TOM JONES
PART 14
BOOK VI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
Chapter i. — Of love.
In our
last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the passion of love;
and in our succeeding book shall be forced to handle this subject still more
largely. It may not therefore in this place be improper to apply ourselves to
the examination of that modern doctrine, by which certain philosophers, among
many other wonderful discoveries, pretend to have found out, that there is no
such passion in the human breast.
Whether
these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect, who are honourably
mentioned by the late Dr Swift, as having, by the mere force of genius alone,
without the least assistance of any kind of learning, or even reading,
discovered that profound and invaluable secret that there is no God; or whether
they are not rather the same with those who some years since very much alarmed
the world, by showing that there were no such things as virtue or goodness
really existing in human nature, and who deduced our best actions from pride, I
will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined to suspect, that
all these several finders of truth, are the very identical men who are by
others called the finders of gold. The method used in both these searches after
truth and after gold, being indeed one and the same, viz., the searching,
rummaging, and examining into a nasty place; indeed, in the former instances,
into the nastiest of all places, A BAD MIND.
But though
in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the truth-finder and the
gold-finder may very properly be compared together; yet in modesty, surely,
there can be no comparison between the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder
that had the impudence or folly to assert, from the ill success of his search,
that there was no such thing as gold in the world? whereas the truth-finder,
having raked out that jakes, his own mind, and being there capable of tracing
no ray of divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or loving, very
fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such things exist in the
whole creation.
To avoid,
however, all contention, if possible, with these philosophers, if they will be
called so; and to show our own disposition to accommodate matters peaceably
between us, we shall here make them some concessions, which may possibly put an
end to the dispute.
First, we
will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the philosophers, are entirely
free from the least traces of such a passion.
Secondly,
that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of satisfying a voracious
appetite with a certain quantity of delicate white human flesh, is by no means
that passion for which I here contend. This is indeed more properly hunger; and
as no glutton is ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, and to say he
LOVES such and such dishes; so may the lover of this kind, with equal
propriety, say, he HUNGERS after such and such women.
Thirdly, I
will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable concession, that this
love for which I am an advocate, though it satisfies itself in a much more
delicate manner, doth nevertheless seek its own satisfaction as much as the
grossest of all our appetites.
And,
lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a different sex, is
very apt, towards its complete gratification, to call in the aid of that hunger
which I have mentioned above; and which it is so far from abating, that it
heightens all its delights to a degree scarce imaginable by those who have
never been susceptible of any other emotions than what have proceeded from
appetite alone.
In return
to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers to grant, that there is
in some (I believe in many) human breasts a kind and benevolent disposition,
which is gratified by contributing to the happiness of others. That in this
gratification alone, as in friendship, in parental and filial affection, as
indeed in general philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite delight. That if
we will not call such disposition love, we have no name for it. That though the
pleasures arising from such pure love may be heightened and sweetened by the
assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can subsist alone, nor are they
destroyed by the intervention of the latter. Lastly, that esteem and gratitude
are the proper motives to love, as youth and beauty are to desire, and,
therefore, though such desire may naturally cease, when age or sickness
overtakes its object; yet these can have no effect on love, nor ever shake or
remove, from a good mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and
esteem for its basis.
To deny
the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest instances, seems to
be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed only from that
self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but how unfair is this! Doth the
man who recognizes in his own heart no traces of avarice or ambition, conclude,
therefore, that there are no such passions in human nature? Why will we not
modestly observe the same rule in judging of the good, as well as the evil of
others? Or why, in any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, “put the world
in our own person?”
Predominant
vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is one instance of that
adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and this almost universally. For
there is scarce any man, how much soever he may despise the character of a
flatterer, but will condescend in the meanest manner to flatter himself.
To those
therefore I apply for the truth of the above observations, whose own minds can
bear testimony to what I have advanced.
Examine
your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do believe these matters
with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their exemplification in the
following pages: if you do not, you have, I assure you, already read more than
you have understood; and it would be wiser to pursue your business, or your
pleasures (such as they are), than to throw away any more of your time in
reading what you can neither taste nor comprehend. To treat of the effects of
love to you, must be as absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind;
since possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we are told
such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; that colour seemed to
him to be very much like the sound of a trumpet: and love probably may, in your
opinion, very greatly resemble a dish of soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.
Chapter ii. — The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and knowledge of the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she derived from those advantages.
The reader
hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daughter, with young Jones, and the
parson, going together to Mr Western’s house, where the greater part of the
company spent the evening with much joy and festivity. Sophia was indeed the
only grave person; for as to Jones, though love had now gotten entire
possession of his heart, yet the pleasing reflection on Mr Allworthy’s
recovery, and the presence of his mistress, joined to some tender looks which
she now and then could not refrain from giving him, so elevated our heroe, that
he joined the mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as good-humoured
people as any in the world.
Sophia
retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning at breakfast; whence
she retired likewise earlier than usual, leaving her father and aunt together.
The squire took no notice of this change in his daughter’s disposition. To say
the truth, though he was somewhat of a politician, and had been twice a
candidate in the country interest at an election, he was a man of no great
observation. His sister was a lady of a different turn. She had lived about the
court, and had seen the world. Hence she had acquired all that knowledge which
the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect mistress of manners,
customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her erudition stop here. She had
considerably improved her mind by study; she had not only read all the modern
plays, operas, oratorios, poems, and romances—in all which she was a critic;
but had gone through Rapin’s History of England, Eachard’s Roman History, and
many French Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire: to these she had added
most of the political pamphlets and journals published within the last twenty
years. From which she had attained a very competent skill in politics, and
could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of Europe. She was, moreover,
excellently well skilled in the doctrine of amour, and knew better than anybody
who and who were together; a knowledge which she the more easily attained, as
her pursuit of it was never diverted by any affairs of her own; for either she
had no inclinations, or they had never been solicited; which last is indeed
very probable; for her masculine person, which was near six foot high, added to
her manner and learning, possibly prevented the other sex from regarding her,
notwithstanding her petticoats, in the light of a woman. However, as she had
considered the matter scientifically, she perfectly well knew, though she had
never practised them, all the arts which fine ladies use when they desire to
give encouragement, or to conceal liking, with all the long appendage of
smiles, ogles, glances, &c., as they are at present practised in the
beau-monde. To sum the whole, no species of disguise or affectation had escaped
her notice; but as to the plain simple workings of honest nature, as she had
never seen any such, she could know but little of them.
By means
of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, as she thought, made a
discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The first hint of this she took
from the behaviour of the young lady in the field of battle; and the suspicion
which she then conceived, was greatly corroborated by some observations which
she had made that evening and the next morning. However, being greatly cautious
to avoid being found in a mistake, she carried the secret a whole fortnight in
her bosom, giving only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods, and now
and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed sufficiently alarmed Sophia,
but did not at all affect her brother.
Being at
length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her observation, she took
an opportunity, one morning, when she was alone with her brother, to interrupt
one of his whistles in the following manner:—
“Pray,
brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary in my niece
lately?”—“No, not I,” answered Western; “is anything the matter with the
girl?”—“I think there is,” replied she; “and something of much consequence
too.”—“Why, she doth not complain of anything,” cries Western; “and she hath
had the small-pox.”—“Brother,” returned she, “girls are liable to other
distempers besides the small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse.” Here
Western interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged her, if anything
ailed his daughter, to acquaint him immediately; adding, “she knew he loved her
more than his own soul, and that he would send to the world’s end for the best
physician to her.” “Nay, nay,” answered she, smiling, “the distemper is not so
terrible; but I believe, brother, you are convinced I know the world, and I
promise you I was never more deceived in my life, if my niece be not most
desperately in love.”—“How! in love!” cries Western, in a passion; “in love,
without acquainting me! I’ll disinherit her; I’ll turn her out of doors, stark
naked, without a farthing. Is all my kindness vor ‘ur, and vondness o’ur come
to this, to fall in love without asking me leave?”—“But you will not,” answered
Mrs Western, “turn this daughter, whom you love better than your own soul, out
of doors, before you know whether you shall approve her choice. Suppose she
should have fixed on the very person whom you yourself would wish, I hope you
would not be angry then?”—“No, no,” cries Western, “that would make a difference.
If she marries the man I would ha’ her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan’t
trouble my head about that.” “That is spoken,” answered the sister, “like a
sensible man; but I believe the very person she hath chosen would be the very
person you would choose for her. I will disclaim all knowledge of the world, if
it is not so; and I believe, brother, you will allow I have some.”—“Why,
lookee, sister,” said Western, “I do believe you have as much as any woman; and
to be sure those are women’s matters. You know I don’t love to hear you talk
about politics; they belong to us, and petticoats should not meddle: but come,
who is the man?”—“Marry!” said she, “you may find him out yourself if you
please. You, who are so great a politician, can be at no great loss. The
judgment which can penetrate into the cabinets of princes, and discover the
secret springs which move the great state wheels in all the political machines
of Europe, must surely, with very little difficulty, find out what passes in
the rude uninformed mind of a girl.”—“Sister,” cries the squire, “I have often
warn’d you not to talk the court gibberish to me. I tell you, I don’t
understand the lingo: but I can read a journal, or the London Evening Post.
Perhaps, indeed, there may be now and tan a verse which I can’t make much of,
because half the letters are left out; yet I know very well what is meant by
that, and that our affairs don’t go so well as they should do, because of
bribery and corruption.”—“I pity your country ignorance from my heart,” cries
the lady.—“Do you?” answered Western; “and I pity your town learning; I had
rather be anything than a courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too,
as some people, I believe, are.”—“If you mean me,” answered she, “you know I am
a woman, brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides—“—“I do know you
are a woman,” cries the squire, “and it’s well for thee that art one; if hadst
been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long ago.”—“Ay, there,” said
she, “in that flick lies all your fancied superiority. Your bodies, and not
your brains, are stronger than ours. Believe me, it is well for you that you
are able to beat us; or, such is the superiority of our understanding, we
should make all of you what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are
already—our slaves.”—“I am glad I know your mind,” answered the squire. “But
we’ll talk more of this matter another time. At present, do tell me what man is
it you mean about my daughter?”—“Hold a moment,” said she, “while I digest that
sovereign contempt I have for your sex; or else I ought to be angry too with
you. There—I have made a shift to gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what
think you of Mr Blifil? Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless on
the ground? Did she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we
came up to that part of the field where he stood? And pray what else should be
the occasion of all her melancholy that night at supper, the next morning, and
indeed ever since?”—“‘Fore George!” cries the squire, “now you mind me on’t, I
remember it all. It is certainly so, and I am glad on’t with all my heart. I
knew Sophy was a good girl, and would not fall in love to make me angry. I was
never more rejoiced in my life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our
two estates. I had this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly the two
estates are in a manner joined together in matrimony already, and it would be a
thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed, there be larger estates in
the kingdom, but not in this county, and I had rather bate something, than
marry my daughter among strangers and foreigners. Besides, most o’ zuch great
estates be in the hands of lords, and I heate the very name of themmun.
Well but, sister, what would you advise me to do; for I tell you women know
these matters better than we do?”—“Oh, your humble servant, sir,” answered the
lady: “we are obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you
are pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you may propose
the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no indecorum in the proposal’s coming
from the parent of either side. King Alcinous, in Mr Pope’s Odyssey, offers his
daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so politic a person not to say that your
daughter is in love; that would indeed be against all rules.”—“Well,” said the
squire, “I will propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a flick, if he should
refuse me.” “Fear not,” cries Mrs Western; “the match is too advantageous to be
refused.” “I don’t know that,” answered the squire: “Allworthy is a queer b—ch,
and money hath no effect o’un.” “Brother,” said the lady, “your politics
astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by professions? Do you think Mr
Allworthy hath more contempt for money than other men because he professes
more? Such credulity would better become one of us weak women, than that wise
sex which heaven hath formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would make a
fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you, that
they take towns out of mere defensive principles.” “Sister,” answered the
squire, with much scorn, “let your friends at court answer for the towns taken;
as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upon you; for I suppose they are wiser
than to trust women with secrets.” He accompanied this with so sarcastical a
laugh, that Mrs Western could bear no longer. She had been all this time
fretted in a tender part (for she was indeed very deeply skilled in these
matters, and very violent in them), and therefore, burst forth in a rage,
declared her brother to be both a clown and a blockhead, and that she would
stay no longer in his house.
The
squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, however, in many
points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all those wise tenets, which are
so well inculcated in that Politico-Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He
knew the just value and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise
well skilled in the exact value of reversions, expectations, &c., and had
often considered the amount of his sister’s fortune, and the chance which he or
his posterity had of inheriting it. This he was infinitely too wise to
sacrifice to a trifling resentment. When he found, therefore, he had carried
matters too far, he began to think of reconciling them; which was no very
difficult task, as the lady had great affection for her brother, and still
greater for her niece; and though too susceptible of an affront offered to her
skill in politics, on which she much valued herself, was a woman of a very
extraordinary good and sweet disposition.
Having
first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose escape from the
stable no place but the window was left open, he next applied himself to his
sister; softened and soothed her, by unsaying all he had said, and by
assertions directly contrary to those which had incensed her. Lastly, he
summoned the eloquence of Sophia to his assistance, who, besides a most
graceful and winning address, had the advantage of being heard with great
favour and partiality by her aunt.
The result
of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, who said, “Brother, you are
absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those have their use in the army of the
empress queen, so you likewise have some good in you. I will therefore once
more sign a treaty of peace with you, and see that you do not infringe it on
your side; at least, as you are so excellent a politician, I may expect you
will keep your leagues, like the French, till your interest calls upon you to
break them.”
Chapter iii. — Containing two defiances to the critics.
The squire
having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen in the last chapter,
was so greatly impatient to communicate the proposal to Allworthy, that Mrs
Western had the utmost difficulty to prevent him from visiting that gentleman
in his sickness, for this purpose.
Mr
Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western at the time when he was
taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged out of the custody of physic,
but he thought (as was usual with him on all occasions, both the highest and
the lowest) of fulfilling his engagement.
In the
interval between the time of the dialogue in the last chapter, and this day of
public entertainment, Sophia had, from certain obscure hints thrown out by her
aunt, collected some apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion
for Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of wiping out all such
suspicion, and for that purpose to put an entire constraint on her behaviour.
First, she
endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart with the utmost
sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest gaiety in her manner.
Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to Mr Blifil, and took not the
least notice of poor Jones the whole day.
The squire
was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, that he scarce eat any
dinner, and spent almost his whole time in watching opportunities of conveying
signs of his approbation by winks and nods to his sister; who was not at first
altogether so pleased with what she saw as was her brother.
In short,
Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at first staggered, and
began to suspect some affectation in her niece; but as she was herself a woman
of great art, so she soon attributed this to extreme art in Sophia. She
remembered the many hints she had given her niece concerning her being in love,
and imagined the young lady had taken this way to rally her out of her opinion,
by an overacted civility: a notion that was greatly corroborated by the
excessive gaiety with which the whole was accompanied. We cannot here avoid
remarking, that this conjecture would have been better founded had Sophia lived
ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square, where young ladies do learn a
wonderful knack of rallying and playing with that passion, which is a mighty
serious thing in woods and groves an hundred miles distant from London.
To say the
truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters much that our own art be
wound up, if I may use the expression, in the same key with theirs: for very
artful men sometimes miscarry by fancying others wiser, or, in other words,
greater knaves, than they really are. As this observation is pretty deep, I
will illustrate it by the following short story. Three countrymen were pursuing
a Wiltshire thief through Brentford. The simplest of them seeing “The Wiltshire
House,” written under a sign, advised his companions to enter it, for there
most probably they would find their countryman. The second, who was wiser,
laughed at this simplicity; but the third, who was wiser still, answered, “Let
us go in, however, for he may think we should not suspect him of going amongst
his own countrymen.” They accordingly went in and searched the house, and by
that means missed overtaking the thief, who was at that time but a little way
before them; and who, as they all knew, but had never once reflected, could not
read.
The reader
will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a secret is communicated, since
every gamester will agree how necessary it is to know exactly the play of
another, in order to countermine him. This will, moreover, afford a reason why
the wiser man, as is often seen, is the bubble of the weaker, and why many
simple and innocent characters are so generally misunderstood and
misrepresented; but what is most material, this will account for the deceit
which Sophia put on her politic aunt.
Dinner
being ended, and the company retired into the garden, Mr Western, who was
thoroughly convinced of the certainty of what his sister had told him, took Mr
Allworthy aside, and very bluntly proposed a match between Sophia and young Mr
Blifil.
Mr
Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter at any unexpected and
sudden tidings of worldly profit. His mind was, indeed, tempered with that
philosophy which becomes a man and a Christian. He affected no absolute
superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all joy and grief; but was not at the
same time to be discomposed and ruffled by every accidental blast, by every
smile or frown of fortune. He received, therefore, Mr Western’s proposal
without any visible emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said
the alliance was such as he sincerely wished; then launched forth into a very
just encomium on the young lady’s merit; acknowledged the offer to be
advantageous in point of fortune; and after thanking Mr Western for the good
opinion he had professed of his nephew, concluded, that if the young people
liked each other, he should be very desirous to complete the affair.
Western
was a little disappointed at Mr Allworthy’s answer, which was not so warm as he
expected. He treated the doubt whether the young people might like one another
with great contempt, saying, “That parents were the best judges of proper
matches for their children: that for his part he should insist on the most
resigned obedience from his daughter: and if any young fellow could refuse such
a bed-fellow, he was his humble servant, and hoped there was no harm done.”
Allworthy
endeavoured to soften this resentment by many eulogiums on Sophia, declaring he
had no doubt but that Mr Blifil would very gladly receive the offer; but all
was ineffectual; he could obtain no other answer from the squire but—“I say no
more—I humbly hope there’s no harm done—that’s all.” Which words he repeated at
least a hundred times before they parted.
Allworthy
was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be offended at this behaviour;
and though he was so averse to the rigour which some parents exercise on their
children in the article of marriage, that he had resolved never to force his
nephew’s inclinations, he was nevertheless much pleased with the prospect of
this union; for the whole country resounded the praises of Sophia, and he had
himself greatly admired the uncommon endowments of both her mind and person.
To which I
believe we may add, the consideration of her vast fortune, which, though he was
too sober to be intoxicated with it, he was too sensible to despise.
And here,
in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I must and will introduce
a digression concerning true wisdom, of which Mr Allworthy was in reality as
great a pattern as he was of goodness.
True
wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr Hogarth’s poor poet may have writ
against riches, and in spite of all which any rich well-fed divine may have
preached against pleasure, consists not in the contempt of either of these. A
man may have as much wisdom in the possession of an affluent fortune, as any
beggar in the streets; or may enjoy a handsome wife or a hearty friend, and
still remain as wise as any sour popish recluse, who buries all his social
faculties, and starves his belly while he well lashes his back.
To say
truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all worldly blessings in an
eminent degree; for as that moderation which wisdom prescribes is the surest
way to useful wealth, so can it alone qualify us to taste many pleasures. The
wise man gratifies every appetite and every passion, while the fool sacrifices
all the rest to pall and satiate one.
It may be
objected, that very wise men have been notoriously avaricious. I answer, Not
wise in that instance. It may likewise be said, That the wisest men have been
in their youth immoderately fond of pleasure. I answer, They were not wise
then.
Wisdom, in
short, whose lessons have been represented as so hard to learn by those who
never were at her school, only teaches us to extend a simple maxim universally
known and followed even in the lowest life, a little farther than that life
carries it. And this is, not to buy at too dear a price.
Now,
whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand market of the world,
and constantly applies it to honours, to riches, to pleasures, and to every
other commodity which that market affords, is, I will venture to affirm, a wise
man, and must be so acknowledged in the worldly sense of the word; for he makes
the best of bargains, since in reality he purchases everything at the price
only of a little trouble, and carries home all the good things I have mentioned,
while he keeps his health, his innocence, and his reputation, the common prices
which are paid for them by others, entire and to himself.
From this
moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, which complete his
character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath made the best bargain,
nor dejected when the market is empty, or when its commodities are too dear for
his purchase.
But I must
remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass too far on the patience
of a good-natured critic. Here, therefore, I put an end to the chapter.
Chapter iv. — Containing sundry curious matters.
As soon as
Mr Allworthy returned home, he took Mr Blifil apart, and after some preface,
communicated to him the proposal which had been made by Mr Western, and at the
same time informed him how agreeable this match would be to himself.
The charms
of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil; not that his heart was
pre-engaged; neither was he totally insensible of beauty, or had any aversion to
women; but his appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, by
philosophy, or by study, or by some other method, easily to subdue them: and as
to that passion which we have treated of in the first chapter of this book, he
had not the least tincture of it in his whole composition.
But though
he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of which we there treated, and
of which the virtues and beauty of Sophia formed so notable an object; yet was
he altogether as well furnished with some other passions, that promised
themselves very full gratification in the young lady’s fortune. Such were
avarice and ambition, which divided the dominion of his mind between them. He
had more than once considered the possession of this fortune as a very desirable
thing, and had entertained some distant views concerning it; but his own youth,
and that of the young lady, and indeed principally a reflection that Mr Western
might marry again, and have more children, had restrained him from too hasty or
eager a pursuit.
This last
and most material objection was now in great measure removed, as the proposal
came from Mr Western himself. Blifil, therefore, after a very short hesitation,
answered Mr Allworthy, that matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet
thought; but that he was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly care, that he
should in all things submit himself to his pleasure.
Allworthy
was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity arose from true wisdom
and philosophy, not from any original phlegm in his disposition; for he had
possessed much fire in his youth, and had married a beautiful woman for love.
He was not therefore greatly pleased with this cold answer of his nephew; nor
could he help launching forth into the praises of Sophia, and expressing some
wonder that the heart of a young man could be impregnable to the force of such
charms, unless it was guarded by some prior affection.
Blifil
assured him he had no such guard; and then proceeded to discourse so wisely and
religiously on love and marriage, that he would have stopt the mouth of a
parent much less devoutly inclined than was his uncle. In the end, the good man
was satisfied that his nephew, far from having any objections to Sophia, had
that esteem for her, which in sober and virtuous minds is the sure foundation
of friendship and love. And as he doubted not but the lover would, in a little
time, become altogether as agreeable to his mistress, he foresaw great
happiness arising to all parties by so proper and desirable an union. With Mr
Blifil’s consent therefore he wrote the next morning to Mr Western, acquainting
him that his nephew had very thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and
would be ready to wait on the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to
accept his visit.
Western
was much pleased with this letter, and immediately returned an answer; in
which, without having mentioned a word to his daughter, he appointed that very
afternoon for opening the scene of courtship.
As soon as
he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest of his sister, whom he found
reading and expounding the Gazette to parson Supple. To this exposition
he was obliged to attend near a quarter of an hour, though with great violence
to his natural impetuosity, before he was suffered to speak. At length,
however, he found an opportunity of acquainting the lady, that he had business
of great consequence to impart to her; to which she answered, “Brother, I am
entirely at your service. Things look so well in the north, that I was never in
a better humour.”
The parson
then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with all which had passed, and desired
her to communicate the affair to Sophia, which she readily and chearfully
undertook; though perhaps her brother was a little obliged to that agreeable
northern aspect which had so delighted her, that he heard no comment on his
proceedings; for they were certainly somewhat too hasty and violent.
Chapter v. — In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt.
Sophia was
in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. The moment she saw Mrs Western,
she shut the book with so much eagerness, that the good lady could not forbear
asking her, What book that was which she seemed so much afraid of showing?
“Upon my word, madam,” answered Sophia, “it is a book which I am neither
ashamed nor afraid to own I have read. It is the production of a young lady of
fashion, whose good understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose
good heart is an honour to human nature.” Mrs Western then took up the book,
and immediately after threw it down, saying—“Yes, the author is of a very good
family; but she is not much among people one knows. I have never read it; for
the best judges say, there is not much in it.”—“I dare not, madam, set up my
own opinion,” says Sophia, “against the best judges, but there appears to me a
great deal of human nature in it; and in many parts so much true tenderness and
delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear.”—“Ay, and do you love to cry then?”
says the aunt. “I love a tender sensation,” answered the niece, “and would pay
the price of a tear for it at any time.”—“Well, but show me,” said the aunt,
“what was you reading when I came in; there was something very tender in that,
I believe, and very loving too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah! child, you
should read books which would teach you a little hypocrisy, which would
instruct you how to hide your thoughts a little better.”—“I hope, madam,”
answered Sophia, “I have no thoughts which I ought to be ashamed of
discovering.”—“Ashamed! no,” cries the aunt, “I don’t think you have any
thoughts which you ought to be ashamed of; and yet, child, you blushed just now
when I mentioned the word loving. Dear Sophy, be assured you have not one
thought which I am not well acquainted with; as well, child, as the French are
with our motions, long before we put them in execution. Did you think, child,
because you have been able to impose upon your father, that you could impose
upon me? Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting all that
friendship for Mr Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little too much of the world,
to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again. I tell you it is a passion you
need not be ashamed of. It is a passion I myself approve, and have already
brought your father into the approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your
inclination; for I would always have that gratified, if possible, though one
may sacrifice higher prospects. Come, I have news which will delight your very
soul. Make me your confident, and I will undertake you shall be happy to the
very extent of your wishes.” “La, madam,” says Sophia, looking more foolishly
than ever she did in her life, “I know not what to say—why, madam, should you
suspect?”—“Nay, no dishonesty,” returned Mrs Western. “Consider, you are
speaking to one of your own sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced you
speak to a friend. Consider, you are only revealing to me what I know already,
and what I plainly saw yesterday, through that most artful of all disguises,
which you had put on, and which must have deceived any one who had not
perfectly known the world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I highly
approve.” “La, madam,” says Sophia, “you come upon one so unawares, and on a
sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind—and certainly, if it be a fault to
see all human perfections assembled together—but is it possible my father and
you, madam, can see with my eyes?” “I tell you,” answered the aunt, “we do
entirely approve; and this very afternoon your father hath appointed for you to
receive your lover.” “My father, this afternoon!” cries Sophia, with the blood
starting from her face.—“Yes, child,” said the aunt, “this afternoon. You know
the impetuosity of my brother’s temper. I acquainted him with the passion which
I first discovered in you that evening when you fainted away in the field. I
saw it in your fainting. I saw it immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that
evening at supper, and the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have
seen the world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but he immediately
wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it yesterday, Allworthy
consented (as to be sure he must with joy), and this afternoon, I tell you, you
are to put on all your best airs.” “This afternoon!” cries Sophia. “Dear aunt,
you frighten me out of my senses.” “O, my dear,” said the aunt, “you will soon
come to yourself again; for he is a charming young fellow, that’s the truth
on’t.” “Nay, I will own,” says Sophia, “I know none with such perfections. So
brave, and yet so gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so civil, so
genteel, so handsome! What signifies his being base born, when compared with
such qualifications as these?” “Base born? What do you mean?” said the aunt,
“Mr Blifil base born!” Sophia turned instantly pale at this name, and faintly
repeated it. Upon which the aunt cried, “Mr Blifil—ay, Mr Blifil, of whom else
have we been talking?” “Good heavens,” answered Sophia, ready to sink, “of Mr
Jones, I thought; I am sure I know no other who deserves—” “I protest,” cries
the aunt, “you frighten me in your turn. Is it Mr Jones, and not Mr Blifil, who
is the object of your affection?” “Mr Blifil!” repeated Sophia. “Sure it is
impossible you can be in earnest; if you are, I am the most miserable woman
alive.” Mrs Western now stood a few moments silent, while sparks of fiery rage
flashed from her eyes. At length, collecting all her force of voice, she
thundered forth in the following articulate sounds:
“And is it
possible you can think of disgracing your family by allying yourself to a
bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns submit to such contamination? If you
have not sense sufficient to restrain such monstrous inclinations, I thought
the pride of our family would have prevented you from giving the least
encouragement to so base an affection; much less did I imagine you would ever
have had the assurance to own it to my face.”
“Madam,”
answered Sophia, trembling, “what I have said you have extorted from me. I do
not remember to have ever mentioned the name of Mr Jones with approbation to
any one before; nor should I now had I not conceived he had your approbation.
Whatever were my thoughts of that poor, unhappy young man, I intended to have
carried them with me to my grave—to that grave where only now, I find, I am to
seek repose.” Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and, in
all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a spectacle which must
have affected almost the hardest heart.
All this
tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt. On the contrary, she
now fell into the most violent rage.—“And I would rather,” she cried, in a most
vehement voice, “follow you to your grave, than I would see you disgrace
yourself and your family by such a match. O Heavens! could I have ever
suspected that I should live to hear a niece of mine declare a passion for such
a fellow? You are the first—yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name
who ever entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted for the prudence
of its women”—here she ran on a full quarter of an hour, till, having exhausted
her breath rather than her rage, she concluded with threatening to go
immediately and acquaint her brother.
Sophia
then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her hands, begged her with
tears to conceal what she had drawn from her; urging the violence of her
father’s temper, and protesting that no inclinations of hers should ever
prevail with her to do anything which might offend him.
Mrs
Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having recollected herself,
said, “That on one consideration only she would keep the secret from her
brother; and this was, that Sophia should promise to entertain Mr Blifil that
very afternoon as her lover, and to regard him as the person who was to be her
husband.”
Poor
Sophia was too much in her aunt’s power to deny her anything positively; she
was obliged to promise that she would see Mr Blifil, and be as civil to him as
possible; but begged her aunt that the match might not be hurried on. She said,
“Mr Blifil was by no means agreeable to her, and she hoped her father would be
prevailed on not to make her the most wretched of women.”
Mrs
Western assured her, “That the match was entirely agreed upon, and that nothing
could or should prevent it. I must own,” said she, “I looked on it as on a
matter of indifference; nay, perhaps, had some scruples about it before, which
were actually got over by my thinking it highly agreeable to your own
inclinations; but now I regard it as the most eligible thing in the world: nor
shall there be, if I can prevent it, a moment of time lost on the occasion.”
Sophia
replied, “Delay at least, madam, I may expect from both your goodness and my
father’s. Surely you will give me time to endeavour to get the better of so
strong a disinclination as I have at present to this person.”
The aunt
answered, “She knew too much of the world to be so deceived; that as she was
sensible another man had her affections, she should persuade Mr Western to
hasten the match as much as possible. It would be bad politics, indeed,” added
she, “to protract a siege when the enemy’s army is at hand, and in danger of
relieving it. No, no, Sophy,” said she, “as I am convinced you have a violent
passion which you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put
your honour out of the care of your family: for when you are married those
matters will belong only to the consideration of your husband. I hope, child,
you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes you; but if you should
not, marriage hath saved many a woman from ruin.”
Sophia
well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper to make her an
answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr Blifil, and to behave to him as
civilly as she could, for on that condition only she obtained a promise from
her aunt to keep secret the liking which her ill fortune, rather than any
scheme of Mrs Western, had unhappily drawn from her.
Chapter vi. — Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour, which may a little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.
Mrs
Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we have seen in the
last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived Mrs Honour. She was at work
in a neighbouring apartment, and had been summoned to the keyhole by some
vociferation in the preceding dialogue, where she had continued during the
remaining part of it. At her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing
motionless, with the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she immediately
ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, and then began, “O
Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?”—“Nothing,” cries Sophia. “Nothing! O
dear Madam!” answers Honour, “you must not tell me that, when your ladyship is
in this taking, and when there hath been such a preamble between your ladyship
and Madam Western.”—“Don’t teaze me,” cries Sophia; “I tell you nothing is the
matter. Good heavens! why was I born?”—“Nay, madam,” says Mrs Honour, “you
shall never persuade me that your la’ship can lament yourself so for nothing.
To be sure I am but a servant; but to be sure I have been always faithful to
your la’ship, and to be sure I would serve your la’ship with my life.”—“My dear
Honour,” says Sophia, “‘tis not in thy power to be of any service to me. I am
irretrievably undone.”—“Heaven forbid!” answered the waiting-woman; “but if I
can’t be of any service to you, pray tell me, madam—it will be some comfort to
me to know—pray, dear ma’am, tell me what’s the matter.”—“My father,” cries
Sophia, “is going to marry me to a man I both despise and hate.”—“O dear,
ma’am,” answered the other, “who is this wicked man? for to be sure he is very
bad, or your la’ship would not despise him.”—“His name is poison to my tongue,”
replied Sophia: “thou wilt know it too soon.” Indeed, to confess the truth, she
knew it already, and therefore was not very inquisitive as to that point. She
then proceeded thus: “I don’t pretend to give your la’ship advice, whereof your
la’ship knows much better than I can pretend to, being but a servant; but,
i-fackins! no father in England should marry me against my consent. And, to be
sure, the ‘squire is so good, that if he did but know your la’ship despises and
hates the young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. And if
your la’ship would but give me leave to tell my master so. To be sure, it would
be more properer to come from your own mouth; but as your la’ship doth not care
to foul your tongue with his nasty name—“—“You are mistaken, Honour,” says
Sophia; “my father was determined before he ever thought fit to mention it to
me.”—“More shame for him,” cries Honour: “you are to go to bed to him, and not
master: and thof a man may be a very proper man, yet every woman mayn’t think
him handsome alike. I am sure my master would never act in this manner of his
own head. I wish some people would trouble themselves only with what belongs to
them; they would not, I believe, like to be served so, if it was their own
case; for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as how all men are not
equally agreeable. And what signifies your la’ship having so great a fortune,
if you can’t please yourself with the man you think most handsomest? Well, I
say nothing; but to be sure it is a pity some folks had not been better born;
nay, as for that matter, I should not mind it myself; but then there is not so
much money; and what of that? your la’ship hath money enough for both; and where
can your la’ship bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must
allow that he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest, properest
man in the world.”—“What do you mean by running on in this manner to me?” cries
Sophia, with a very grave countenance. “Have I ever given any encouragement for
these liberties?”—“Nay, ma’am, I ask pardon; I meant no harm,” answered she;
“but to be sure the poor gentleman hath run in my head ever since I saw him
this morning. To be sure, if your la’ship had but seen him just now, you must
have pitied him. Poor gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to
him; for he hath been walking about with his arms across, and looking so
melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me almost cry to see
him.”—“To see whom?” says Sophia. “Poor Mr Jones,” answered Honour. “See him!
why, where did you see him?” cries Sophia. “By the canal, ma’am,” says Honour.
“There he hath been walking all this morning, and at last there he laid himself
down: I believe he lies there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my
modesty, being a maid, as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma’am,
let me go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is there still.”—“Pugh!” says
Sophia. “There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone before this time,
to be sure. Besides, why—what—why should you go to see? besides, I want you for
something else. Go, fetch me my hat and gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in
the grove before dinner.” Honour did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put
her hat on; when, looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her
hat was tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon
of a different colour; and then giving Mrs Honour repeated charges not to leave
her work on any account, as she said it was in violent haste, and must be
finished that very day, she muttered something more about going to the grove,
and then sallied out the contrary way, and walked, as fast as her tender
trembling limbs could carry her, directly towards the canal.
Jones had
been there as Mrs Honour had told her; he had indeed spent two hours there that
morning in melancholy contemplation on his Sophia, and had gone out from the
garden at one door the moment she entered it at another. So that those unlucky
minutes which had been spent in changing the ribbons, had prevented the lovers
from meeting at this time;—a most unfortunate accident, from which my fair
readers will not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I strictly forbid
all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance which I have recounted only
for the sake of the ladies, and upon which they only are at liberty to comment.
Chapter vii. — A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full length.
It was
well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that misfortunes do not come
single. This wise maxim was now verified by Sophia, who was not only
disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but had the vexation of being obliged
to dress herself out, in order to receive a visit from the man she hated.
That
afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted his daughter with his
intention; telling her, he knew very well that she had heard it before from her
aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this, nor could she prevent a few pearls
from stealing into her eyes. “Come, come,” says Western, “none of your
maidenish airs; I know all; I assure you sister hath told me all.”
“Is it
possible,” says Sophia, “that my aunt can have betrayed me already?”—“Ay, ay,”
says Western; “betrayed you! ay. Why, you betrayed yourself yesterday at
dinner. You showed your fancy very plainly, I think. But you young girls never
know what you would be at. So you cry because I am going to marry you to the
man you are in love with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in
the same manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we were
married: Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put an end to your
squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un every minute.”
Sophia was
now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to her: and she determined
to go through that disagreeable afternoon with as much resolution as possible,
and without giving the least suspicion in the world to her father.
Mr Blifil
soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after withdrawing, left the young couple
together.
Here a
long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the gentleman who was to
begin the conversation had all the unbecoming modesty which consists in
bashfulness. He often attempted to speak, and as often suppressed his words
just at the very point of utterance. At last out they broke in a torrent of
far-fetched and high-strained compliments, which were answered on her side by
downcast looks, half bows, and civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his
inexperience in the ways of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this
behaviour for a modest assent to his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene which
she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the room, he imputed that,
too, merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself that he should soon have
enough of her company.
He was
indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success; for as to that
entire and absolute possession of the heart of his mistress which romantic
lovers require, the very idea of it never entered his head. Her fortune and her
person were the sole objects of his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to
obtain the absolute property; as Mr Western’s mind was so earnestly bent on the
match; and as he well knew the strict obedience which Sophia was always ready
to pay to her father’s will, and the greater still which her father would
exact, if there was occasion. This authority, therefore, together with the
charms which he fancied in his own person and conversation, could not fail, he
thought, of succeeding with a young lady, whose inclinations were, he doubted
not, entirely disengaged.
Of Jones
he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have often thought it
wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the character which Jones bore
all over the country (how justly, let the reader determine), of being one of
the wildest fellows in England, might render him odious to a lady of the most
exemplary modesty. Perhaps his suspicions might be laid asleep by the behaviour
of Sophia, and of Jones himself, when they were all in company together.
Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there was not another self
in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones to the bottom, and had in reality a
great contempt for his understanding, for not being more attached to his own
interest. He had no apprehension that Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for
any lucrative motives, he imagined they would sway very little with so silly a
fellow. Blifil, moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still went on,
and indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones really loved him from
his childhood, and had kept no secret from him, till his behaviour on the
sickness of Mr Allworthy had entirely alienated his heart; and it was by means
of the quarrel which had ensued on this occasion, and which was not yet
reconciled, that Mr Blifil knew nothing of the alteration which had happened in
the affection which Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.
From these
reasons, therefore, Mr Blifil saw no bar to his success with Sophia. He
concluded her behaviour was like that of all other young ladies on a first
visit from a lover, and it had indeed entirely answered his expectations.
Mr Western
took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his mistress. He found him so
elevated with his success, so enamoured with his daughter, and so satisfied
with her reception of him, that the old gentleman began to caper and dance
about his hall, and by many other antic actions to express the extravagance of
his joy; for he had not the least command over any of his passions; and that
which had at any time the ascendant in his mind hurried him to the wildest
excesses.
As soon as
Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty kisses and embraces
bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went instantly in quest of his
daughter, whom he no sooner found than he poured forth the most extravagant
raptures, bidding her chuse what clothes and jewels she pleased; and declaring
that he had no other use for fortune but to make her happy. He then caressed
her again and again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the
most endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on earth.
Sophia
perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did not absolutely
know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not unusual to him, though this
was rather more violent than ordinary), thought she should never have a better
opportunity of disclosing herself than at present, as far at least as regarded
Mr Blifil; and she too well foresaw the necessity which she should soon be
under of coming to a full explanation. After having thanked the squire,
therefore, for all his professions of kindness, she added, with a look full of
inexpressible softness, “And is it possible my papa can be so good to place all
his joy in his Sophy’s happiness?” which Western having confirmed by a great
oath, and a kiss; she then laid hold of his hand, and, falling on her knees,
after many warm and passionate declarations of affection and duty, she begged
him “not to make her the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to
marry a man whom she detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir,” said she, “for
your sake, as well as my own, since you are so very kind to tell me your
happiness depends on mine.”—“How! what!” says Western, staring wildly. “Oh!
sir,” continued she, “not only your poor Sophy’s happiness; her very life, her
being, depends upon your granting her request. I cannot live with Mr Blifil. To
force me into this marriage would be killing me.”—“You can’t live with Mr
Blifil?” says Western. “No, upon my soul I can’t,” answered Sophia. “Then die
and be d—d,” cries he, spurning her from him. “Oh! sir,” cries Sophia, catching
hold of the skirt of his coat, “take pity on me, I beseech you. Don’t look and
say such cruel—Can you be unmoved while you see your Sophy in this dreadful
condition? Can the best of fathers break my heart? Will he kill me by the most
painful, cruel, lingering death?”—“Pooh! pooh!” cries the squire; “all stuff
and nonsense; all maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill
you?”—“Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “such a marriage is worse than death. He is not
even indifferent; I hate and detest him.”—“If you detest un never so much,”
cries Western, “you shall ha’un.” This he bound by an oath too shocking to
repeat; and after many violent asseverations, concluded in these words: “I am
resolved upon the match, and unless you consent to it I will not give you a
groat, not a single farthing; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in the
street, I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. This is my fixed
resolution, and so I leave you to consider on it.” He then broke from her with
such violence, that her face dashed against the floor; and he burst directly
out of the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the ground.
When
Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing his friend looking
wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not forbear enquiring the reason of
all these melancholy appearances. Upon which the squire immediately acquainted
him with the whole matter, concluding with bitter denunciations against Sophia,
and very pathetic lamentations of the misery of all fathers who are so
unfortunate to have daughters.
Jones, to
whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of Blifil were yet a
secret, was at first almost struck dead with this relation; but recovering his
spirits a little, mere despair, as he afterwards said, inspired him to mention
a matter to Mr Western, which seemed to require more impudence than a human
forehead was ever gifted with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might
endeavour to obtain her concurrence with her father’s inclinations.
If the
squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for the contrary, passion
might at present very well have blinded him. He thanked Jones for offering to
undertake the office, and said, “Go, go, prithee, try what canst do;” and then
swore many execrable oaths that he would turn her out of doors unless she
consented to the match.
To be continued
