. Western

When Mr. Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller that his liberty had

been procured by two lords, who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr. Nightingale's, had attended

the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeons' oaths, that the wounded

One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once; but the other had

greatly surprized him, by asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he

Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was this: The lieutenant

whom Lord Fellamar had employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a vagabond

into the seaservice, when he came to report to his lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very

favourably of the behaviour of Mr. Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord that he must have

mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a

man of honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have

Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation

upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did not do strict

justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman

alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going

the next morning to Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation

from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under the

power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning

Jones and the circumstances of the duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The

moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced

by the other nobleman, who depended much on the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly

contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the right; for the poor Irishman no

sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his wife, than he submitted, and articles of

Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs. Waters concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at

Upton, or, perhaps, from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke

highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved

very much like a gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord's further inquiry concerning Mr. Jones,

Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account

Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make satisfaction to a gentleman

whom he had so grossly injured, and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all

thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr. Jones's liberty, being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his

surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the

When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones into his room, and then acquainted

him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from Mrs. Waters as what he had discovered from Mr.

Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account, but without making any comment or

observation upon it. And now a message was brought from Mr. Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at

leisure, that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone

than I believe he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not. "Consider, dear sir," cries

Jones, in a trembling voice. "I have considered," answered Allworthy, "and you yourself shall carry my

message to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly, as the man whose ruin

he hath so villanously contrived." "Pardon me, dear sir," said Jones; "a moment's reflection will, I am sure,

convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be

insult; and to whom?my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarouslyindeed, that

would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad

dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only from black and rancorous minds, and have no temptations

to excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger. Consider,

my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard." Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing

Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes, "O my child! to what goodness have I been so long blind!"

Mrs. Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in

the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most

ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly,

crying, "My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest day." And next Mr.

Allworthy himself received the same congratulations. To which he answered, "Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Miller, I

am beyond expression happy." Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs. Miller desired them

both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled

being indeed no other than Mr. Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.

Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had ordered some little thing for him

and his nephew in his own apartment, for that they had much private business to discourse of; but would not

resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper.

Mrs. Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? "for indeed," says she, "I cannot be easy while such a

villain is in my house." Allworthy answered, "He was as uneasy as herself on the same account." "Oh!"

cries she, "if that be the case, leave the matter to me, I'll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant

you. Here are two or three lusty fellows belowstairs." "There will be no need of any violence," cries

Allworthy; "if you will carry him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord."

"Will I?" said Mrs. Miller; "I never did anything in my life with a better will." Here Jones interfered, and

said, "He had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr. Allworthy pleased, be himself the messenger. I

know," says he, "already enough of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own

words. Let me beseech you, sir," added he, "to reflect on the dreadful consequences of driving him to violent

and sudden despair. How unfit, alas! is this poor man to die in his present situation." This suggestion had not

the least effect on Mrs. Miller. She left the room, crying, "You are too good, Mr. Jones, infinitely too good to

live in this world." But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. "My good child," said he, "I am equally

astonished at the goodness of your heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that

this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for repentance! That would be a shocking consideration

indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own discretion; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my

forgiveness; for I shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either

Jones went up to Blifil's room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though it would have

raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He had cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning

himself to despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from

minds which have been seduced or surprized into it unawares against the bent of their natural dispositions, as

will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief

sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom

It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of

Jones was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the

drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the

house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty

forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother,

and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.

Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny all; but, finding at last

the evidence too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his

brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short, he was

Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme

servility. He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions

more like a man; repeating, at the same time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to lessen them;

for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then,

he having declared he would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.

Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery which he had made concerning the

L500 banknotes. "I have," said he, "already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment, that

there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow

"Good Heaven!" says Jones, is it possible? I am shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was

not an honester fellow in the world. The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to withstand; for

smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it

weakness rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves me, and hath done me some

kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I believe he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day

or two ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he visited me in my confinement,

and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter

distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which must put him and his family beyond any future

"Child," cries Allworthy, "you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness,

but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow

I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any

temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess

I have gone; for I have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have

more than once applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their

case; but when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like,

compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be

This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to make any reply; besides, the hour

appointed by Mr. Western now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore

ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to order,

Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was unable to contain or

express his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing

His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens and presages of this

happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he

omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, "I

always told your honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other have it in your power

to make my fortune." Jones assured him that this boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as

all the other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow

Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr. Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest

figures ever beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it

hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes

Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for which I leave my female

readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear

whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which Western answered, in

a whisper, overheard by all present, "So much the better for Tom; for dn me if he shan't ha the tousling

her." Sophia was all over scarlet at these words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was

The teatable was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had

business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.

The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to many readers, that those who had so

much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager

to rush into each other's arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to

say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless; insomuch that a

stranger of moderate sagacity might have well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was,

however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes

Mr. Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only,

or rather sighing out, some broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn

the discourse from the subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said

"Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery." "And can you really, madam, think

me so fortunate," said Jones, sighing, "while I have incurred your displeasure?" "Nay, sir," says she, "as to

that, you best know whether you have deserved it." "Indeed, madam," answered he, "you yourself are as well

apprized of all my demerits. Mrs. Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never

to hope for forgiveness?" "I think, Mr. Jones," said she, "I may almost depend on your own justice, and

leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct." "Alas! madam," answered he, "it is mercy, and

not justice, which I implore at your hands. Justice, I know, must condemn me. Yet not for the letter I sent to

Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true account." He then insisted much on the

security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their expectations, her

ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such

a letter as that into her power, "which," said he, "I have dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you." "I do

not, I cannot," says she, "believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shows

you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr. Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what

past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you pretended,

your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest

to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much

inconstancy?" "O! my Sophia," cries he, "do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a

human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia,

have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your feet in the

manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought which

the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness enough

to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance

was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom." "Sincere repentance, Mr.

Jones," answered she, "will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that

sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must

expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the

strongest proof of its sincerity." "Name any proof in my power," answered Jones eagerly. "Time," replied

she; "time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these

vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of persevering in them." "Do not

imagine it," cries Jones. "On my knees I intreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the

business of my life to deserve." "Let it then," said she, "be the business of some part of your life to show me

you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see you merit my confidence,

you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word?"

He replied, "Don't believe me upon my word; I have a better security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is

impossible to see and to doubt." "What is that?" said Sophia, a little surprized. "I will show you, my charming

angel," cried Jones, seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. "There, behold it there in that lovely

figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines through these eyes; can the man who shall

be in possession of these be inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord

Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but your own." Sophia blushed and

half smiled; but, forcing again her brow into a frown "If I am to judge," said she, "of the future by the past,

my image will no more remain in your heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am

out of the room." "By heaven, by all that is sacred!" said Jones, "it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of

your sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the heart." "I

will never marry a man," replied Sophia, very gravely, "who shall not learn refinement enough to be as

incapable as I am myself of making such a distinction." "I will learn it," said Jones. "I have learnt it already.

The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife, taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex

from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart." "Well," says

Sophia, "the proof of this must be from time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I

have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing

me that your mind is altered too." "O! my angel," cries Jones, "how shall I thank thy goodness! And are you

so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my prosperity? Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you

alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope O! my Sophia, let it not be a

distant one. I will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you

permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short tryal. O! tell me when I may expect you will be

convinced of what is most solemnly true." "When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones," said she, "I

expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not." "O! don't look unkindly thus, my Sophia," cries he. "I do not, I

dare not press you. Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. Of consider the

impatience of love." "A twelvemonth, perhaps," said she. "O! my Sophia," cries he, "you have named an

eternity." "Perhaps it may be something sooner," says she; "I will not be teazed. If your passion for me be

what I would have it, I think you may now be easy." "Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as

mine by so cold a name. O! transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed day will come, when I

shall call you mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic

delight of making my Sophia happy?" "Indeed, sir," said she, "that day is in your own power." "O! my

dear, my divine angel," cried he, "these words have made me mad with joy. But I must, I will thank those

dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss." He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an

At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and, with his hunting voice

and phrase, cried out, "To her, boy, to her, go to her. That's it, little honeys, O that's it! Well! what, is it all

over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be tomorrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute

longer than next day, I am resolved." "Let me beseech you, sir," says Jones, "don't let me be the occasion"

"Beseech mine a ," cries Western. "I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a

parcel of maidenish tricks. I tell thee 'tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! she'd have the wedding tonight with

all her heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost

not speak?" "Why should I confess, sir," says Sophia, "since it seems you are so well acquainted with my

thoughts?" "That's a good girl," cries he, "and dost consent then?" "No, indeed, sir," says Sophia, "I have

given no such consent." "And wunt not ha un then tomorrow, nor next day?" says Western."Indeed, sir,"

says she, "I have no such intention." "But I can tell thee," replied he, "why hast nut; only because thou dost

love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father." "Pray, sir," said Jones, interfering "I tell thee

thou art a puppy," cries he. "When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and

languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is

above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to disoblige and

contradict me." "What would my papa have me do?" cries Sophia. "What would I ha thee do?" says he, "why,

gi' un thy hand this moment." "Well, sir," says Sophia, "I will obey you. There is my hand, Mr. Jones."

"Well, and will you consent to ha un tomorrow morning?" says Western. "I will be obedient to you, sir,"

cries she. "Why then tomorrow morning be the day," cries he. "Why then tomorrow morning shall be

the day, papa, since you will have it so," says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in

an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently crying out "Where the

devil is Allworthy? He is without now, a talking with that dd lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding

other matters." He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, "If you won't believe me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut

gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married tomorrow?" "Such are your commands, sir," cries Sophia, "and I dare

not be guilty of disobedience." "I hope, madam," cries Allworthy, "my nephew will merit so much goodness,

and will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with so

charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England." "Yes," cries

Western, "but if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a

while; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring her to." "I hope not, sir," cries Allworthy, "I hope

there not the least constraint." "Why, there," cries Western, "you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost

repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?" "Indeed, papa," cries she, "I do not repent, nor do I believe I

ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr. Jones." "Then, nephew," cries Allworthy, "I felicitate you most

heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men. And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on

this joyful occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your

great merit, and who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it." "His best endeavours!" cries Western,

"that he will, I warrant un. Harkee, Allworthy, I'll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy

tomorrow nine months; but prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for,

please jupiter, we'll make a night on't." "Indeed, sir," said Allworthy, "you must excuse me; both my nephew

and I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his happiness." "Engaged!" quoth the squire,

"never tell me. I won't part with thee tonight upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry."

"You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!" answered Allworthy; "I have given a solemn promise, and that

you know I never break." "Why, prithee, who art engaged to?" cries the squire. Allworthy then informed

him, as likewise of the company. "Odzookers!" answered the squire, "I will go with thee, and so shall

Sophy! for I won't part with thee tonight; and it would be barbarous to part Tom and the girl." This offer

was presently embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from

Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on his father, who received him much

more kindly than he expected. There likewise he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his

This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to the young gentleman; for these

brothers lived in a constant state of contention about the government of their children, both heartily despising

the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now endeavoured, as much as he could, to palliate

the offence which his own child had committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This desire of

triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on

the old gentleman, that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to sup with him that

As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most immoderate affection, there was little difficulty

in inclining him to a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his daughter and her

husband were, than he declared he would instantly go to her. And when he arrived there, he scarce suffered

her to fall upon her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness which affected all who

saw him; and in less than a quarter of an hour was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had

In this situation were affairs when Mr. Allworthy and his company arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs.

Miller, who no sooner saw Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened; and so great was her

friendship to Jones, that it added not a few transports to those she felt on the happiness of her own daughter.

There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people met together, where every one was so

perfectly happy as in this company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the least perfect

content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son, notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of

Allworthy, together with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be satisfied with his

son's choice; and, perhaps, the presence of Sophia herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his

concern, as a thought now and then suggested itself, that his son might have had that lady, or some other

such. Not that any of the charms which adorned either the person or mind of Sophia created the uneasiness; it

was the contents of her father's coffers which set his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could

The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had

they not been two of the besttempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in their breasts; for

neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving

homage, or, rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from all around her. But it was an adoration

which they gave, not which she exacted; for she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability, as

The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those the most who had been most unhappy

before. Their former sufferings and fears gave such a relish to their felicity, as even love and fortune, in their

fullest flow, could not have given without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet, as great joy, especially

after a sudden change and revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the heart than

on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry of the whole company; which Western observed

with great impatience, often crying out to them, "Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so grave? Hast lost

thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; sha't drink another glass." And, the more to enliven her, he

would sometimes sing a merry song, which bore some relation to matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead.

Nay, he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the room, if Mr. Allworthy had

not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice by a "Fie! Mr. Western!" He began, indeed, once to

debate the matter, and assert his right to talk to his own daughter as he thought fit; but, as nobody seconded

Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the chearfulness and goodhumour of the

company, that he insisted on their meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the lovely

Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated as the mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the

polite phrase, did the honours of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in the chapel at

Doctors'Commons, where Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Western, and Mrs. Miller, were the only persons present.

Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company, who were that day to dine with him,

should be acquainted with her marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs. Miller, and Jones undertook

for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public entertainment which, in

compliance with her father's will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against her own inclinations. In

confidence of this secrecy, she went through the day pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into

the second bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper, drank a health to the bride. The

health was immediately pledged by all present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the

great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth, there was not a person present made wiser by this

discovery; for Mrs. Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband to his

Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies, and the squire sat in to his cups, in

which he was, by degrees, deserted by all the company, except the uncle of young Nightingale, who loved his

bottle as well as Western himself. These two, therefore, sat stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long

after that happy hour which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her enraptured Jones.

Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in which, to our great pleasure, though

contrary, perhaps, to thy expectation, Mr. Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind; for what

happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never

As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this history, as some may desire to know a

little more concerning them, we will proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.

Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he hath yielded to the importunity of Jones,

backed by Sophia, to settle L200 ayear upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this

income he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200 miles distant from London, and lays up L200

ayear out of it, in order to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a neighbouring borough, which he has

bargained for with an attorney there. He is also lately turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich

Square died soon after he writ the before mentioned letter; and as to Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage.

He hath made many fruitless attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate himself with

Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr. Allworthy

hath lately taken Mr. Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown immoderately fond, and

Mrs. Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little remains of her fortune. She lives in

reputation at the polite end of the town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three times the income

of her fortune, without running in debt. She maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and

in acts of friendship to her repays all the obligations she owes to her husband.

Mrs. Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent two months together with her in the

country. Lady Bellaston made the latter a formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to Jones as to

Mr. Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the neighbourhood of Jones, where the young

gentleman, his lady, Mrs. Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable intercourse subsists

As to those of lower account, Mrs. Waters returned into the country, had a pension of L60 ayear settled

upon her by Mr. Allworthy, and is married to Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western

Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and was never since heard of; and Jones

bestowed the money on his family, but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.

As for Partridge, Jones hath settled L50 ayear on him; and he hath again set up a school, in which he meets

with much better encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage on foot between him

and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect.

We now return to take leave of Mr. Jones and Sophia, who, within two days after their marriage, attended Mr.

Western and Mr. Allworthy into the country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater part of his

estate, to his soninlaw, and hath retired to a lesser house of his in another part of the country, which is

better for hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr. Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath an

infinite delight in doing everything in their power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended with

such success, that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his life till now. He hath here a parlour

and antechamber to himself, where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is still as ready as

formerly to play to him whenever he desires it; for Jones hath assured her that, as, next to pleasing her, one of

his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old man; so, the great duty which she

expresses and performs to her father, renders her almost equally dear to him with the love which she bestows

Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl, of whom the old gentleman is so fond,

that he spends much of his time in the nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little granddaughter,

who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of dogs in England.

Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and hath omitted no instance of showing his

affection to him and his lady, who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to

vice, has been corrected by continual conversation with this good man, by his union with the lovely and

virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman, than this fond couple, so neither can

any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection

daily encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their

relations and friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their condescension, their

indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant,

who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia.