TOM
JONES
PART 39
BOOK
XVI.
CONTAINING
THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
Chapter
i. — Of prologues.
I have
heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather write a play than a
prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less pains write one of the books
of this history than the prefatory chapter to each of them.
To say the
truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on the head of that
author who first instituted the method of prefixing to his play that portion of
matter which is called the prologue; and which at first was part of the piece
itself, but of latter years hath had usually so little connexion with the drama
before which it stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for
any other. Those indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the same
three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all
contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to be
represented. The sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor is it
possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great invention
of authors, who have been capable of finding such various phrases to express
the same thing.
In like
manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do me the honour of
imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his pate, bestow some good
wishes on my memory, for having first established these several initial
chapters; most of which, like modern prologues, may as properly be prefixed to
any other book in this history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to
any other history as to this.
But however
authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the reader will find
sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath long found in the other.
First, it
is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an opportunity to try his
faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to the best advantage; by which
means, I have known those musical instruments so well prepared, that they have
been able to play in full concert at the first rising of the curtain.
The same
advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the critic will be always
sure of meeting with something that may serve as a whetstone to his noble
spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry appetite for censure on the
history itself. And here his sagacity must make it needless to observe how
artfully these chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these
we have always taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in
order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
Again, the
indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great advantage from both these;
for, as they are not obliged either to see the one or read the others, and both
the play and the book are thus protracted, by the former they have a quarter of
an hour longer allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead of the
first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons who read books
with no other view than to say they have read them, a more general motive to
reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books, and good
books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been
often turned over.
Many other
are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they are for the most part
so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to enumerate them; especially
since it occurs to us that the principal merit of both the prologue and the
preface is that they be short.
Chapter ii. — A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed situation of Sophia.
We must
now convey the reader to Mr Western’s lodgings, which were in Piccadilly, where
he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars at
Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was the first he saw on his arrival in
town, he placed his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he
heard of, he deposited himself.
Here, when
Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her from the house of
Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the apartment provided for her; to
which her father very readily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A
short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then
passed between them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to
the marriage with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute
refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her father, that after
many bitter vows, that he would force her to have him whether she would or no,
he departed from her with many hard words and curses, locked the door, and put
the key into his pocket.
While
Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the closest state
prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down to regale himself over a
bottle of wine, with his parson and the landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who,
as the squire said, would make an excellent third man, and could inform them of
the news of the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a
great deal, since the horses of many of the quality stand at his house.
In this
agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part of the succeeding
day, during which period nothing happened of sufficient consequence to find a
place in this history. All this time Sophia past by herself; for her father
swore she should never come out of her chamber alive, unless she first
consented to marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked,
unless to convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.
The second
morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at breakfast together
on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a gentleman was below to wait on
him.
“A
gentleman!” quoth the squire, “who the devil can he be? Do, doctor, go down and
see who ‘tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to town yet.—Go down, do, and know
what his business is.”
The doctor
returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man, and by the ribbon
in his hat he took him for an officer of the army; that he said he had some
particular business, which he could deliver to none but Mr Western himself.
“An
officer!” cries the squire; “what can any such fellow have to do with me? If he
wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice of peace here, nor can I
grant a warrant.—Let un come up then, if he must speak to me.”
A very
genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his compliments to the
squire, and desired the favour of being alone with him, delivered himself as
follows:—
“Sir, I
come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar; but with a very
different message from what I suppose you expect, after what past the other night.”
“My lord
who?” cries the squire; “I never heard the name o’un.”
“His
lordship,” said the gentleman, “is willing to impute everything to the effect
of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of that kind will set
everything right; for as he hath the most violent attachment to your daughter,
you, sir, are the last person upon earth from whom he would resent an affront;
and happy is it for you both that he hath given such public demonstrations of
his courage as to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of
any imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will
before me make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you, in order
to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the footing of a lover.”
“I don’t
understand much of what you say, sir,” said the squire; “but I suppose, by what
you talk about my daughter, that this is the lord which my cousin, Lady
Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said something about his courting my daughter.
If so be that how that be the case—you may give my service to his lordship, and
tell un the girl is disposed of already.”
“Perhaps,
sir,” said the gentleman, “you are not sufficiently apprized of the greatness
of this offer. I believe such a person, title, and fortune would be nowhere
refused.”
“Lookee,
sir,” answered the squire; “to be very plain, my daughter is bespoke already;
but if she was not, I would not marry her to a lord upon any account; I hate
all lords; they are a parcel of courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have
nothing to do with them.”
“Well,
sir,” said the gentleman, “if that is your resolution, the message I am to
deliver to you is that my lord desires the favour of your company this morning
in Hyde Park.”
“You may
tell my lord,” answered the squire, “that I am busy and cannot come. I have
enough to look after at home, and can’t stir abroad on any account.”
“I am
sure, sir,” quoth the other, “you are too much a gentleman to send such a
message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said of you, that, after having
affronted a noble peer, you refuse him satisfaction. His lordship would have
been willing, from his great regard to the young lady, to have made up matters
in another way; but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will
not suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered
him.”
“I offered
him!” cries the squire; “it is a d—n’d lie! I never offered him anything.”
Upon these
words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke, and this he
accompanied at the same time with some manual remonstrances, which no sooner
reached the ears of Mr Western, than that worthy squire began to caper very
briskly about the room, bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if
desirous to summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
The
parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not retired far;
he immediately attended therefore on the squire’s vociferation, crying, “Bless
me! sir, what’s the matter?”—“Matter!” quoth the squire, “here’s a highwayman,
I believe, who wants to rob and murder me—for he hath fallen upon me with that
stick there in his hand, when I wish I may be d—n’d if I gid un the least provocation.”
“How,
sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I lyed?”
“No, as I
hope to be saved,” answered the squire, “—I believe I might say, ‘Twas a lie
that I had offered any affront to my lord—but I never said the word, `you
lie.’—I understand myself better, and you might have understood yourself better
than to fall upon a naked man. If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have
dared strike me. I’d have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down
into yard this minute, and I’ll take a bout with thee at single stick for a
broken head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I’m sure.”
The
captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are below my notice,
and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I am sorry I have dirtied my
fingers with you.” At which words he withdrew, the parson interposing to
prevent the squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the
other, though he made some efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently
bent on success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many
curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips
till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and louder as
he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or at least did not
retard his departure.
Poor
Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father’s outcries from first
to last, began now first to thunder with her foot, and afterwards to scream as
loudly as the old gentleman himself had done before, though in a much sweeter
voice. These screams soon silenced the squire, and turned all his consideration
towards his daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of
any harm happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for, except in
that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life was
concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his inclinations.
Having
ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take the law of him,
the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as soon as he had unlocked and
opened the door, he found all pale and breathless. The moment, however, that
she saw her father, she collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by
the hand, she cryed passionately, “O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to
death! I hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you.” “No, no,” cries the
squire, “no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me if I don’t
ha the la o’ un.” “Pray, dear sir,” says she, “tell me what’s the matter; who
is it that hath insulted you?” “I don’t know the name o’ un,” answered Western;
“some officer fellow, I suppose, that we are to pay for beating us; but I’ll
make him pay this bout, if the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he
hath not. For thof he was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a
voot of land in the world.” “But, dear sir,” cries she, “what was the occasion
of your quarrel?” “What should it be, Sophy,” answered the squire, “but about
you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the death of your
poor father at last. Here’s a varlet of a lord, the Lord knows who, forsooth!
who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I would not gi un my consent, he
sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your
father’s troubles; come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this
day or two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will
make me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the happiest woman;
you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach
and six at your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my
estate—od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole.” “Will my
papa be so kind,” says she, “as to hear me speak?”—“Why wout ask, Sophy?” cries
he, “when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of the best
pack of dogs in England.—Hear thee, my dear little girl! I hope I shall hear
thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that pleasure, I would not
gee a brass varden to live a moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how
I love you, indeed you don’t, or you never could have run away and left your
poor father, who hath no other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little
Sophy.” At these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the tears
streaming from hers) answered, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me
tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I have returned your
affection; nor could anything but an apprehension of being forced into the arms
of this man have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately,
that I would, with pleasure, sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have
endeavoured to reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a
resolution to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your
inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force my mind;
nor can I ever.” Here the squire began to look wild, and the foam appeared at
his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard out, and then proceeded:
“If my father’s life, his health, or any real happiness of his was at stake,
here stands your resolved daughter; may heaven blast me if there is a misery I
would not suffer to preserve you!—No, that most detested, most loathsome of all
lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake.”—“I tell
thee, it will preserve me,” answers the father; “it will give me health,
happiness, life, everything.—Upon my soul I shall die if dost refuse me; I
shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul.”—“Is it possible,” says she, “you
can have such a desire to make me miserable?”—“I tell thee noa,” answered he
loudly, “d—n me if there is a thing upon earth I would not do to see thee
happy.”—“And will not my dear papa allow me to have the least knowledge of what
will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists in opinion, what must be
my condition, when I shall think myself the most miserable of all the wretches
upon earth?” “Better think yourself so,” said he, “than know it by being
married to a poor bastardly vagabond.” “If it will content you, sir,” said
Sophia, “I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry him, nor any
other, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life
to your service; let me be again your poor Sophy, and my whole business and
pleasure be, as it hath been, to please and divert you.” “Lookee, Sophy,” answered
the squire, “I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would
then have reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I’d have you to
know I have a got more wisdom, and know more of the world, than to take the
word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned.” “How, sir, have I
deserved this want of confidence?” said she; “have I ever broke a single
promise to you? or have I ever been found guilty of a falsehood from my
cradle?” “Lookee, Sophy,” cries he; “that’s neither here nor there. I am
determined upon this match, and have him you shall, d—n me if shat unt. D—n me
if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next morning.” At repeating which
words he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so
loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair,
and, had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps worse had
followed.
Western
beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more contrition or
remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the agonies of a tender
wife, when taking her last farewel of her condemned husband; or rather he
looked down on her with the same emotions which arise in an honest fair
tradesman, who sees his debtor dragged to prison for £10, which, though a just
debt, the wretch is wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more
nearly, he felt the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor innocent, whom
she hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at the first proposal of what
is called seeing company. Indeed this resemblance would be exact, was it not
that the bawd hath an interest in what she doth, and the father, though perhaps
he may blindly think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his
daughter to almost an equal prostitution.
In this
condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very vulgar
observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room, and returned to the
parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the young lady, which, though
perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty required, yet was it sufficient to
throw the squire into a violent rage, and into many indecent reflections on the
whole body of the clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred
function to commit to paper.
Chapter iii. — What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
The
landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early to entertain
a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was informed that the squire
was a man of vast fortune, and as she had taken care to exact a very
extraordinary price for her rooms, she did not think proper to give any
offence; for, though she was not without some concern for the confinement of
poor Sophia, of whose great sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the
house had made so favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire’s
servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke
one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind of a gentleman.
Though
Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her meals; indeed, I
believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that the squire, however angry, would
have spared neither pains nor cost to have procured it for her; since, however
strange it may appear to some of my readers, he really doated on his daughter,
and to give her any kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.
The
dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet, the squire
himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key) attending the door. As
George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between him and Sophia (for
he had not seen her since she left the country, and she treated every servant
with more respect than some persons shew to those who are in a very slight
degree their inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back,
saying, she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly
recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.
All this
time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a great favourite with
his master, as his employment was in concerns of the highest nature, namely,
about the game, and was accustomed to take many liberties. He had officiously
carried up the dinner, being, as he said, very desirous to see his young lady;
he made therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes,
while civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he received
only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.
The eggs
of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George well knew, the most
favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no wonder that he, who was a
very good-natured fellow, should take care to supply her with this kind of
delicacy, at a time when all the servants in the house were afraid she would be
starved; for she had scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.
Though
vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually hath on a widow,
whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can be rendered by the air on
Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the sublimest grief, notwithstanding
what some people may say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia,
herself, after some little consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she
found to be as full of eggs as George had reported it.
But, if
she was pleased with these, it contained something which would have delighted
the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three legs be so invaluable a
curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a thousand such, at what price shall
we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts all the laws of animal oeconomy,
as to contain a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which
Hyacinthus was metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil
recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age nor nation
hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.
But though
a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Académies des Sciences
in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless enquiry; yet the reader, by barely
recollecting the last dialogue which passed between Messieurs Jones and
Partridge, will be very easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how
it found its passage into the fowl.
Sophia,
notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her favourite dish was there
before her, no sooner saw the letter than she immediately snatched it up, tore
it open, and read as follows:—
“MADAM,
“Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and
with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful
consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do
myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs
me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a
greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my
presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any
relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful
observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the
most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you
are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,
to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to
which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world
with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,
on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature
reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if
there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace
of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for
ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no
compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender
bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than
myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first
wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if
I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my
second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal
mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,
Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
THOMAS JONES.”
What
Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she read it, or
whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader’s imagination. The
answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at present: for this reason,
among others, that she did not now write any, and that for several good causes,
one of which was this, she had no paper, pen, nor ink.
In the
evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had received, or on
something else, a violent noise from below disturbed her meditations. This
noise was no other than a round bout at altercation between two persons. One of
the combatants, by his voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father;
but she did not so soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of
her aunt Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one
of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brother
lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.
We shall
therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our usual
good-breeding, attend her ladyship.
Chapter iv. — In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
The squire
and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged) were smoaking their
pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was first signified. The squire no
sooner heard her name, than he immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for
he was a great observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom
he stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never would
own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.
Mrs
Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself into a chair,
began thus to harangue: “Well, surely, no one ever had such an intolerable
journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike acts, are grown worse than
ever. La, brother, how could you get into this odious place? no person of
condition, I dare swear, ever set foot here before.” “I don’t know,” cries the
squire, “I think they do well enough; it was landlord recommended them. I
thought, as he knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get
among um.” “Well, and where’s my niece?” says the lady; “have you been to wait
upon Lady Bellaston yet?” “Ay, ay,” cries the squire, “your niece is safe
enough; she is upstairs in chamber.” “How!” answered the lady, “is my niece in this
house, and does she not know of my being here?” “No, nobody can well get to
her,” says the squire, “for she is under lock and key. I have her safe; I
vetched her from my lady cousin the first night I came to town, and I have
taken care o’ her ever since; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise
you.” “Good heaven!” returned Mrs Western, “what do I hear? I thought what a
fine piece of work would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to
town yourself; nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I charge
myself with having ever consented to it. Did not you promise me, brother, that
you would take none of these headstrong measures? Was it not by these
headstrong measures that you forced my niece to run away from you in the
country? Have you a mind to oblige her to take such another step?” “Z—ds and
the devil!” cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; “did ever mortal
hear the like? when I expected you would have commended me for all I have done,
to be fallen upon in this manner!” “How, brother!” said the lady, “have I ever
given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking up your
daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free country are not to be
treated with such arbitrary power? We are as free as the men, and I heartily
wish I could not say we deserve that freedom better. If you expect I should
stay a moment longer in this wretched house, or that I should ever own you
again as my relation, or that I should ever trouble myself again with the affairs
of your family, I insist upon it that my niece be set at liberty this instant.”
This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her back to the fire,
with one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question
whether Thalestris, at the head of her Amazons, ever made a more tremendous
figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire was not proof against
the awe which she inspired. “There,” he cried, throwing down the key, “there it
is, do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till Blifil
came to town, which can’t be long; and now if any harm happens in the mean
time, remember who is to be blamed for it.”
“I will
answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but I shall not intermeddle at
all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that you will commit the whole
entirely to my care, without taking any one measure yourself, unless I shall
eventually appoint you to act. If you ratify these preliminaries, brother, I
yet will endeavour to preserve the honour of your family; if not, I shall
continue in a neutral state.”
“I pray
you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit yourself this once to be admonished by
her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with young Madam Sophia, she will
effect more than you have been able to perpetrate by more rigorous measures.”
“What,
dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if thee dost begin to babble, I
shall whip thee in presently.”
“Fie,
brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to a clergyman? Mr Supple is a
man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the whole world, I believe,
will concur in his opinion; but I must tell you I expect an immediate answer to
my categorical proposals. Either cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her
wholly to your own surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple,
evacuate the garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever.”
“I pray
you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let me supplicate you.”
“Why,
there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire. “She may take un up, if she
pleases: who hinders her?”
“No,
brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the formality of its being delivered
me, with a full ratification of all the concessions stipulated.”
“Why then
I will deliver it to you.—There ‘tis,” cries the squire. “I am sure, sister,
you can’t accuse me of ever denying to trust my daughter to you. She hath
a-lived wi’ you a whole year and muore to a time, without my ever zeeing her.”
“And it
would have been happy for her,” answered the lady, “if she had always lived
with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened under my eye.”
“Ay,
certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.”
“Why, you
are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have been often obliged to tell you
so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so. However, I hope you will now
amend, and gather so much experience from past errors, as not to defeat my
wisest machinations by your blunders. Indeed, brother, you are not qualified
for these negociations. All your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once
more, therefore, insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is
past.”——
“Z—ds and
bl—d, sister,” cries the squire, “what would you have me say? You are enough to
provoke the devil.”
“There,
now,” said she, “just according to the old custom. I see, brother, there is no
talking to you. I will appeal to Mr Supple, who is a man of sense, if I said
anything which could put any human creature into a passion; but you are so
wrongheaded every way.”
“Let me
beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to irritate his worship.”
“Irritate
him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a fool as himself. Well, brother,
since you have promised not to interfere, I will once more undertake the
management of my niece. Lord have mercy upon all affairs which are under the
directions of men! The head of one woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now
having summoned a servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key
with her.
She was no
sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door) ejaculated twenty
bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not sparing himself for having
ever thought of her estate; but added, “Now one hath been a slave so long, it
would be pity to lose it at last, for want of holding out a little longer. The
bitch can’t live for ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will.”
The parson
greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire having ordered in another
bottle, which was his usual method when anything either pleased or vexed him,
did, by drinking plentifully of this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his
choler, that his temper was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs
Western returned with Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat and
capuchin, and the aunt acquainted Mr Western, “that she intended to take her
niece with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother,” says she, “these
rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.”
“Very
well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please. The girl can never be in
better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me the justice to say, that
I have said fifty times behind your back, that you was one of the most sensible
women in the world.”
“To this,”
cries the parson, “I am ready to bear testimony.”
“Nay,
brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I’m sure, given you as favourable a
character. You must own you have a little too much hastiness in your temper;
but when you will allow yourself time to reflect I never knew a man more
reasonable.”
“Why then,
sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here’s your good health with all my
heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but I scorn to bear any malice.
Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do everything your aunt orders you.”
“I have
not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western. “She hath had already an
example before her eyes in the behaviour of that wretch her cousin Harriet, who
ruined herself by neglecting my advice. O brother, what think you? You was
hardly gone out of hearing, when you set out for London, when who should arrive
but that impudent fellow with the odious Irish name—that Fitzpatrick. He broke
in abruptly upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a
long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to give him a hearing;
but I made him very little answer, and delivered him the letter from his wife,
which I bid him answer himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us
out, but I beg you will not see her, for I am determined I will not.”
“I zee
her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me. I’ll ge no encouragement to
such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow, her husband, I was not at
huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken a dance thru the horse-pond, I
promise un. You zee, Sophy, what undutifulness brings volks to. You have an
example in your own family.”
“Brother,”
cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece by such odious repetitions. Why
will you not leave everything entirely to me?” “Well, well, I wull, I wull,”
said the squire.
And now
Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the conversation by ordering
chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had it continued much longer, fresh
matter of dissension would, most probably, have arisen between the brother and
sister; between whom education and sex made the only difference; for both were
equally violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for
Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.
Chapter v. — In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.
The
arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that grateful
fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly comforted Jones in
the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which he had suffered on the
account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of the said George, he received the
following answer to his letter, which Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and
paper was restored with her liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed
from her confinement:
“Sir,
“As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom
I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I
have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though
she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the
word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach
of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what
is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on
reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a
comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which
I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly
resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of
consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must
teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)
made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may
reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my
injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on
me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be
some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I
shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
your obliged humble servant,
Sophia Western.
“I charge you write to me no more—at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it.”[*]
[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
A child
who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out in less time
than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it occasioned were a mixture of
joy and grief; somewhat like what divide the mind of a good man when he peruses
the will of his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses
make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole, however, he was
more pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the reader may probably wonder that
he was displeased at all; but the reader is not quite so much in love as was
poor Jones; and love is a disease which, though it may, in some instances,
resemble a consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in
direct opposition to it, and particularly in this, that it never flatters
itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.
One thing
gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress had regained her
liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at least assure herself of a
decent treatment. Another comfortable circumstance was the reference which she
made to her promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested
he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous overtures
made in his letter, I very much question whether he could have heard a more
afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was married to another, though the
match had been never so great, and never so likely to end in making her
completely happy. That refined degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely
detached from the flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a
gift confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard
declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with the utmost
readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to be
necessary for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude
that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say I have ever
seen an instance of it.
Mr Jones
having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid letter, and
being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the last-mentioned
considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment, which he had before made,
into execution. This was, to attend Mrs Miller, and her younger daughter, into
the gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company.
For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected to
enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he expected
the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated,
by art.
In the
first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller, her youngest
daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately declared it
was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he
said, “It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without
putting one another out.” While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he
cried out to Mrs Miller, “Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the
end of the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service.” Nor could
he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, “That here
were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a
whole twelvemonth.”
As soon as
the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge was all
attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost; upon which
he asked Jones, “What man that was in the strange dress; something,” said he,
“like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” Jones
answered, “That is the ghost.” To which Partridge replied with a smile,
“Persuade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can’t say I ever actually saw a
ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don’t appear in such dresses as that,
neither.” In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbourhood of
Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene between the ghost and
Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr Garrick, which he had denied to
Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against
each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of
the warrior upon the stage? “O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what
you told me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so
much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person.” “Why,
who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thyself?”
“Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man there upon the
stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go
along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who’s fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon
such fool-hardiness!—Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.——Follow you?
I’d follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil——for they say he can
put on what likeness he pleases.—Oh! here he is again.——No farther! No, you
have gone far enough already; farther than I’d have gone for all the king’s
dominions.” Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir,
don’t you hear him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his
eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open;
the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in
him.
When the scene
was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the
play more than I conceived possible.” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you
are not afraid of the devil, I can’t help it; but to be sure, it is natural to
be surprized at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that
it was the ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to
have been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.” “And dost thou imagine,
then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that he was really frightened?” “Nay, sir,”
said Partridge, “did not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was
his own father’s spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear
forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as
I should have been, had it been my own case?—But hush! O la! what noise is
that? There he is again.——Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing
at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those men are.” Then
turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you may draw your sword; what
signifies a sword against the power of the devil?”
During the
second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of
the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king’s countenance. “Well,”
said he, “how people may be deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I
find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king’s face, that he
had ever committed a murder?” He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who
intended he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, “that he
might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.”
Partridge
sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost made his next
appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, sir, now; what say you now? is he
frightened now or no? As much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure,
nobody can help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what’s his
name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! what’s become of
the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth.”
“Indeed, you saw right,” answered Jones. “Well, well,” cries Partridge, “I know
it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller
would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if
the devil was here in person.—There, there—Ay, no wonder you are in such a
passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I
would serve her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings.——Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you.”
Our critic
was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet introduces before the king.
This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained it to him; but he no
sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he
had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs Miller, he asked her, “If she
did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,” said he,
“a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much
to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair
than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake I’ll never trust an
innocent face again.”
The
grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much
surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones
answered, “That it was one of the most famous burial-places about town.” “No
wonder then,” cries Partridge, “that the place is haunted. But I never saw in
my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should
have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if
it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.
You had rather sing than work, I believe.”—Upon Hamlet’s taking up the skull,
he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how fearless some men are: I never
could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man, on any
account.—He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo
omnibus horis sapit.”
Little
more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones
asked him, “Which of the players he had liked best?” To this he answered, with
some appearance of indignation at the question, “The king, without doubt.”
“Indeed, Mr Partridge,” says Mrs Miller, “you are not of the same opinion with
the town; for they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who
ever was on the stage.” “He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a
contemptuous sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he
did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his
mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that
is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I
know you are only joking with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a
play in London, yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for
my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the
other.—Anybody may see he is an actor.”
While Mrs
Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady came up to Mr
Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen
him from the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity of
speaking to him, as she had something to say, which might be of great service
to himself. She then acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an
appointment the next day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she
presently changed to the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
Thus ended
the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had afforded great mirth, not
only to Jones and Mrs Miller, but to all who sat within hearing, who were more
attentive to what he said, than to anything that passed on the stage.
He durst
not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for many nights after
sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep, with the same
apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying out, “Lord have
mercy upon us! there it is.”
Chapter vi. — In which the history is obliged to look back.
It is
almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact impartiality to his
children, even though no superior merit should bias his affection; but sure a
parent can hardly be blamed, when that superiority determines his preference.
As I
regard all the personages of this history in the light of my children; so I
must confess the same inclination of partiality to Sophia; and for that I hope
the reader will allow me the same excuse, from the superiority of her
character.
This
extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine never suffers me to quit
her any long time without the utmost reluctance. I could now, therefore, return
impatiently to enquire what hath happened to this lovely creature since her
departure from her father’s, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit
to Mr Blifil.
Mr
Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast upon the sudden
news he received of his daughter, and in the first hurry to go after her, had
not once thought of sending any account of the discovery to Blifil. He had not
gone far, however, before he recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the
very first inn he came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil
with his having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to him
immediately, if he would come up after him to town.
As the
love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind, which nothing but the
loss of her fortune, or some such accident, could lessen, his inclination to
the match was not at all altered by her having run away, though he was obliged
to lay this to his own account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this
offer. Indeed, he now proposed the gratification of a very strong passion
besides avarice, by marrying this young lady, and this was hatred; for he
concluded that matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying either
hatred or love; and this opinion is very probably verified by much experience.
To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary behaviour of married
persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to conclude that the generality
seek the indulgence of the former passion only, in their union of everything but
of hearts.
There was
one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr Allworthy. That
good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia (for neither that, nor the
cause of it, could be concealed from him), the great aversion which she had for
his nephew, began to be seriously concerned that he had been deceived into
carrying matters so far. He by no means concurred with the opinion of those
parents, who think it as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their
children in the affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their
servants when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or decency at
least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the contrary, as he
esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he thought every
preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and inviolate; and very
wisely concluded, that the surest way to effect this was by laying the
foundation in previous affection.
Blifil
indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of deceit, by many vows
and protestations that he had been deceived himself, with which the many
declarations of Western very well tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to
consent to the renewing his addresses was a matter of such apparent difficulty,
that the very appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing
genius; but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing
within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be achieved.
Here then
he represented the violence of his own affection, and the hopes of subduing
aversion in the lady by perseverance. He begged that, in an affair on which
depended all his future repose, he might at least be at liberty to try all fair
means for success. Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of
prevailing by any other than the most gentle methods! “Besides, sir,” said he,
“if they fail, you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your
consent.” He urged the great and eager desire which Mr Western had for the
match; and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed
all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to preserve so valuable a young
lady was even an act of charity.
All these
arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little stronger on the
authority of parents than Mr Blifil himself had done. He ascribed the measures
which Mr Blifil was desirous to take to Christian motives; “and though,” says
he, “the good young gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost
convinced it is his first and principal consideration.”
Square,
possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same tune, though in a
different key, and would have discovered much moral fitness in the proceeding:
but he was now gone to Bath for the recovery of his health.
Allworthy,
though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the desires of his nephew. He
said he would accompany him to London, where he might be at liberty to use
every honest endeavour to gain the lady: “But I declare,” said he, “I will
never give my consent to any absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor
shall you ever have her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance.”
Thus did
the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior understanding to
be triumphed over by the inferior; and thus is the prudence of the best of
heads often defeated by the tenderness of the best of hearts.
Blifil,
having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his uncle, rested not till he
carried his purpose into execution. And as no immediate business required Mr
Allworthy’s presence in the country, and little preparation is necessary to men
for a journey, they set out the very next day, and arrived in town that
evening, when Mr Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge
at the play.
The
morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr Western, by whom he was most
kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every possible assurance
(perhaps more than was possible) that he should very shortly be as happy as
Sophia could make him; nor would the squire suffer the young gentleman to
return to his uncle till he had, almost against his will, carried him to his
sister.
To be
continued
