TOM JONES
PART
16
Chapter xiii. — The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion; which none of her sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same manner. And the discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience.
Sophia had
passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable manner. During a large
part of them she had been entertained by her aunt with lectures of prudence,
recommending to her the example of the polite world, where love (so the good
lady said) is at present entirely laughed at, and where women consider
matrimony, as men do offices of public trust, only as the means of making their
fortunes, and of advancing themselves in the world. In commenting on which text
Mrs Western had displayed her eloquence during several hours.
These
sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste or inclination of
Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than her own thoughts, that formed
the entertainment of the night, during which she never once closed her eyes.
But though
she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet, having no avocation from it,
she was found there by her father at his return from Allworthy’s, which was not
till past ten o’clock in the morning. He went directly up to her apartment, opened
the door, and seeing she was not up, cried, “Oh! you are safe then, and I am
resolved to keep you so.” He then locked the door, and delivered the key to
Honour, having first given her the strictest charge, with great promises of
rewards for her fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punishment in case she
should betray her trust.
Honour’s
orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of her room without the
authority of the squire himself, and to admit none to her but him and her aunt;
but she was herself to attend her with whatever Sophia pleased, except only
pen, ink, and paper, of which she was forbidden the use.
The squire
ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at dinner; which she
obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again conducted to her prison.
In the
evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she received from the
gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or thrice over, and then
threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. Mrs Honour
expressed great astonishment at this behaviour in her mistress; nor could she
forbear very eagerly begging to know the cause of this passion. Sophia made her
no answer for some time, and then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by the
hand, and cried, “O Honour! I am undone.” “Marry forbid,” cries Honour: “I wish
the letter had been burnt before I had brought it to your la’ship. I’m sure I
thought it would have comforted your la’ship, or I would have seen it at the
devil before I would have touched it.” “Honour,” says Sophia, “you are a good
girl, and it is vain to attempt concealing longer my weakness from you; I have
thrown away my heart on a man who hath forsaken me.” “And is Mr Jones,”
answered the maid, “such a perfidy man?” “He hath taken his leave of me,” says
Sophia, “for ever in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to forget him. Could
he have desired that if he had loved me? Could he have borne such a thought?
Could he have written such a word?” “No, certainly, ma’am,” cries Honour; “and to
be sure, if the best man in England was to desire me to forget him, I’d take
him at his word. Marry, come up! I am sure your la’ship hath done him too much
honour ever to think on him;—a young lady who may take her choice of all the
young men in the country. And to be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as to
offer my poor opinion, there is young Mr Blifil, who, besides that he is come
of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires all hereabouts, he
is to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more handsomer and a more politer man by
half; and besides, he is a young gentleman of a sober character, and who may
defy any of the neighbours to say black is his eye; he follows no dirty
trollops, nor can any bastards be laid at his door. Forget him, indeed! I thank
Heaven I myself am not so much at my last prayers as to suffer any man to bid
me forget him twice. If the best he that wears a head was for to go for to
offer to say such an affronting word to me, I would never give him my company
afterwards, if there was another young man in the kingdom. And as I was a
saying, to be sure, there is young Mr Blifil.” “Name not his detested name,”
cries Sophia. “Nay, ma’am,” says Honour, “if your la’ship doth not like him,
there be more jolly handsome young men that would court your la’ship, if they
had but the least encouragement. I don’t believe there is arrow young gentleman
in this county, or in the next to it, that if your la’ship was but to look as
if you had a mind to him, would not come about to make his offers directly.”
“What a wretch dost thou imagine me,” cries Sophia, “by affronting my ears with
such stuff! I detest all mankind.” “Nay, to be sure, ma’am,” answered Honour,
“your la’ship hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them. To be used ill by
such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow.”—“Hold your blasphemous tongue,” cries
Sophia: “how dare you mention his name with disrespect before me? He use me
ill? No, his poor bleeding heart suffered more when he writ the cruel words
than mine from reading them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I
am ashamed of the weakness of my own passion, for blaming what I ought to
admire. O, Honour! it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he
sacrifices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me hath driven him
to despair.” “I am very glad,” says Honour, “to hear your la’ship takes that
into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be nothing less than ruin to
give your mind to one that is turned out of doors, and is not worth a farthing
in the world.” “Turned out of doors!” cries Sophia hastily: “how! what dost
thou mean?” “Why, to be sure, ma’am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy
about Mr Jones having offered to make love to your la’ship than the squire
stripped him stark naked, and turned him out of doors!” “Ha!” says Sophia, “I
have been the cursed, wretched cause of his destruction! Turned naked out of
doors! Here, Honour, take all the money I have; take the rings from my fingers.
Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find him immediately.” “For Heaven’s sake,
ma’am,” answered Mrs Honour, “do but consider, if my master should miss any of
these things, I should be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg your
la’ship not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, I think, is
enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master can never know anything of
the matter.” “Here, then,” cries Sophia, “take every farthing I am worth, find
him out immediately, and give it him. Go, go, lose not a moment.”
Mrs Honour
departed according to orders, and finding Black George below-stairs, delivered
him the purse, which contained sixteen guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock
of Sophia; for though her father was very liberal to her, she was much too
generous to be rich.
Black
George having received the purse, set forward towards the alehouse; but in the
way a thought occurred to him, whether he should not detain this money
likewise. His conscience, however, immediately started at this suggestion, and
began to upbraid him with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his avarice
answered, That his conscience should have considered the matter before, when he
deprived poor Jones of his £500. That having quietly acquiesced in what was of
so much greater importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to
affect any qualms at this trifle. In return to which, Conscience, like a good
lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute breach of trust, as here,
where the goods were delivered, and a bare concealment of what was found, as in
the former case. Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a
distinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted that when once all
pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any one instance, that there
was no precedent for resorting to them upon a second occasion. In short, poor
Conscience had certainly been defeated in the argument, had not Fear stept in
to her assistance, and very strenuously urged that the real distinction between
the two actions, did not lie in the different degrees of honour but of safety:
for that the secreting the £500 was a matter of very little hazard; whereas the
detaining the sixteen guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery.
By this
friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory in the mind of
Black George, and, after making him a few compliments on his honesty, forced
him to deliver the money to Jones.
Chapter xiv. — A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between Squire Western and his sister.
Mrs
Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met her at her return
home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he acquainted her that he had secured
her safe enough. “She is locked up in chamber,” cries he, “and Honour keeps the
key.” As his looks were full of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his
sister this information, it is probable he expected much applause from her for
what he had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most disdainful
aspect, she cried, “Sure, brother, you are the weakest of all men. Why will you
not confide in me for the management of my niece? Why will you interpose? You
have now undone all that I have been spending my breath in order to bring
about. While I have been endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence,
you have been provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank
heaven, are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and Italian
wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We are to be convinced
by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by force. I have seen the
world, brother, and know what arguments to make use of; and if your folly had
not prevented me, should have prevailed with her to form her conduct by those
rules of prudence and discretion which I formerly taught her.” “To be sure,”
said the squire, “I am always in the wrong.” “Brother,” answered the lady, “you
are not in the wrong, unless when you meddle with matters beyond your
knowledge. You must agree that I have seen most of the world; and happy had it
been for my niece if she had not been taken from under my care. It is by living
at home with you that she hath learnt romantic notions of love and nonsense.”
“You don’t imagine, I hope,” cries the squire, “that I have taught her any such
things.” “Your ignorance, brother,” returned she, “as the great Milton says,
almost subdues my patience.”[*] “D—n Milton!” answered the squire: “if he had
the impudence to say so to my face, I’d lend him a douse, thof he was never so
great a man. Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have more occasion of
patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy, as I am by you. Do you think
no one hath any understanding, unless he hath been about at court. Pox! the
world is come to a fine pass indeed, if we are all fools, except a parcel of
round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox! I hope the times are a coming when we shall
make fools of them, and every man shall enjoy his own. That’s all, sister; and
every man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the Hanover
rats have eat up all our corn, and left us nothing but turneps to feed
upon.”—“I protest, brother,” cries she, “you are now got beyond my
understanding. Your jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to me perfectly
unintelligible.”—“I believe,” cries he, “you don’t care to hear o’em; but the
country interest may succeed one day or other for all that.”—“I wish,” answered
the lady, “you would think a little of your daughter’s interest; for, believe
me, she is in greater danger than the nation.”—“Just now,” said he, “you chid
me for thinking on her, and would ha’ her left to you.”—“And if you will
promise to interpose no more,” answered she, “I will, out of my regard to my
niece, undertake the charge.”—“Well, do then,” said the squire, “for you know I
always agreed, that women are the properest to manage women.”
[*] The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
for this in Milton.]
Mrs
Western then departed, muttering something with an air of disdain, concerning
women and management of the nation. She immediately repaired to Sophia’s
apartment, who was now, after a day’s confinement, released again from her
captivity.
BOOK VII. — CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — A comparison between the world and the stage.
The world
hath been often compared to the theatre; and many grave writers, as well as the
poets, have considered human life as a great drama, resembling, in almost every
particular, those scenical representations which Thespis is first reported to
have invented, and which have been since received with so much approbation and
delight in all polite countries.
This
thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that some words
proper to the theatre, and which were at first metaphorically applied to the
world, are now indiscriminately and literally spoken of both; thus stage and
scene are by common use grown as familiar to us, when we speak of life in
general, as when we confine ourselves to dramatic performances: and when
transactions behind the curtain are mentioned, St James’s is more likely to
occur to our thoughts than Drury-lane.
It may
seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that the theatrical
stage is nothing more than a representation, or, as Aristotle calls it, an
imitation of what really exists; and hence, perhaps, we might fairly pay a very
high compliment to those who by their writings or actions have been so capable
of imitating life, as to have their pictures in a manner confounded with, or
mistaken for, the originals.
But, in
reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these people, whom we use
as children frequently do the instruments of their amusement; and have much
more pleasure in hissing and buffeting them, than in admiring their excellence.
There are many other reasons which have induced us to see this analogy between
the world and the stage.
Some have
considered the larger part of mankind in the light of actors, as personating
characters no more their own, and to which in fact they have no better title,
than the player hath to be in earnest thought the king or emperor whom he
represents. Thus the hypocrite may be said to be a player; and indeed the
Greeks called them both by one and the same name.
The
brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison. So the
immortal Shakespear—
—Life’s a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
For which
hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a very noble one, which
few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a poem called the Deity, published
about nine years ago, and long since buried in oblivion; a proof that good
books, no more than good men, do always survive the bad.
From Thee[*] all human actions take their springs,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
See the vast Theatre of Time display’d,
While o’er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
With pomp the shining images succeed,
What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
Perform the parts thy providence assign’d,
Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin’d:
Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that remembrance says—The things have been!
[*] The Deity.
In all
these, however, and in every other similitude of life to the theatre, the
resemblance hath been always taken from the stage only. None, as I remember,
have at all considered the audience at this great drama.
But as
Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very full house, so
will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit the above-mentioned
comparison than that of her actors. In this vast theatre of time are seated the
friend and the critic; here are claps and shouts, hisses and groans; in short,
everything which was ever seen or heard at the Theatre-Royal.
Let us
examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour of the great
audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to exhibit in the twelfth
chapter of the preceding book, where she introduced Black George running away
with the £500 from his friend and benefactor.
Those who
sat in the world’s upper gallery treated that incident, I am well convinced,
with their usual vociferation; and every term of scurrilous reproach was most
probably vented on that occasion.
If we had
descended to the next order of spectators, we should have found an equal degree
of abhorrence, though less of noise and scurrility; yet here the good women
gave Black George to the devil, and many of them expected every minute that the
cloven-footed gentleman would fetch his own.
The pit,
as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic virtue and perfect
character objected to the producing such instances of villany, without
punishing them very severely for the sake of example. Some of the author’s
friends cryed, “Look’e, gentlemen, the man is a villain, but it is nature for
all that.” And all the young critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices,
&c., called it low, and fell a groaning.
As for the
boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness. Most of them were
attending to something else. Some of those few who regarded the scene at all,
declared he was a bad kind of man; while others refused to give their opinion,
till they had heard that of the best judges.
Now we,
who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of Nature (and no
author ought to write anything besides dictionaries and spelling-books who hath
not this privilege), can censure the action, without conceiving any absolute
detestation of the person, whom perhaps Nature may not have designed to act an
ill part in all her dramas; for in this instance life most exactly resembles
the stage, since it is often the same person who represents the villain and the
heroe; and he who engages your admiration to-day will probably attract your
contempt to-morrow. As Garrick, whom I regard in tragedy to be the greatest
genius the world hath ever produced, sometimes condescends to play the fool; so
did Scipio the Great, and Laelius the Wise, according to Horace, many years
ago; nay, Cicero reports them to have been “incredibly childish.” These, it is
true, played the fool, like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but several
eminent characters have, in numberless instances of their lives, played the
fool egregiously in earnest; so far as to render it a matter of some doubt
whether their wisdom or folly was predominant; or whether they were better
intitled to the applause or censure, the admiration or contempt, the love or
hatred, of mankind.
Those
persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the scenes of this great
theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted not only with the several disguises
which are there put on, but also with the fantastic and capricious behaviour of
the Passions, who are the managers and directors of this theatre (for as to
Reason, the patentee, he is known to be a very idle fellow and seldom to exert
himself), may most probably have learned to understand the famous nil
admirari of Horace, or in the English phrase, to stare at nothing.
A single
bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a single bad part on the
stage. The passions, like the managers of a playhouse, often force men upon
parts without consulting their judgment, and sometimes without any regard to
their talents. Thus the man, as well as the player, may condemn what he himself
acts; nay, it is common to see vice sit as awkwardly on some men, as the
character of Iago would on the honest face of Mr William Mills.
Upon the
whole, then, the man of candour and of true understanding is never hasty to
condemn. He can censure an imperfection, or even a vice, without rage against
the guilty party. In a word, they are the same folly, the same childishness,
the same ill-breeding, and the same ill-nature, which raise all the clamours
and uproars both in life and on the stage. The worst of men generally have the
words rogue and villain most in their mouths, as the lowest of all wretches are
the aptest to cry out low in the pit.
Chapter ii. — Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with himself.
Jones
received his effects from Mr Allworthy’s early in the morning, with the
following answer to his letter:—
“SIR,
“I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as he did not
proceed to those measures he had taken with you, without the
greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence of your
unworthiness, so will it be always out of your power to cause the
least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great surprize at
your presumption in saying you have resigned all pretensions to a
young lady, to whom it is impossible you should ever have had any,
her birth and fortune having made her so infinitely your superior.
Lastly, I am commanded to tell you, that the only instance of your
compliance with my uncle’s inclinations which he requires, is, your
immediately quitting this country. I cannot conclude this without
offering you my advice, as a Christian, that you would seriously
think of amending your life. That you may be assisted with grace so
to do, will be always the prayer of
“Your humble servant,
“W. BLIFIL.”
Many
contending passions were raised in our heroe’s mind by this letter; but the
tender prevailed at last over the indignant and irascible, and a flood of tears
came seasonably to his assistance, and possibly prevented his misfortunes from
either turning his head, or bursting his heart.
He grew,
however, soon ashamed of indulging this remedy; and starting up, he cried,
“Well, then, I will give Mr Allworthy the only instance he requires of my
obedience. I will go this moment—but whither?—why, let Fortune direct; since
there is no other who thinks it of any consequence what becomes of this
wretched person, it shall be a matter of equal indifference to myself. Shall I
alone regard what no other—Ha! have I not reason to think there is another?—one
whose value is above that of the whole world!—I may, I must imagine my Sophia
is not indifferent to what becomes of me. Shall I then leave this only
friend—and such a friend? Shall I not stay with her?—Where—how can I stay with
her? Have I any hopes of ever seeing her, though she was as desirous as myself,
without exposing her to the wrath of her father, and to what purpose? Can I
think of soliciting such a creature to consent to her own ruin? Shall I indulge
any passion of mine at such a price? Shall I lurk about this country like a
thief, with such intentions?—No, I disdain, I detest the thought. Farewel,
Sophia; farewel, most lovely, most beloved—” Here passion stopped his mouth,
and found a vent at his eyes.
And now
having taken a resolution to leave the country, he began to debate with himself
whither he should go. The world, as Milton phrases it, lay all before him; and
Jones, no more than Adam, had any man to whom he might resort for comfort or
assistance. All his acquaintance were the acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and he
had no reason to expect any countenance from them, as that gentleman had
withdrawn his favour from him. Men of great and good characters should indeed
be very cautious how they discard their dependents; for the consequence to the unhappy
sufferer is being discarded by all others.
What
course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply himself, was a second
consideration: and here the prospect was all a melancholy void. Every
profession, and every trade, required length of time, and what was worse,
money; for matters are so constituted, that “nothing out of nothing” is not a
truer maxim in physics than in politics; and every man who is greatly destitute
of money, is on that account entirely excluded from all means of acquiring it.
At last
the Ocean, that hospitable friend to the wretched, opened her capacious arms to
receive him; and he instantly resolved to accept her kind invitation. To
express myself less figuratively, he determined to go to sea.
This
thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he eagerly embraced it; and
having presently hired horses, he set out for Bristol to put it in execution.
But before
we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort awhile to Mr Western’s, and
see what further happened to the charming Sophia.
Chapter iii. — Containing several dialogues.
The
morning in which Mr Jones departed, Mrs Western summoned Sophia into her
apartment; and having first acquainted her that she had obtained her liberty of
her father, she proceeded to read her a long lecture on the subject of
matrimony; which she treated not as a romantic scheme of happiness arising from
love, as it hath been described by the poets; nor did she mention any of those
purposes for which we are taught by divines to regard it as instituted by
sacred authority; she considered it rather as a fund in which prudent women
deposit their fortunes to the best advantage, in order to receive a larger
interest for them than they could have elsewhere.
When Mrs
Western had finished, Sophia answered, “That she was very incapable of arguing
with a lady of her aunt’s superior knowledge and experience, especially on a
subject which she had so very little considered, as this of matrimony.”
“Argue
with me, child!” replied the other; “I do not indeed expect it. I should have
seen the world to very little purpose truly, if I am to argue with one of your
years. I have taken this trouble, in order to instruct you. The antient
philosophers, such as Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, did not use to argue
with their scholars. You are to consider me, child, as Socrates, not asking
your opinion, but only informing you of mine.” From which last words the reader
may possibly imagine, that this lady had read no more of the philosophy of
Socrates, than she had of that of Alcibiades; and indeed we cannot resolve his
curiosity as to this point.
“Madam,”
cries Sophia, “I have never presumed to controvert any opinion of yours; and
this subject, as I said, I have never yet thought of, and perhaps never may.”
“Indeed,
Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this dissimulation with me is very foolish. The
French shall as soon persuade me that they take foreign towns in defence only
of their own country, as you can impose on me to believe you have never yet
thought seriously of matrimony. How can you, child, affect to deny that you
have considered of contracting an alliance, when you so well know I am
acquainted with the party with whom you desire to contract it?—an alliance as
unnatural, and contrary to your interest, as a separate league with the French
would be to the interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hitherto
considered of this matter, I promise you it is now high time, for my brother is
resolved immediately to conclude the treaty with Mr Blifil; and indeed I am a
sort of guarantee in the affair, and have promised your concurrence.”
“Indeed,
madam,” cries Sophia, “this is the only instance in which I must disobey both
yourself and my father. For this is a match which requires very little
consideration in me to refuse.”
“If I was
not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,” returned Mrs Western, “you
would overcome my patience. What objection can you have to the young
gentleman?”
“A very
solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia—“I hate him.”
“Will you never
learn a proper use of words?” answered the aunt. “Indeed, child, you should
consult Bailey’s Dictionary. It is impossible you should hate a man from whom
you have received no injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean no more than
dislike, which is no sufficient objection against your marrying of him. I have
known many couples, who have entirely disliked each other, lead very
comfortable genteel lives. Believe me, child, I know these things better than
you. You will allow me, I think, to have seen the world, in which I have not an
acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike her husband than to
like him. The contrary is such out-of-fashion romantic nonsense, that the very
imagination of it is shocking.”
“Indeed,
madam,” replied Sophia, “I shall never marry a man I dislike. If I promise my
father never to consent to any marriage contrary to his inclinations, I think I
may hope he will never force me into that state contrary to my own.”
“Inclinations!”
cries the aunt, with some warmth. “Inclinations! I am astonished at your
assurance. A young woman of your age, and unmarried, to talk of inclinations!
But whatever your inclinations may be, my brother is resolved; nay, since you
talk of inclinations, I shall advise him to hasten the treaty. Inclinations!”
Sophia
then flung herself upon her knees, and tears began to trickle from her shining
eyes. She entreated her aunt, “to have mercy upon her, and not to resent so
cruelly her unwillingness to make herself miserable;” often urging, “that she
alone was concerned, and that her happiness only was at stake.”
As a
bailiff, when well authorized by his writ, having possessed himself of the
person of some unhappy debtor, views all his tears without concern; in vain the
wretched captive attempts to raise compassion; in vain the tender wife bereft
of her companion, the little prattling boy, or frighted girl, are mentioned as
inducements to reluctance. The noble bumtrap, blind and deaf to every
circumstance of distress, greatly rises above all the motives to humanity, and
into the hands of the gaoler resolves to deliver his miserable prey.
Not less
blind to the tears, or less deaf to every entreaty of Sophia was the politic
aunt, nor less determined was she to deliver over the trembling maid into the
arms of the gaoler Blifil. She answered with great impetuosity, “So far, madam,
from your being concerned alone, your concern is the least, or surely the least
important. It is the honour of your family which is concerned in this alliance;
you are only the instrument. Do you conceive, mistress, that in an
intermarriage between kingdoms, as when a daughter of France is married into
Spain, the princess herself is alone considered in the match? No! it is a match
between two kingdoms, rather than between two persons. The same happens in
great families such as ours. The alliance between the families is the principal
matter. You ought to have a greater regard for the honour of your family than
for your own person; and if the example of a princess cannot inspire you with
these noble thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no worse than
all princesses are used.”
“I hope,
madam,” cries Sophia, with a little elevation of voice, “I shall never do
anything to dishonour my family; but as for Mr Blifil, whatever may be the
consequence, I am resolved against him, and no force shall prevail in his
favour.”
Western,
who had been within hearing during the greater part of the preceding dialogue,
had now exhausted all his patience; he therefore entered the room in a violent
passion, crying, “D—n me then if shatunt ha’un, d—n me if shatunt, that’s
all—that’s all; d—n me if shatunt.”
Mrs
Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for the use of Sophia; but
she now transferred it all to the squire. “Brother,” said she, “it is
astonishing that you will interfere in a matter which you had totally left to
my negotiation. Regard to my family hath made me take upon myself to be the
mediating power, in order to rectify those mistakes in policy which you have
committed in your daughter’s education. For, brother, it is you—it is your
preposterous conduct which hath eradicated all the seeds that I had formerly
sown in her tender mind. It is you yourself who have taught her
disobedience.”—“Blood!” cries the squire, foaming at the mouth, “you are enough
to conquer the patience of the devil! Have I ever taught my daughter
disobedience?—Here she stands; speak honestly, girl, did ever I bid you be
disobedient to me? Have not I done everything to humour and to gratify you, and
to make you obedient to me? And very obedient to me she was when a little
child, before you took her in hand and spoiled her, by filling her head with a
pack of court notions. Why—why—why—did I not overhear you telling her she must
behave like a princess? You have made a Whig of the girl; and how should her
father, or anybody else, expect any obedience from her?”—“Brother,” answered
Mrs Western, with an air of great disdain, “I cannot express the contempt I
have for your politics of all kinds; but I will appeal likewise to the young
lady herself, whether I have ever taught her any principles of disobedience. On
the contrary, niece, have I not endeavoured to inspire you with a true idea of
the several relations in which a human creature stands in society? Have I not taken
infinite pains to show you, that the law of nature hath enjoined a duty on
children to their parents? Have I not told you what Plato says on that
subject?—a subject on which you was so notoriously ignorant when you came first
under my care, that I verily believe you did not know the relation between a
daughter and a father.”—“‘Tis a lie,” answered Western. “The girl is no such
fool, as to live to eleven years old without knowing that she was her father’s
relation.”—“O! more than Gothic ignorance,” answered the lady. “And as for your
manners, brother, I must tell you, they deserve a cane.”—“Why then you may gi’
it me, if you think you are able,” cries the squire; “nay, I suppose your niece
there will be ready enough to help you.”—“Brother,” said Mrs Western, “though I
despise you beyond expression, yet I shall endure your insolence no longer; so
I desire my coach may be got ready immediately, for I am resolved to leave your
house this very morning.”—“And a good riddance too,” answered he; “I can bear
your insolence no longer, an you come to that. Blood! it is almost enough of
itself to make my daughter undervalue my sense, when she hears you telling me
every minute you despise me.”—“It is impossible, it is impossible,” cries the
aunt; “no one can undervalue such a boor.”—“Boar,” answered the squire, “I am
no boar; no, nor ass; no, nor rat neither, madam. Remember that—I am no rat. I
am a true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed, that have eat up the
nation.”—“Thou art one of those wise men,” cries she, “whose nonsensical
principles have undone the nation; by weakening the hands of our government at
home, and by discouraging our friends and encouraging our enemies abroad.”—“Ho!
are you come back to your politics?” cries the squire: “as for those I despise
them as much as I do a f—t.” Which last words he accompanied and graced with
the very action, which, of all others, was the most proper to it. And whether
it was this word or the contempt exprest for her politics, which most affected
Mrs Western, I will not determine; but she flew into the most violent rage,
uttered phrases improper to be here related, and instantly burst out of the
house. Nor did her brother or her niece think proper either to stop or to
follow her; for the one was so much possessed by concern, and the other by
anger, that they were rendered almost motionless.
The
squire, however, sent after his sister the same holloa which attends the
departure of a hare, when she is first started before the hounds. He was indeed
a great master of this kind of vociferation, and had a holla proper for most
occasions in life.
Women who,
like Mrs Western, know the world, and have applied themselves to philosophy and
politics, would have immediately availed themselves of the present disposition
of Mr Western’s mind, by throwing in a few artful compliments to his
understanding at the expense of his absent adversary; but poor Sophia was all
simplicity. By which word we do not intend to insinuate to the reader, that she
was silly, which is generally understood as a synonymous term with simple; for
she was indeed a most sensible girl, and her understanding was of the first
rate; but she wanted all that useful art which females convert to so many good
purposes in life, and which, as it rather arises from the heart than from the
head, is often the property of the silliest of women.
To be
continued
