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CONTAINING THE SFACE 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 ofthis 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 connection 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 euloginm on the pelformance .iust about to be represented. The sentiments in an 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 anyone sllall 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.IBut 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

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HENRY FIELDING

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 begilming 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 BEFELL THE SQUIRE, WITH 'I'HE

DISTRESSED SlTUATION OF SOPHIA

W E 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 COl'ner i 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 haclmey-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 l'eadily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed betw~en them, in which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was

HNG have been able to play in

~ain. n from these ehuptct8J ill eeting with something l~1t spirit; so that he may fall on the hiHtol'y itself. Anll ! ss to obHerve how artfully l ellent purpose j fur in theiie mnewhllt of tllC sour oneill i he snid spirit of' criticism. . as spectator, limIs great . nrc not oblig(!cl (dlher to th the play and the book have n. qU!ll'h'l' of an hour ld by the hLtter lht!y have the fomth or fiftb Jlage

ans of trivial consequence ler view than to say tltey Itive to rending than is not only Jaw bunks, And and Virgil, of Swift t\l1(1

arise from buth these, but at; we shnll not at llreseut e it occurs to l1H thl'lt the i the preface is Hmt tiley

'l',lll~ sQumm, wl'rn TIIJI soPHIA

Mr. Western's ludgings, : he wns plm:ed hy the :-Icl'cules PiUul'lJ nt Hyde

the first he SllW on his in those lodgiugs.. wllich

mself. 10 IH\ckncy~(JOn(·h. which ;ton, she desired to retire ell her flLthcr very re~ldily lself. A short dinlol;ttlej ~te minutely, then I'ItIssed vehemently to give her ,s he acquainted her" Was

TOM JONES 597 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 h~ departed from her with many hard words and curses locked'the door, and put the key into his pocket. '

'While Sophia w~s left with no other company than what attend the closest state prIsoner, namely, fire and candle the squire sat down to regale himself ovel' 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 h01'ses of many of the'quality stand at his house.

In this a~reeable society Mr. Western passed that evening and great pari; of the. succeeding day, during which peliod nothing happe~ed. of: sufficl~nt consequence to find 8. place in this history. All tIllS tIme Sopllla passed by herself; for her father swore she should never come out of her chamber alive, unless she first con­ sented to marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to cOllvey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.

The secon~ morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at brealdast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a gentleman was below to wait on him.

&( A gentleman I" quoth the squire, who the devil can he be ?U Do, doctor, go down and see WllO '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~ (hessed man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army; that he said he lllld some particular business which he could deliver to none hut Mr. Western himself. '

(( An otncel"!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to ~o ",:ith me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no Justice of pCl!.Ce here, nor can I grant a wB.mmt.-Let un come up, then, if he must speak to me."

A very genteel mM 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 :­

-it Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fel1amur; but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after what passed the other night."

(( My lord who? JJ cries the squire; cc I never heard the llame , " o un.

a H~s lordship," said the gentleman, t( is willing to impute everythmg to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknpwledgment of that kind will set everything right; for as he

HENRY FIELDING 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 demon­ strations 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 Bella.ston, 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 wonld be nowhere refused."

"Lookee, sir," answered the squil:e; u 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 100'ds; they are a pal'cel of courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them."

'~~'Well, sir," said the gentleman, H 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, II 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, II you are too much a gentle­ man to send such a message; you will not, I am cOllvinced, 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! U cries the squire; If it is a d--ll'd lie I 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 capel' 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,

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r daughter you ir ld ' ,s,are

~ou resent an alllont. LVen such pUblic d."'h l

C!' "·""n·up an allair of this kind honour. All he des'Ires some acknowledgment~ It; and he intends thh er to obtain your leave a lover." rou say, sir," said the Lbout my daughter, that tston, mentioned to In laughter. If so be th:; service to his lordslup!

you are not sufficienUy believe such a person " , (( to be very plain, my not, I would not marry

lords; they are a pareel ~ve nothing to do with

t is your resolution the Ird desires the favo~ of

,quu'e, "that I am busy Lfter at home, and can't

are too much a gentle. , I am convinced, have noble peer, you refuse been willing, from his

e up matters in another father, his ]lOnour will

1S you must be sensible

is a d--n'd lie I I

led a very short verbal same time with some ilched the ears of Mr. lper very briskly about ;h all his might, as if ectators to behold his

he tankard unfinished,

TOM JONES

was not retired far; he immediately attended, therefore, on the squire's vociferation, crying, <r Bless me! sir, what's the matter? H_ er 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 lied?" (t 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 neve~' said the word, 'you lie.'-I understand myself better, and you mIght have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man. IfI 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 SOlTY I have dirtied my fingel'tl 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 apprehen­ sion 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 cried passionately, (( 0 my dear sir, I am almost fHghtened to death! I hope to Heaven no harm hath happened to you." U No, no," cries the squire, ('no great harm. The rascal

600 HENRY FIELDING hath not hurt me much, but rat me if I don't ha' the la 0' un." "Pray deal' sir" says she (( tell me what's the matter; who is it

, " h' " that hath insulted you?" "I don't know t e name 0 un, answered Western; u 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 dressed out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in the world." (( But, deal' 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 kaUenge. 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 clothes in London, and the finest jewels, and a coach-and­ six at your command. I promised Allworthy aheady to give up half my estate-odrabbit it! I should hardly stick at giving up the whole." "Will my papa be so kind," says she, (t as to hear me speak?"-« Why wout ask, Sophy?" cries he, "when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the music of the best pack of dogs in England.-Hear thee, my deal' little girl I 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 wOl'ds the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the teal'S streaming from hers) answered, "Indeed, my deal' 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 daughtel'; 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

don't ha' the la o' " s the matter j who ~'it ow the name 0' un" Suppose, that we are ~ this bout, if the rascal not. For thof he Was

ad got a voot of land in rl~~t was the occasion of " answered the squire .es are abO,ut you j yo~ 1st. Here s a varlet of hath a taan a liking to

consent, he sent me a and put an end to all ) ha' un; he will be in lise me to marry un as he happiest man in the lan; you shall have the wels, and a coach-and. ;hy. ah'ead~ ~o give up . stick at g1V1ng up the 1 she, "as to hear me he, (( when dost know

IC of the best pack of [e girl! I hope I shalt ~ to lose that pleasure, ment longer. Indeed deed you don\ or yo~ or father, who hath no his little Sophy." At Sophia (with the tears ny dear papa, I know n is my witness how or could anything but .rms of this man have so passionately, that I

ilappiness; nay, I have nore, and had almost miserable of all lives, Ilat resolution alone to :l I ever." Here the ~ared at his lips, which and then proceeded:

lappiness of his was at .ay Heaven blast me if e you !-No, that most rnbrace. I would give

TOM JONES 601 my hand to Blifil for your sake." -" I tell thee, it wlll preser'/e me," answers the father; "it will give me health, happiness, life, every­ thing.-Upon my soul I shall die if dost refuse me j 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 thina upon earth I would not do to see thee happy."_u And will not';;y 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?" H Better think yourself so," said he, " than know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond." Ct If it will content YOLl, 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 j 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, U 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, !fd 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 IH 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 hl'l.Ve him you shall, d--n me if shat unto D--n me if sha t unt, though dost hang thyself the next morning." At repeat­ ing which words he clenched 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 immedi­ ately 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 farewell of her condemned husband; or rather, he looked down on her with the same emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his debtor dragged to prison for £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 compnnction 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.

602 HENRY FIELDING

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. w

fa sJ ti

CHAPTER III st fo

WHAT HAPPENED TO SOPHIA DURING HER CONFINEMENT

us

THE landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun tl: very early to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. p; However, as she was inform.ed that the squire was a man of m vast fortune, and as she had taken care to exact a very extra­ a£ ordinary price for her rooms, she did not think proper to give 811 any offence; for, though she was not without some concern for the confinement of POQ~ Sophia, of whose great sweetness of w. temper and affability the maid of the house had made so favourable a a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's servants, yet til she had much more concern for her own interest than to provoke a one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish kind as of a gentleman. Wi

Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with Ie her meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked anyone rarity, S( that the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains hi nor cost to have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some of my readers, he really doated on his AI daughter, and to give her any kind of pleasure was the highest in atisfaction of his life. ~ wl

The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a ve pullet, the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the fo key) attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen fa' her since she left the country, and she treated every servant with sh more respect than some persons show 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 Wl to try, and particularly recommended to her the eggs, of which he of said it was full. te:

All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George te: was a great favoUlite with his mastel', as his employment was in wl concerns of the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was inl

TOM JONES

accustomed to take many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he said, very desn'ous 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, etc., were, as George well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was there­ fore no wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care ,to supply her with this land 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, jf 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 economy, as to contain a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a Howel' 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 bath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Academies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fl'Uitless inquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be vel'y easily satisfied from whence this letter came, Ilnd 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 !­

U 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 Ml'S. 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

( 'I

HENRY FIELDING

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 suffelings 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 pCl'sons. 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 stopped at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brothel' lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.

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TOM JONES

We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with ow' usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH SOPHIA IS DELIVERED FROM HER CONFINEMENT

T HE squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged) were smoking their pipes together, when the an'ival of the lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he immediately ran down to ushel' her upstairs; for he was a great observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he stood more ill awe than of any other human creature, though he never would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.

Mrs. Westerll, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself into a chair, began thus to harangue: f( 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 hmcllol'd recom­ mended them. I thought, as he knew most of the quality, he could best show 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, ny," 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 ]mow of' my being hel'e ?" « No, nobody can well get to her," says the squire, "fo1" she is under lock and key, I have her safe; I vetched her fl'om my lady cousin the first night I came to town, and I have taken care o' hel' ever since; she is as seCU1'e as a fox in a bag, I promise you." " Good Heaven I" returned Ml's. Western, H 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, brothel', 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?" H Z--ds and the devil 1 " cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; "did ever mortal heal' the like? when I expected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this manner I " "How, brother!" said the lady, « have I ever given you the least reason to imagine 1

606

_:a

HENRY FIELDING 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 clied, throwing down the key, "there it is, do whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till Elifil came to town, which can't be long; and now if any harm happens in the meantime, 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 anyone measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you ratify these preliminaries, brothel', 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, 'tpermit yourself this once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by com~ muning with young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to perpetrate by more ligorous measures."

"What, dost thee open upon me?" cries the squire: U 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. Eithel' cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own surprising 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," cl'ies 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

)t :d r If •-, d It e e

:, I

TOM JONES 607 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."

U Ay, certainly," cries he, (( I only am to blame." "Why, you are to blame, brother," answered she. rq 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 negotiations. All your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore, insist, that you do not inter­ meddle. Remember only what is past."-­

t'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 irritateU llis worship."

(f 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 J 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 Drst 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 drink­ ing plentifully of this medicinal julep, 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, it that she intended to take her niece with her to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother," says she, (( these rooms aJ'e not fit to receive a Christian soul in."

(f Very well, madam," quoth Western, tI whatever you please.

608 HENRY FIELDING

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." II 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 some­ times, 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 Ml·s. Western. tt She hath had already an example before her eyes in the be­ haviour of that wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by ,neglecting my advice. 0 brother, what think you? You was hal-dly gone out of healing, when you set out for London, when t ,who should arrive but that impudent fellow with the odious Irish name-that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly upon me without B notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a long, unin­ ( telligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to give him a 'J hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered him the 1 letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I suppose j the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will not see i: her, for I am determined I will not." c

H I zee her I" 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 a should have taken a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. £ You zee, Sophy, what undutifulness brings volks to. You have an tJ example in your own family." S

"Brother," cries the aunt, tI you need not shock my niece by o such odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything a entirely to me? " " Well, well, I wull, I wull," said the squire. S"

And now Ml's. Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the D conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had Cl it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most '1 probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between Y whom education and sex made the only difference; for both were o equally violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection F for Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other. P

Y

TOM JONES

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH JONES RECEIVES A LETTER FRO?. SOPHIA, AND GOES TO A

}'LAV WITH MRS. MILLER AND PARTRIDGE

T HE arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly comfOl·ted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and un~ easiness which he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whoro~ 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:

H Sm,-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 Westel'll, 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 pl'omise 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, pel'haps, 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 lettel's, without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and to be extcnded 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 YOU1' 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 1cinder to us both than at pl·esent. Believe this, that I shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am, sir, your obliged humble servant,

(C 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

610 HENRY FIELDING must want, and think you owe the triBe only to that fortune by which you found it." 1

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensa­ tions 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 flattel'S itself, 01' sees anyone 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 dis­ interested 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 fleshA and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined to the female part of the crea­,.

\\ ~ tion; 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

l conclude that this affection is in nature~ though I cannot pretend ,J,,,- 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 appoint­ ment, 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. 1 Meaning, perhaps, the bank· bill for £100.

lis a· te of cs c, Ie 10

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III ra

.!s re er er :8· ;\1 III

ill ~l\

ly is Id ~.

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TOM JONES 6II 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 observ­ ing, 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 i upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the strange dress; something," said he, t( 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 appeal' in such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbourhood of Partridge, be was suffel'ed to continue, till the scene between tJ1e ghost and Hamlet, when Pal'tIidge 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? 0 la! sir," said he, " I perceive now it is what you told H 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 sucb II distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person." Why, who," cries Jones," dost thouU 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 !-Wlultever','. llappens, 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 I here he is again.-­ No farther! No, you have gone far enough aheady; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, U Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you Ileal'· 11im?" 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, succeediu&,J\Ukewise ill him:

~""""~"',I' ,

Wil$

6I2 HENRY FIELDING

'When the scene was over Jones said, H Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I con­ ceived possible." "Nay, sir," answered Partridge, U if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the ghost that surprised 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 ftightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." And dost thou imagine, then, H Pmtridge," cries Jones, C( that he was really frightened?" (( Nay, sir," said Partridge, C( 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! 0 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 swot'd 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, "howU people may be deceived by faces! Nlllla .fides fi'onti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder? " He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction, than, U that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."

Partridge sat in a fearflll 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.

T, Partridge, you lore than I con.

t{ 'f , , 1. you are not , It 18 natural to re is nothing in e, n~ither; for I an ~n a strange cl .hImself, it Was 1 lmagine, then :ened ? " "Nay; erve afterwllrds nd llOW he wa~ by degrees, and s I should have L! what noise is though I know , t dowll yonder, In upon Hamlet

. ' vord agamst the

'V remarks. He , could he help said he, "how

anti is, I find a ., ' :mg S face, that uired after the • rised, gave him see him again

and now, when d out, (( There, )w or no? As obody can help 1 as what's his ess me! what's ght I saw him Iswered Jones. y a play: ana ller would not el, I believe, if 10 wonder you to pieces. If

'e sure all duty -Ay, go about

which Hamlet 'st understand,

TOM JONES 6I3 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 com­ mitted murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, « If she did not imagine the king looked as ifhe was touched; though he is," said he, (( a good actor, and doth all he can hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon-a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, U That it was one of the most famous burial- es about town." UNo wonder, then," cries Partridge, (( that lace 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 indigna­ tion at the question, (( The lung, 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 bad 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 aU his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.-Anybody may see he is an actor."

While Mrs. Miller was thns engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady came up to Ml'. Jones, whom he inlmediately 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

-m

HENRY FIELDING 6 r 4 morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.

Thus ended the adventure at the play-house; 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 01' 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

I T is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact impartiality to his children, even though no superior me11t 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 inquire what hath happened to this lovely creature since her departure from her father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr. 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 had1not gone far, however, be­ fore he recollected himself, and accordingly stopped at the very first inn he came to, and despatched away a messenger to acquaint Blirtl with bis having found Sophia, and with his fiI'm 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 gratifi('.ation 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

TOM JONES 6r5 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 de­ ceived 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, with­ held often from using absolute force. On the contralY, as he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred kind, he thought every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it holy and in­ violate; and very wisely concluded, that the surest way to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous affection.

BUfil 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 enterpl'izing genius; but tlns 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 Iris 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 U 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; <t and though," says he, H the good young gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his first and principal consideration."

HENRY FIELDING 616 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 en­ deavour to gain the lady: "But I declare," said he, (( I will never give my consent to any absolute force being put on her inclina­ tions, 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. BIml, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his

uncle, rested not till he calTied 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 alTived 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, can-ied him to his sister.

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH MH. WESTERN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS SISTER, IN COMPANY

WITH MH. BLIFIL

MRS. WESTERN was reading a lecture on prudence, and rnatrimpnial politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.

" Brother," said she, (( I am astonished at your behaviour; will you never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every apartment as your Owll, or as belonging to one of your country tenants? Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the

TOM JONES 617 privacies of women of condition, without the least decency or notice? "--" Why, what a pox is the matter now?" quoth the squire; H one would think I had caught you at-"-" None of your bI'utality, sir, I beseech you/' answered she.--" You have surprised my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see, support herself.--Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your spirits; for I see you have occasion." At which words Sophia, who never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.

"To be sure, sister," cries the squire, «you are mad, when I have brought Mr. BUtil here to court her, to force her away."

"Sure, brother," says she, "you are worse than mad, when you know in what situation affail's are, to--I am sure I ask Mr. Blifil's pardon, but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see Mr. Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him to proceed so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it."

Blitil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; bul; Western, without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered, "Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, cel·tainly; but come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr. Blifil go to her.--He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost."

~'Brother," cries Mrs. VI'estern, "Mr. DUfil, I am confident, understands himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice contexture; and our spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed in a moment. Had you suffered Mr. Blifil to have sent his compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting on ber in the afternoon, I should possibly have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I despair of bringing about any such matter,"

"I am very sorry, madam," cried Blifil, "that Mr. Western's extraordinlLry kindness to me, which I can never enough aclmowlec1ge, should have occasioned-" " Indeed, sir," said she, interrupting him, u you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well."

U I don't care what anybody blOWS of me," answered the squire ;--Ubut when must he come to see her i' for, consider, I tell you, he is come up on purpose, and so is Allworthy,"­ "Brother," said she, "whatever message Mr. Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece shall be delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to make a pI'oper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr. Blifil at a proper time." "The devil she won't!" answered the squire.-" Ods bud !-Don't we know-I say nothing, but some volle are wiser than all the world.--If I might have had my will, she had not run away

~~______________________________________________________________.zz..z~

6I8 HENRY FIELDING

before: and now I expect to hear every moment she 18 guone again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well she hates--" "No matter, brother," replied Mrs. Western," I will not hear my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I pl'Omise you. I will pawn my whole reputation in the world on her conduct. --I shall be glad to see you, brother, in the aftemoon; for I have somewhat of importance to mention to you.-At present, Mr. Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress," "Well, but," said the squire, "do « Indeed," said she, tt I can appoint no time. see you in the aftemoon."_ct What the devil me do?" cries the squire, tuming to Blifil; tum her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. be in a better humour in the afternoon."_" I

appoint a time." I tell you I will would you have

"I can no more Perhaps she will

am condemned, I see, sir, to misfortune," answered Blifil; "but I shall always own my obligations to you." He then took a ceremonious leave of MI·S. Western, who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they departed, the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should see his daughter in the afternoon.

If Mr. Western was little pleased with this interview, BUfil was less. As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words which dropped from the lady j and, to say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear when I have unfolded the several matters which will be contained in the following chapter.

CHAPTER VIII

SCHEMES OF LADY BELLASTON FOR THE RUIN OF JONES

L OVE had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamal' to be plucked up by the rude hands of Mr. Western. In the heat of resentment he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the captain had far exceeded in the execution j nor had it been executed at all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he had received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the discharge of his duty, that, having after long inquiry found out the squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by that means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his lodgings.

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TOM JONES 6I9 In the afternoon, then, next after the intended rape of Sophia,

his lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance of a most favourable reception from all the elders of the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober, and should be made acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew not what, procured himself tolera.ble clothes, and passed for a gentleman. Now," says she, U as I have, for the sakeU of my cousin, made it my business to inquire after this fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;" with which she then acquainted his lordship. "I am thinking, my lord," added she n (for this fellow is too mean for your personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your lordship to contrive some method of having him pressed and sent on board a ship. N either law nor conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise you, how­ ever well dressed, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in the streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the conscientious part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my cousin) it may' probably be the means of preserving him from the gallows) and perhaps may make his fortune in an honest way."

Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which she WaS pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do him the honour of immediately Illentioning his proposals to the family; to whom he said he offered a carte blanche, and would settle his fortune in almost any 1TIllUner they should require. And after uttering many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and departed, but not before he had received the strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securiug his person) where he SllOUld no longer be in a capacity of making any attempts to the ruin of the young lady.

The moment Mrs. Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner received it, than) with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her

620 HENRY FIELDING

hopes offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the This prospect of making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who balance knew the world, than to a gentleman whom she honoured with embolde the appellation of Hottentot; though, indeed, from him she instantl) apprehended no danger of a refusal. the evid

The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials~ reason t( fell to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as But begun; for Mrs. Western no sooner heard the name of Lord in her h Fellamar than her cheeks glowed with pleasure; but when she match 'V was acquainted with the eagerness of his passion, the earnestness Now, 1 of his proposals, and the generosity of his offer, she declared her nature, . full satisfaction in the most explicit terms. legible (

In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned behaviol: to Jones, and both cousins very pathetically lamented the un­ reality t: fortunate attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that love thw young fellow; and Mrs. Western entirely attributed it to the higher t folly of her brother's management. She concluded, however, at written 1 last, with declaring her confidence in the good understanding of been pIe her niece, who, though she would not give up her affection in to the el. favour of BUill, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be prevailed upon !fhe to sacrifice a simple inclination to the addresses of a fine gentleman, I see no who brings her both a title and a large estate: "For, indeed," conceive added she~ "I must do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil part I se is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country Now gentlemen are, and hath nothing but his fortune to recommend introduc him." love, ane

{(Nay," said Lady Bellaston, "I don't, then, so much wonder at brother, my cousin; for I promise. you this Jones is a very agreeable that cole fellow, and hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recom­ as was 1 mendation to us. What do you think, Mrs. Western-I shall Blifil hili certainly make you laugh; nay, I can hardly tell you myself for the real laughing-will you believe that the fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me ? But if you should be inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own handwriting, I assure you." She then delivered her cousin the letter with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this history.

« Upon my word I am astonished," said Mrs. Westem; ( this THE: is, indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may M possibly make some use of this letter," U You have my full Fitzpatl': liberty," cries Lady Bcllaston, "to apply it to what pUl'}JOSC you passed it please. However, I would not have it shown to any but Miss back, ar Western, nor to her unless you find occasion." "Well, and how tllis lad;) did you use the fellow?" rctUl''Iled Mrs. W estel'Il. « Not as a Jones, s husband," said the lady; « I am not married, I promise you, my intervie' deal'. You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once already; And and Ollce, I think, is enough for any reasonable woman." the pre4

621 r pleased with the l of sense, and who she honoured with

ed, from him she

,revious ceremonials soon concluded as

)

the nalIle of Lord Ire; but when she ion, the earnestness ~r, she declared her

ir discourse turned lamented the un.

)phia had to that tributed it to the Iud ed, however, at I understanding of lp her affection in l be prevailed upon )f a fine gentleman) e: "For, indeed,"

confess this Blifil :l1nstOll, all country me to reconunend

30 much wonder at a very agreeable

, is a great recam. Western-I shall ~ll you myself for had the assurance ined to disbelieve 19, I assure you." . the proposals of see, he will find

y. ;. Western; "this TOur leave I may )U have my fun vhat purpose you to any but Miss (( Well, and how

ern. (( Not as a promise you, my

·ts once already; )man."

TOM JONES

This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to give it up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly despatched out of the way, and partly hy having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was prepared to testifY whatever she pleased.

But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which was so much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire such readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that women, notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, etc., in matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a misfortune to have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher than upon these disappointments; again, he will find it written much about the same place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the possession of a man, will go above half-way to the devil, to prevent any other woman from enjoying the same.

If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will conceive she was bribed by Lord FeIIamar, which for my own part I see no cause to suspect.

Now this was the affair which Mrs. Western was preparing to introduce to Sophia, by some pl'efatory discourse on the folly of love, and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her behaviour to Blitil, which, though the squire, as was USual with him, imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH JONES PAYS A VISIT TO :!tinS. FITZPATRICK

T HE reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr. Jones, who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but before we relate the conversation which ~ow passed it may be proper, according to our method, to return a httle back, and to account for so great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing her lodging principally to ayoid M:-. Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been seen, sought tlus interview.

And here we shall need only to resort to what bappened the preceding day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr.

622 HENRY FIELDING Western was arrived in town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly, where she was received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was even thl'eatened to be kicked out of dOOl·S. From hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she was well acquainted, con­ ducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both, plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at the play, an opportmlity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.

The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs. Western had formerly shown for Mr. Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the disappointment of which Mrs. Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no doubt but that the good lady would as easily listen to the addresses of Mr. Jones as she had before done to the other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr. Jones j and the advance which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how justly I will not say), was an argument rather in favour of her project than against it.

Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr. Jones in whose custody his mistress was, of which she thought him ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the younger, in­ forming him at the same time of the success which Mr. Fitzpatrick had formel'ly owed to the very same stratagem.

Mr. Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions towards him which she had expressed, and indeed testified, by this proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case in regard to Mr. Fitzpatrick, he said, he was afraid Miss Western would never agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter detestation of all fallacy as from her avowed duty to her aunt,

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen,

1 had not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of 1

TOM JONES

all reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a tacit rebuke on the other.

"Indeed, sir," answered the lady, with some warmth, C( I cannot think there is anything easier than to chea.t an old woman with a profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my aunt, I must say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship. Can't you pretend that the despair of possessing her niece, from hel' being promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to be such a simpleton as to have the least scruple on such an account, or to conceive any harm in punishing one of these hags for the many mischiefs they bring upon families by their tragi-comic passions; for which I think it is a pity they are not punishable by law. I had no such scruple myself; and yet I hope my cousin Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she cannot detest every real species of falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she deserve any, However, sir, I have given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have the less opinion of yoU! understanding-that's all."

Jones now clearly saw the en'or he had committed, and exerted his utmost power to rectify it; but he only faltered and stuttered into nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper instead of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have the good-nature which Mrs. Fitzpatrick dis­ played to Jones, by saying, with a smile, "You need attempt ne more excuses; for I can easily forgive a reallovel', whatever is the effect of fondness for his mistress."

She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recom­ mended it, omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject; for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the execution of a favourite scheme.

Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not, indeed, the least probability of success. He easily per­ ceived the motives which induced Mrs. Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that so divine a young lady would conde­ scend to think on so unworthy a man; nay, he protested; he could scarce bring himself to wish she should. He concluded with a. profession of generous sentiments, which we have not at present leisure to insert.

HENRY FIELDING There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too

general terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never detach it from any subject; and, as vani-ty is with them a ruling principle, they are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with; and, though the property of others, convey it to their own use. In the company of these ladies it is impossible to say any­ thing handsome of another woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what do I deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a degree?

To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom all this really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr. Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor Sophia had formerly done.

To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible object than it is generally thought; for, notwith­ standing some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.

When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have become the mouth of Oroondates himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick heaved a deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been some time fixed, and dl'opping them on the ground, she cried, (( Indeed, Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better than you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both."

(( Sure, madam," said Jones, "you can't mean--" " Mean!" .cries Mrs. Fitzpatrick," I know not what I mean; there is some­ thing, I think, in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet with it in men, and fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who can overlook such merit."

The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion into Jones which we don't care to convey in direct words

i j

(

:I

TOM JONES

to the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, it I am afraid, madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;" and offered to take his leave.

uNot at all, sir," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick.--r< Indeed, I pity you, Mr. Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I have mentioned-I am convinced you will approve it-and let me see you again as soon as you can.-To-morrow morning if you will, or at least some time to-mon·ow. I shall be at home all day."

Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully retired; nor could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a look at parting, by which if he had lUlderstood nothing, he must have had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.

Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in sorrowful notes to record.

CHAPTER X

THE CONSEQUENCE OF THE PRECEDING VISIT

M R. FITZPATRICK having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs. Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set forward to London.

The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the room with Mrs. Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled together such a con­ fusion of circumstances in a head which was naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that green - eyed monster mentioned by Shakespeal' in his tragedy of Othello.

And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was issuing from it.

HENRY FIELDING

Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however: seeing a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? "for I am sure," said he, U you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of it."

Jones answered very modestly, "That he had been visiting a lady there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, &' What business have you with the lady?" Upon which Jones, who now perfectly rememberecl the voice, features, and incleed coat, of the gentleman, cried out--" Ha, my good friend I give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago."

"Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, "I don't know your name nor your face." "Indeed, sil'," said Jones, "neither have I the pleasure of knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle."

"At Upton!" cried the other ;--" Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it is."­ " O! upon my soul," cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet.-Upon my soul I will drink a bottle with you presently j but first I will give you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another." And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, which was the only science he understood.

Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and though he understood nothing of fencing, pressed on so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it than he stepped backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, "I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man."

"I hope not," cries Jones, "but whatever be the consequence, you must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself." At this instant a number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the wounded gentleman.

(C Ay," cries one of the fellows, "the wounded gentleman will be taken care enough of j for I suppose he hath Dot many hours to live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." ,& D--n me, Jack," said another, " he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port now;" and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar, and had dogged him

TOM JONES

into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened.

The officer who commanded this gang vel'y wisely concluded that his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore; to be carried to a public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to his custody.

The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well dressed, and hearing that the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great civility, and at his request despatched a messenger to inquire after the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered, "Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what bappens to me; for though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind."

Jones WaS now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.

He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now arrived tha.t Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the pOOl' fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the hands of Black George.

Jones presently despatched everyone out of the room, and, having eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows !­

a You owe the hearing fi'om me again to an accident which 1 own surprises me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to Lady Bellaston; which contains a proposal of marriage. am convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprises me is, that it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was under such concern on my account.-I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desil'e is; that your name may never more be mentioned to S. W."

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HENRY FIELDING

Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.

:mngs :1er a even s, we 'eally d to

BOOK XVII

CONTAINING THREE DAYS

CHAPTER I

CONTAINING A PORTION OF INTRODUCTORY WRITING

W HEN a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he can, 01' when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of lmman misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that their work is come to a period.

Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we were very nearly arrived at this peliod, since it would be difficult for the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contIived much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him in the last clmpter; and as for Sophia, a good­ natured woman would hardly wish more uneasiness to a dval than what she must at present be supposed to feel. What then re­ mains to complete the tragedy but a murder or two and a few moral sentences!

But to bring our favourites out of their present angUish and distress, and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much }lardel' task; a task indeed so hard that we do 110t under­ take to execute it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end-either .BUfil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his imprudence, by which if a man doth not become felon to the WOl"d, he is at least a jew de se; so destitute is he now of friends, and 80 persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bIinging him to any good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think he ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.

This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have uruOltunately made our hero, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance with which we are entrusted, upon condi­ tion that we use it only on very impOltant occasions. If he doth

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not therefore find some natural means of fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will do no violence to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.

In this the ancients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar than any religion is at present, gave them always an -opportunity of deliveling a favourite hero. Their deities were always ready at the writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprise and delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease have conveyed a hero from one country to another, nay, from one world to another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed modern can deliver him from a jail.

The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their tales from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have none of these helps. To natural means alone we are confined; let uS try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor Jones; though to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear that he doth not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more shocking piece of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the unopened leaves of fate.

CHAPTER II

THE GENEROUS AND GRATEFUL BEHAVIOUR OF MRS. MILLER

M R. ALLWORTHY and Mrs. Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to make one of the company.

He had not been long seated before he began as follows: .. ( Good Lord! my dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever having shown any kindness to such a villain." "What is the matter, child?" said the uncle. "I fear I have shown kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the vices of its objects." "0, sir!" returned Blifil, "it is not without the secret direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon earth." "By all that's ''Sacred 'tis false," cries Mrs. Miller. "Mr. Jones is no villain. He

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is one of the worthiest creatures breathing; and if any other person had called him villain, I would have thrown all this boiling water in his face." MI'. Alhvorthy looked very much amazed at this behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak, before, turning to him, she cried, cr I hope you will not be angry with me ; I would not offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to bear him called so." "I must own, msdam," said Allworthy, very gI'avely, "I am a little surprised to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not know." <c O! I do know him, Mr. Allwol'thy," said she, C( indeed I do; I should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my little family; we have a11rea80n to bless him while we live.-And I pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such." "You surprise me, madam, still more," said Allworthy; C( sure you must mean some other. It is impossible you should have any such obligations to the man my nephew mentions." HToo surely," answel'ed she, cc I have obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused, grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all goodness and honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things I have heard you say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully called him fellow.-Indeed, my best of fIiends, he deserves a kinder appella­ tion from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful things which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him on his knees, imploring all the blessings of Heaven upon your head. I do not love that child there better than he loves you."

(( I see, sir, now," said Blitil, with one of those grinning sneers with which the devil marks his best beloved, "Mrs. Miller really doth know him. I suppose you will tind she is not the only one of your acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I perceive, by some hints she hath tllrown out, be hath been very free with it, but I forgive him." rr And the Lord forgive you, sir 1" said Mrs. Miller; cc we have all sins enough to stand in need of His forgiveness."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, cc I do not take this behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any reflections which you cast upon bim must come 'only from that wickedest of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs. .'

.' i'Miller, the young man who now stands before you hath ever been

the warmest advocate for the ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you bear it from my tlwn mouth, , i will make you wonder at so much baseness and ingratitude."

, ! j

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the last words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were deceived; and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have deceived you I I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but they are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which he may, nay, which I am certain he will, l'elinquish, and, if he should not, they are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest hearts that ever man was blest with."

"Indeed, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, "had this been related of you, I should not have believed it." " Indeed, sir," answered she, "you will believe everything I have said, I am sure you will : and when you have heard the story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you will be so far from being offended, that you will own (I know your justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part than I have."

"Well, madam," said Allworthy, uI shall be very glad to hear any good excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his story without intelTUption. He would not have introduced a matter of slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this story will cure you of your mistake."

Mrs. Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr. Blifil began thus: (( I am sure, sir, if you don't think proper to resent the ill-usage of Mrs. Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me ouly. I think your goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands." "Well, child," said AllwOlthy, "but what is this new instance? What hath he done of late? " What," cries Blifil, U (( notwithstanding all Mrs. Miller hath said, I am very sony to relate, and what you should never have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal from the whole world. In short, he hath killed a man; I will not say murdered-for perhaps it may not be so construed in law, and I hope the best for his sake."

AllwOlthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to Mrs. Miller, he cried, "Well, madam, what say you now?"

"Why, I say, sir," answered she, "that I never was more con­ cerned at anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man, whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by everyone in the house, and every one who Came near it."

While she was thus running on, a. violent knocking at the door

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interrupted theiI conversation, and prevented her from proceeding further, 01' from receiving any answer; for. as she concluded this was a visitor to Mr. AIlworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the melancholy news she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife, and not only gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with her hiInself.

Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances. in relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear trivial, will, we hope, at least pardon them, as we are never prolix on such occasions.

CHAPTER III

THE ARRIVAL OF MR. WESTERN, WITH SOME MATTERS CONCERNING

THE PATERNAL AUTHORITY

M RS. MILLER had not long left the room when Mr. Western entered; but not before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen; for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in the squire; and they were, moreover, farther encouraged by his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence more than their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling, which so provoked the squire. that he not only bestowed many hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into the room; swearing that all the Londoners were like the court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. '( D--n me," says he, (.: if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase."

When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same passionate tone on another. "There/' says he, "there is fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we imagined we had a fox to deal with, od"rat it, it turns out to be a badger at last! "

"Pray, my good neighbour," said Allworthy, n drop your metaphors, and speak a little plainer." c, Why, then," says the squire, "to tell you plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my consent. They have

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beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover."

(( You surprise me much, my good friend," said Al1worthy. "Why, zounds! I am surprised myself," answered the squire. "I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there I was had into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catheline, and my lady I don't know who; d--n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of hoop-petticoat b--s I D--n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his own dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mOl'tal was ever run in such a manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to clap back, another snapped me. ' 0 I certainly one of the greatest matches in England; says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); (A very advantageous offer indeed; cries another cousin (for you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half 0' um before). (Surely; says that fat a--se b--, my Lady Bellaston, ' cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer:"

"Now I begin to understand;' says Allworthy; "some person hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family approve, but is not to your liking."

" My liking l" said Western, "how the devil should it? I tell you it is a lord, and those are always volks whom you know I always resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years' purchase now for a bit of lalld, which one 0' urn had a mind to put into a park, only because I would have no dealings with lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu ? . Besides, ben't I engaged to you, and did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised?"

"As to that point, neighbour," said Allworthy, "I entirely release you from any engagement. No contract can be binding between parties who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it."

"Slud! then;' answered Western, "I tell you I have power, and I will fulfil it. Come along with me directly to Doctors' Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force, and she shall ha' un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives."

"Mr. Western;' said Allworthy, "shall I beg you will hear my full sentiments on this matter? "-" Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will;' answered he. "Why, then, sir;' cries Allworthy," I can truly say, without a compliment either to you or the young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly neighbours, and between whom there had

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always existed so mutua] an intercourse and good hannony, I thought a most desirable event; and with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of all who knew her, but my own observation assured me that she would be an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to need any panegyric! but she hath one quality which existed in a high degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels, which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes observation; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use negatives on this occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is called repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit, much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience, the affectation of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all attention, with the modesty of a. learner, not the forwardness of a teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only, desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr. Thwackum and Mr. Squal·e. To which she answered, with much sweetness, {You will pardon me, good Mr. Allworthy; I am sure you cannot in earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree: Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered with the same good humour, 'I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront neither so much as to give my judgment on his side.' Indeed, she always showed the highest deference to the understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to the making a good wife. I sha1] only add, that as she is most app~:'elltly void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real.

Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were fun of teal'S at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, '( Don't be chicken-hearted, for shat ha' her, d--n me, shat ha' her, if she was twenty times as good."

"Remember your promise, sir," cried Allworthy, r< I was not to be intel'l'upted." l< Well, shat unt," answered the squire; IU won't speak another wOl·d."

J tr Now, my good friend," continued Allworthy, (( I have dwelt

so long on tlle merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is really advantageous on my nephew's Side) might not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so

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great a jewel into my family; but though I may wish for many good things, I would not, therefore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of them. Now to- force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or approbation is an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws of our country could restrain it; but a good conscience is never lawless in the worst regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the neglect of legislators hath for­ gotten to supply. This is surely a case of that kind; for, is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that state against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be accountable to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the matrimonial duties in an adequate manner is no easy task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while we at the same time deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear her very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal? I must speak very plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are accessories to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, and of course must, before a just Judge, expect to partake of their punishment; but if they could avoid this, good Heaven! is there a soul who can bear the thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child?

" For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure you I shall always retain the most grateful sense of it."

"Well, sir," said Western (the froth bursting f01th from his lips the moment they were uncorked), "you cannot say but I have heard you out, and now I expect you'll hear me; and if I don't answer every word on't, why then I'll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I desire you to answer me one question-Did not I beget her? did not I beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my own child? and if I am to govern her in other matters, surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all this while? Am I deshing her to do anything for me? to give me anything ?-Zu much on t'other side, that I am only desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t' other half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her happy? It's enough to make one mad to heal' volks talk; if I was going to marry myself, then she would ha'

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reason to cry and to blubber; but, on the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my land in such a manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as naITo' woman upon earth would ha' me. What the devil in hell can I do more? I contribute to her damnation-Zounds! I'd zee all the world d--n'd bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr. Allworthy, you must excuse me, but I am surprised to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense."

Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if he would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.

BUfil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. C< As to using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on anyone, much less on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I have read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. V\I'by may I not hope then by such perseverance at last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr. Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these matters; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, and declare that she thought children inexcusable who married in du'ect opposition to the will of their parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart."

U Ay, ay, so he does," clies Western. " But surely," says Blifil, (( when she hears of this murder which

he hath committed, if the law should spare his life--" n What's that i''' cries Western. "Murder! hath he committed

a murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged ?-Tol de 1.'01, tol 101 de 1'01." Here he fell a-sulging and capeling about the room.

"Child/' says Allworthy, "this unhappy passion of yours distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair thing to promote your success,"

c'I desire no more," cries Blifil; "I am convinced my dear uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I myself would accept of more."

U Lookee," says Allworthy, « you have my leave to write, to visit, if she will permit it-but I insist on no· thoughts of

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violence. I will have no confinement, nothing of that kincl sho attempted." as •

"Well, well," cries the squire, "nothing of that kind shall be -"Ve attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will effect; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way-Tollol de roll I never heard better news in my life-I warrant everything goes to my mind.-Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlor(l; for I have sent Parso):,! Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left at an inn there, and I would not lose it T for the world; for it is an old acquaintance of above twenty years' Th~ standing. I can tell you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will Ina] like un hugely." Bu.i

Mr. Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after and the squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the pre speedy tragi cal end of poor Jones. if s:

When he was gone, Mr. Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject he. with much gravity. He told his nephew, "He wished with all his heart he would endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I camlot," fasl says he, "flatter you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly in . a vulgar errol', that aversion in a woman may be conquered by it:n:t: perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; cou but the usual triumphs gained by perseverance in a lover are over esc~ caprice, prudence, affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of for., levity, which excites women not over-warm in their constitutions to ove indulge their vanity by prolonging the time of courtship, even when tha they are well enough pleased with the object, and resolve (if they seCI ever resolve at all) to make him a very pitiful amends in the end. and But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, willrathel' gather strength at ] than be conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another wit: apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you have for this fine young creature hath her beautiful tha. person too much for its object, and is unworthy of the name of th.ltt she love which is the only foundation of matrimonial felicity. To pur admire, to like, and to long for the possession of a beautiful woman, had without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is, I am afraid, assi too natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only; at least, I am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are assured We

aTjhates us is not in human nature. Examine your heart, therefore, thoroughly, my good boy, and if, upon examinatioll, you have but tot the least suspicion of this kind, I am sure your own virtue and you religion will impel you to Chive so vicious a passion from your the heart, and your good sense will soon enable you to do it without erie pain." inr

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should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our history now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear to be absent from Sophia,

CHAPTER IV

AN EXTRAORDINARY SCENE BETWEEN SOPHIA AND HER AUNT

T HE lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble safe and unregarded through the pastures, These al'e, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed, But if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs after her; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own eating.

I have often considered a very fine young woman of fOltune and fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty much the same situation with this doe, The town is immediately in an uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to one of their own choosing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without disturbance or control.

Of all these paragons none ever tasted mOl'e of this persecution than poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, she was no less assiduous in teasing bel', than he1' father had been before,

The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs, Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed heI', H That she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first opportunity of leaving her alone with him," u If you do, madam," answered Sophia, with some spirit, H I shall take the first opportunity of leaving him by himself." (( How 1 madam l " cries the aunt; (( is this the return you make me for my kindness in relieving you from your confinement at your father's?" "You know, madam," said Sophia, ((the cause of that confinement was

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a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I detested; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in another equally bad? " "And do you think then, madam," answered Mrs. Western, "that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr. Blifil?" "Very little, in my opinion," cries Sophia; "and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure." "Then my pleasure, I find," said the aunt, "hath very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?" "None, upon my honour," said Sophia. "A pincushion upon my coach would please me just as well." "Never mention honour," cries the aunt. It It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your grovelling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however mean and ba<;e your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on mine. 1 will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advantage of ours." " Surely," says Sophia, "I am born deficient, and have not the senses with which other people are blessed; there must be certainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacIifice so much for the obtaining, nor would they be so eL'lte and proud with possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles."

"No, no, miss," cIies the aunt; ct you are born with as many senses as other people; but I assure you you are not born with a sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor see your face again." Sophia stood a few moments silent after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cried, « Do with me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt for­ sakes me where shall I look for a protector?" it My dear niece," cries she, "you will have a very good protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline." "Indeed, madam/' said Sophia, (t you wrong me. How can you imagineJ after what you have

TOM JONES

shown me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it never to see his face again." "But, child, dear child," said the aunt, "be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?" " I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objec­ tion," answered Sophia. U What?" cries the aunt; "I remember none." "Sure, madam," said Sophia, "I told you he had used me in the rudest and vilest :r;nanner." "Indeed, child," answered she, cc I never heard you, or dId not understand you :-but what do you Illean by this rude, vile manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Sophia, cc I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thmst his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon Illy left breast at this moment." " Indeed!" said Mrs. Western. cc Yes, indeed, madam," answered Sophia; "my father luckily came in at that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded to." "I am astonished and con­ founded," cries the aunt. " No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a pIince out, if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible I sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation against him." "I hope, madam," said Sophia, "you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true." "I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present," returned the aunt. Yet surely he could have no dishonourableU design; it is impossible I he durst not: besides, his proposals show he hath not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. I don't know; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have soon been brought to endure so much." You will pardon me, dearU :madam," said Sophia, "if I make one observation: you own you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them." "You say true, dear Sophy," answered she; C"C I had once the offer of a title." "Why, then," said Sophia, "will you not suffer me to refuse this once?" " It is true, child," said she, "I have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good an offer; that is, not so very, very good an off'er."-"Yes, madam," said Sophia; "but you have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third

HENRY FIELDING advantageous match that offered itself." (( I own it was not," said she. "Well, madam," continued Sophia, "and why may not I expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair." "Well, my dear, dear Sophy," cries the aunt, <C what would you have me say i' " .( Why, I only beg that I may not be left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company." '(Well, I will grant it," cries the aunt. "Sophy, you know I love YOlt, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says in his epistles, nndergo alteratiolls, and so must the human form." Thus rnn she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs. Westeru never once offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be improper to so forward a lover.

Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen OUI' heroine in a better situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most deplor­ able situation that can be well imagined.

CHAPTER V

MRS. MILLER AND MR. NIGHTINGALE VISIT JONES IN THE PRISON

W HEN Mr. Allwol'thy and his nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs. Miller set fOl'Wal'ds to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he had known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs. Miller, had been fUl'l1ished with a room in the same house with Mr. Nightingale). The good woman fonnd her daughter under great affliction on account of Mr. Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could, she set

TOM JONES

forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was and where Mr, Nightingale was al'l'ived before her. }

The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so e~treme~y del~~~tful to persons in any kind of distress, that the dIstress Itself} if It be only temporary, and admits of relief, is more than compensated by blinging this comfort with it. Nor are instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not to be numbel'ed among our general faults. The black in­ gredient which fo~ls our disposition is envy, Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraId, turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the defects which have discoverecl themselves in the friendships within my observation have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt, But enough of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.

Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under the weight of his adverSity, and that she might thus lose any future opportunity of tormenting him, 01' whether she really abated somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. F01' Pmtridge, though he had many impelfectiolls, wanted not fidelity; and though fear would not suffer him to be banged for his mastel', yet the world, I believe, could not have blibed him to desert his cause.

While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his friends, PaJ.'tridge brought an account that Mr, Fitzpatrick was still alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, "My deal' Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which, whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you, and in which yOUl' conscience cannot accuse you ofhavillg been the least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the coroner's inquest celtainly find it; and then you will be easily admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial, yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a shilling." "Come, come, Mr, Jones," says Mrs, Miller, "cheer yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told MI'. AllworthYJ and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done with him."

Jones gmvely answered, "That whatever might be his fate, he should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his

I

]Jj

HENRY FIELDING

fellow~creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest kind--O! Mrs. Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth." "That must be a mistress;' said Mrs. Miller; "but come, come; I know more than you imagine" (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); "and I have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he hath of the lady."

"Indeed, my dear friend, indeed," answered Jones, "you are an entire stranger to the cause of my glief. If you was acquainted with the story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no danger from Blifil. I have undone myself." "Don't despair," replied Mrs. Miller; "you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty. My son, my dear Ml·. Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me say."

"Thou best of women," cries Jones, taking her by the hand, " talk not of obligations to me ;--but as you have been so kind to mention it, there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever acknowledge your goodness."

t{ Give it me," said Mrs. Miller. "If I see it not in her own possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear from everyone she is." .

"Believe me, madam," said he, "I do not speak the common cant of one in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, not· withstanding the disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious character, nor will I ever, fi'om this moment, deserve it."

Mrs. Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now the remainder of the conversation passed in the joint attempts of that good woman and Mr. Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr. Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so much contributed as the kind under­

TOM JONES

taking of Mrs. Miller to deliver his letter to Sophia, which he des~ paired of finding any means to accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on pain of having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any answer. He was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so warm an advocate to Mr. All~ worthy himself in this good woman, who was, in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.

After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to return to him soon; during which Mrs. Miller said she hoped to bring him some good news from his mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised to inquire into the state of Mr. Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise to find out some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.

The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we likewise shall now attend her.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH MRS. MILLER PAYS A VISIT TO SOPHIA

A CCESS to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she waS at full liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.

Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs. Miller was immedi­ ately admitted.

Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to each other, being· past, Sophia said, tt I have not the pleasure to know you, madam." (( No, madam," answered Mrs, Miller, "and I must beg pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give you this trouble, I hope-" "Pray, what is your business, madam?" said Sophia, with a little emotion, it Madam, we are not alone," replied Mrs. Miller, in a low voice. "Go out, Betty," said Sophia.

When Betty was departed, Mrs. Miller said, U I was desired, xnadam, by a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter." Sophia changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and after some hesitation, said-C{ I could not conceive, madam, from YOUl' appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.-Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry to entel'tain an unjust suspicion of anyone; but you are an utter stranger to me."

HENRY FIELDING it If you will have patience, madam," answered Mrs. Miller, " I

will acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter." ~~ I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything," cries Sophia; (( but I must insist on yourdeliveIing that letter back to the person who gave it you."

Mrs. Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms implored her compassion j to which Sophia answered: U Sure, madam, it is surprising you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of this person. I would not think, madam" -" No, madam," says Mrs. Miller, ;( you shall not think anything but the truth. I will tell you all, ancI you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best-natured creature that ever was born." -She then began and related the story of Mr. Anderson.-­ After this she cried, U This, madam, this is his goodness; but I have much mOl'e tender obligations to him. He hath preserved my child."--Here, after shedding some tears, she related every~ thing concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances which would have most reflected on her daughter, and con­ cluded with saying, (( Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and worthiest of all human beings."

The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and cried, (( I know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be blamed--But what service can my reading this letter do your friend, since I am resolved never--" Mrs. Miller fell again to her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said, carry it back. uWell, madam," says Sophia, « I cannot help it, if you will force it upon me.-Certainly you may leave it whether I will or no:' What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not pre­ sume to determine; but Mrs. Miller actually understood this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.

The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs. Miller was out of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.

This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to her presence; and that he could accotmt for the letter to Lady Bellaston in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy.

TOM JONES

And concluded with vowing that nothing Was ever less in his thoughts than to man'Y Lady Bellaston.

Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention his meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor couM her inventio~ suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to besto~.v on any other person.

That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt Western, and in the aftenlOon they were all three, byappoint­ ment, to go togetheI' to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum. Sophia would have gladly been excused from all but would not disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counter~ feiting illness, she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered into her head. When she was dressed, therefore, down she went, resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent mistress of repmtee.

Another misfortune which befell poor Sophia was the company of Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum. And though both places were too public to admit of any particularities, and she was farther relieved by the :music at the one place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women, which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man whom they know to have pretensions to them which they are disinclined to favour.

Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a moment describe it.

A drUID, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all ; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her guests} though she doth not always, like her} get anything by it.

No wonder, then, as so much spirits must be required to support any vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion eternally complaining of the want of them; a complault confined entirely to upper life. How insupportable ~ust w,e imagine this round of impertinence to have been to SophIa at thIS time; how difficult must she have found it to fOl'ce the appearance

HENRY FIELDING

of gaiety into her looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!

Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable, we fear, of rest, and shall pursue our histol'y, which, something whispers us, is now arrived at the eve of some great event.

CHAPTER VII

A PATHETIC SCENE BETWEEN MR. ALLWORTHY AND MRS. MILLER

MRS. MILLER had a long discourse with Mr. Allworthy, at his return from dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones's having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their separation; and with the distresses to wbich that loss had SUbjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she had to Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with regard to her daughter; for though she had the utmost con­ fidence in Mr. Allworthy, and though there could be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which was unhappily known to more than half a dozen, yet she could not prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which reflected most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered that palt of her evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the girl was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard

Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not to have the least mixture of good in them. (l However," says he, "I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath passed already, but must insist you never mention his name to me more i for, I promise you, it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to take the measures I have taken." "Well, sir," says she, "I make not the least doubt but time will show all matters in their true and natural colours, and that you will be con­ vinced this poor young man deserves better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless."

<t Madam," cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, "I will not hear any reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the worthiest and best of men j and I once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too long concealing facts of the blackest dye. The ingratitude of the wretch to this good young man is what I most resent; for,

)thing but the charged with

ow, where we ugh incapable, ch, something event.

MRS. MILLER

.lworthy, at his lted him with ras pleased to resses to which received a full

then explained :ntirely explicit he utmost con· be no hopes of n to more than ) mention those of poor Nancy,

.ously as if she 11er trial for the

solutely vicious . " However," lligations to the hat hath passed ne to me more; ainest evidence " (( Well, sir," e will show all you will be con· ;han some other

'ill not hear any )rd more of that It. He is the ~at it to you, lIe ,able length, by .e ingratitude of .ost resent; for,

TOM JONES

madam, I have the greatest reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my favour, and to have disinherited h · un.,.

« I am sure, sir," answered Mrs. Miller, a little frightened (for though Mr. Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolenc~ in his s~les, he had great terror in his frowns), (t I shall never speak agamst any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure, sir, such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How often have I heard you call him your son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a parent r Nay, sir,. I cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many good thmgs yon have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them, for I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own cause. They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life, I must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready to plunge into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have loved, and I shall ever love."

Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to be with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs. Miller by the hand, he said very affectionately to her, (( Come, madam, let us consider a little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantage­ ous to her, but you know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's reconciliation. I know Mr. Nightingale very well, and have formerly had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an only son, and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you."

Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy for this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, "to whom," said she, "lowe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present trouble." Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was too good a man to be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now actuated Mrs. Miller; and indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his former anger against Jones, it is possible be might have been a little softened towards

LA

HENRY FIELDING

him, by the report of an action which malice itself could not have derived from an evil motive.

Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had been above an hour together, when their conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and another person, which other person was no less than Mr. Dowling, the attorney, who was now become a great favoUlite with Mr. Blifil, and whom Mr. Allworthy, at the desire of his nephew, had made his steward; and had likewise recommended him to Mr. Western, from whom the attorney received a promise of being promoted to the same office upon the first vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in transacting some affairs which the squire then had in London in relation to a mortgage.

This was the principal affair which then brought Mr. Dowling to town; therefore he took the Same opportunity to charge himself with some money for Mr. Allwol'thy, and to make a report to him of some other business i in all which, as it was of much too dull a natul'e to find any place in this history, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and their lawyer concerned, and resort to other matters.

CHAPTER VIII

CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS

BEFORE we return to Mr. Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia. Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good

humour by those soothing methods which we have before related, she had not brought her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar. This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the preceding evening, that she was well satisfied from the conduct of Sophia, and f-rom her can'iage to his lordship, that all delays would be dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to press the match forward with such rapidity that the young lady should have no time to reHect, and be obliged to consent while she Scarce knew what she did; in which manner, she said, one-half of the marriages among people of condition were brought about. A fact very probably true, and to wllich, I suppose, is owing the mutual tenderness which afterwards exists among so many happy couples.

A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar; and both these so readily embraced the advice that the very next clay was, at his lordship's request, appointed by Mrs. Western for a private interview between the young parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon in such high terms, that, after having urged everything she possibly could

~ ,

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nn hour ~" by the II (1lS no less 'l /I

a. great •f desire of ~lJlmended ;. promise ~cy; and,

~~ms which

'(I Dowling .pc llimself ',I)l't to him ~Jl too dull

leave the (& to other

great good .,re relnted, :eealfor the cd by Lndy ltLt Rhe was , cnrl'inge to U\t the only lchrapidlly I be obliged ieh manner, lditiull were I J I IlUppOSe, ,i'l amongso

1t1y to Lord i Ct~ that tlte ted by Mr.!, 'l!t, 'I'hls was \{In in such '~sibly could

TOM JONES

invent against it without the least effect, she at last agreed to give the highest instance of complacence which any young lady can give, and consented to see his lordship.

As conversations of this kind affQrd no great entertainment, we shall be excused from reciting the whole that passed at this inter­ view; in which, after his 10l'dship had made many declarations of the most pure and ardent passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she at last collected all the spirits she could raise, and with a trembling low voice said, "My lord, you must be yOUl'self conscious whether your former behaviour to me hath been consistent with the pro­ fessions you now make." "Is there," answered he, « no way by which I can atone for madness? what I did 1 am afraid must have too plainly convinced you, that the violence of love had deprived me of my senses." "Indeed, my lord," said she, "it is in yoUl' power to give me a proof of an affection which I much rather wish to encourage, and to which I should think myself more beholden." « Name it, madam," said my lord, very warmly. My lord/, saysH she, looking down upon her fan, U I know you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion of yom's hath made me," « Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?" says he. "Yes, my lord," answerecl Sophia, (( all professions of love to those whom we perse­ cute are most insulting pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution: nay, it is taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy situation." UMost lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me," clies he, t< of taking an ungenerous advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are directed to your honour and interest, and while I have no view, no hope, no ambi­ tion, but to thl'owmyself, honour, fortune, everything at your feet." I( My lord," says she, "it is that fortune and those honoUl'S which gave you the advantage of which I complain. These are the charms which have seduced my relations, but to me they are things indifferent. If your lordsllip win merit my gratitude, there is but one way." (( Pardon me, divine creature," said he, t( there can be nOlle. All I can do for you is so much your due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there is no room for your gratitude." "Indeed, my lord," answered she, (( you may obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish which it is in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, for sure to a generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let me beseech you, then, to cease a pUl'suit in which you can never have any success. For your own sake as well as mine I entreat this favour; for sure you are too noble to have any pleasure in torment­ ing an unhappy creature. What can your ~ol"dship propose but uneasiness to yourself, by a perseverance, whIch, upon my honoUl', upon my soul, cannot, shall not prevail with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to." Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said-{{ Is it, then, madam, that I am so unhappy to be the

Ui

HENRY FIELDING object of your dislike and scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect there is some other?" Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, "My lord, I shall not be accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged to yoU!" lordship for the generous offer you have made; I own it is beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it." Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but he concluded his ranting speech with saying, "That if she had pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist." Perhaps my lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we cannot else well account for the indignation with which he inspired Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he had given her.

While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs. Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the flames bursting from her eyes. "I am ashamed," says she, ct my lord, of the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship we are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western, the family expect a different behaviour from you." Here my lord interfered on behalf of the young lady, but .. to no purpose; the aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into a chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.

The remainder of the conversation between Mrs. Western and his lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece should and would consent to all he wished. " Indeed, my lord," says she, "the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason."

This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some time before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many expressions of thanks to Mrs. Western, many ardent professions of passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances of perseverance, which Mrs. Westelu highly encouraged, took his leave for this time.

Before we relate what now passed between Mrs. Western and Sophia, it may be proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened, and which had occasioned the return of Mrs. Western with so much fury, as we have seen.

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f Sophia; for she )re appearance of casion j and now to Mrs. Western, ng could conquer, s. Westem highly

Mrs. Western and ortunate accident the return of Mrs.

TOM JONES

The reader, then, must know that the maid who at present attended on Sophia was recommended by Lady BellastoIl, with whom she had lived for some time in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible girl, and had l'eceived the strictest instructions to watch her young lady very carefully. These in­ structions! we are s01'ry to say, were communicated to her by Mrs. Honour, mto whose favour Lady Bellaston had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new mistress.

Now, when Mrs. Miller was depalted, Betty (for that was the name of the girl), returning to her young lady, found her very at­ tentively engaged in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed on that occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which the girl entertained; but indeed they had yet a stronger foundation, for she had overheal'd the whole scene which passed between Sophia and Mrs. Miller.

Mrs. Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after receiving many commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she should introduce her to Mrs. Westel'll herself.

Unluckily, Mrs. Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances relating to what had passed the day before, easily imposed upon the poor woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and so pumped everything out of her which she knew re­ lating to the letter and relating to Jones.

This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was one of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything which is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive nor defensive weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be imposed upon by anyone who will only be at the expense of a little falsehood for that pUl'Pose. Mrs. Western, having draiued Mrs. Miller of all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances that. Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the letter, nor ever receive another j nor did she suffer her to depart without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to which she could afford no better name than that of procuress.-This discovery had greatly discomposed her tempel', when .. coming into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very warmly protesting against his lordship's addresses. At which the rage already kindlell burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in a most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what passed at that time till his lordship's depaltul'e.

654

A=

HENRY FIELDING No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs. Westel'lll'eturned

to Sophia, whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in conversing with a man with whom she had offered but the day before to bind herself in the most solemn oath never more to have any conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such conversation. U How, how! Miss Western," said the aunt; u will you deny your receiving a letter from him yesterday?" U A letter, madam!" answered Sophia, somewhat surprised. "It is not very well bred, miss," replies the aunt, "to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing it me immediately." "I seal'll a lie, madam," said Sophia; "I did l'eceive a letter, but it was without my desire, and, indeed, I may say, against my consent." "Indeed, indeed, miss," cries the aunt, u you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it at all; but where is the letter? for I will see it."

To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she retul'lled an answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring she had not the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this short question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, 01' no? to which she received the strongest negative. Mrs. Western then replied with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early the next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.

Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following manner :_U Why, madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all? Consider how cruel you would have thought it in YOUl' own case, and how much kinder your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What have I done to forfeit this libelty? I will never man'y contrary to my father's consent, nor without asking yours--And when I ask the consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force some other marriage upon me." U Can I bear to hear this," cries Mrs. Western," from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her pocket?" t< I have no such letter, I promise you," answered Sophia; "and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you any further disturbance." How, Miss Western!" said the aunt, "have youU the assurance to speak of him in this Immner;. to own your affection for such a villain to my face?" « Sure, m~\dam," said Sophia, "you put a very strange construction on my words," "Indeed, Miss Western," cries the lady, « I shall not bear this usage; you have learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined you by this false system of education; and, please Heaven, he shall have the comfort of its fruits; for once more I declare to you, that to-morrow morning I will cany you back. I will with­ (haw all my forces from the field, and remain henceforth, like the

'l'OM JONES

wise king. of Prussia, in a state of perfect neutrality. You are both too WIse to be regulated by my measures; so prepare yourself for to-morrow morning you shall evacuate this house." '

Sophia remonstrated all she could j but her aunt was deaf to all she said. In this resohltion therefore we must at present leave her, as there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.

CHAPTER IX

WHAT HAPPENED TO MR. JONES IN THE PRISON

M R. JONES passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr. Nightingale returned; not that this wOlthy young man had deserted or fOl'got his friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time employed in his service.

He had heard, upon inquiry, that the ouly persons who had seen the beginning of the unfoitunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a man-of-war which then lay at DeptfOl'd. To Deptford therefore he went in search of this crew, whel'e he was informed that the men he sought after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place, till at last he found two of them chinking together, with a third person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.

Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Parttidge was in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale, taking Jones by the hand, cried, (( Come, my brave friend, be not too much dejected at what I am going to tell you --I am sorry I am the messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you." (( I guess already what that bad news is," cries Jones. uThe poor gentleman then is dead."--" I hope not/' answered Nightingale. H He was alive this morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as you told it, your own remorse would be all you would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I en~ treat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you disguise anything to us, YOll will only be an enemy to yourself."

"What reason, my deal' Jack, have I ever given you," said Jones, (( to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?" « Have patience," cries Nightingale, « and I will tell you all. After the most dili~ent inquiry I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, and, I am sorry to say, they do not relate the story so much in your favollI' as you yourself have told it." (( Why, what do they say?" clies Jones. (( Indeed,

I

......................-----------------------------~ HENRY FIELDING

what I am sorry to repeat, as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were at too great a distance to over­ hear any words that passed between you: but they both agree that the first blow was given by you." "Then, upon my soul," answered Jones, "they injure me. He not only struck me fil's.t, but struck me without the least provocation. What should mduce those villains to accuse me falsely?" "Nay, that I cannot guess," said Nightingale, u and if you yourself, and I, who am so ~eal'tily your fliend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belle you, what reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several times, and so did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you; for he begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to which they both answered, that they were.. and would abide by their evidence upon oath. For Heaven's sake.. my dear friend, recollect yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would not shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law, whatever verbal provocations may have been given you." "Alas! my friend," cries Jones, "what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I merit."

He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protest~ ations of the truth of what he had at first asserted.

The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline to cl'edit his friend, when Mrs. Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he cried out most heroically, uWell, my friend, I am now indifferent as to what shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least, will be believed, so far as to justify his character."

A very mournful scene now passed between the plisoner and his friends, at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We ~ill, therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquamted Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak with him when he was at leisure.

TOM JONES

Jones decl~red his surprise at this message. He said, "He knew no lady ill the world whom he could possibly expect to see there." However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the lady admitted.

If Jones was surprised at the news of a visit fl.·om a lady, how greatly was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs. Waters I In this astonishment) then, we shall leave him awhile, in order to cure the surprise of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the ardval of this lady.

Who this Mrs. Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was, he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr. FitzpatJ:ick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath.

Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr. Fitzpatrick at that time vacant, namely, that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr. Fitzpatrick therefore, haVing thoroughly examined Mrs. Waters on the road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arIival at Bath, he presently conferred upon her) and she without any scruple accepted. As husband and wife this gentle­ man and lady continued together all the time they stayed at Bath) and as husband and wife they arrived together in town.

Whether Mr. Fitzpatlick was so wise a man as not to part with one good thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs. Waters had so well discharged her office, that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say j but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs. WestaTI, nor ever once hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons who think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore which she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, aftel' he was brought home from the taVel'll where his wound had been dressed,

As Mr. Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart had received a woundJ which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was she acquainted that Mr. Jones himself was the man who had been committed to the Gatehouse for

HENRY FIELDING

this supposed murder, than she took the first opportunity of committing Mr. Fitzpatrick to the care of his nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.

She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an immediate check fl'Om the melancholy aspect of pOOl' Jones, who started and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, "Nay, I do not wonder at your surprise; I believe you did not expect to see me ; for few gentlemen are troubled bere with visits from any lady, unless a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr. Jones. Indeed, I little thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have been in such a place." "In~ deed, madam," says Jones, " I must look upon this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal habitations." "I protest, Mr. Jones," says she, "I can hardly persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why, your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can be the matter with you?" (( I thought, madam," said Jones, (( as you knew of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason." ((Pugh I " says she, "you have pinked a mp.n in a duel, that's all." Jones expl'essed some indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, "Well, then, sir, if you take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not dead, and, 1 am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more honour from curing him: but the king's surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which thel'e are at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life." J ones showed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report; upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, "By the most extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame."

Jones e ressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs. Waters him. He then informed her of many things which she well knew before, as who Mr. Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, etc. He likewise told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars, concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of which he had been guilty; everyone of which, he said, had been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thillg should happen to him.

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TOM JONES

Mrs. Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the devil when he was sick, and told him, « She doubted not but shortly to see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then," says she, (C I don't question but your conscience will b~ sa~ely delivered of all these qualms that it is now so sick in breedmg.

Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor are we quite certain but that the answers made by J ones would be treated with ridicule by others. We shall there­ fore suppress the rest of this cOllversation, and only observe that it ended at last with peliect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview, conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of him.

Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr. Night­ ingale was pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs. Miller had thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with the wOl'ds of Sophia hel'self in her letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of the ensuing book.